A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  A small movement at my feet startled me. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone.” I knelt down and reached out as the cat approached cautiously.

  She tiptoed, as if leaving her escape hatches open. I thought of it as “she,” but the cat could have been a boy for all I knew. We weren’t good friends.

  “You need a home, silly. You need a name.” I stroked her back and swept over a sticky patch. “Blech.”

  She curled closer. “Oh no, I’m not patting you after that, and don’t get any ideas about me. We’ve been through this.” She purred again. “I’ll bring you some cream. Stay here.”

  I pulled the door open and saw the dishwasher fiddling with his phone. A spicy scent drifted toward me. One of my cardinal rules: no scent in the kitchen. It messes with one’s palate—it also reminded me of my mom and divided my focus.

  “Enrique?”

  He almost dropped his phone in the sink in his haste to hide it. “Yes, Chef?”

  “When you get a chance, take a bowl of cream to that cat out there.”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  “And, Enrique? Put the phone away and scrub off the cologne. You know the rules.”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  AT ELEVEN P.M., WAITERS COLLECTED THE FINAL ORDERS. The Feast is over—for tonight. The mantra played through my brain as it did every night, supplanting Palmer’s. My mother used to announce the end of the “feast” at each family dinner, as if wiping down the counters after one meal marked the moment to begin dreaming toward the next. I named the restaurant Feast in her honor, as a way to remember. And yet she drifted further away with each meal and each evening. My thoughts flickered to my sister, Jane. Did she remember? Did she say it to her family each night?

  The kitchen door swung open as Tabitha returned from her nightly tour of the dining room. She caught my eye and mouthed, Paul. I sighed and crossed the prep area to the small closet by the freezer to check my makeup and hair. Blond and pale naturally—tired didn’t help.

  “Hello, Anne,” I mumbled into the mirror.

  “Who?”

  I jumped. I hadn’t realized Tabitha had followed me. “Anne Elliot. Persuasion. I’ve lost my bloom.”

  “Your what?”

  A normal evening’s work shouldn’t sap me. “My glow? My joie de vivre?” I applied some lip gloss.

  “Paul’s waiting at his usual table.”

  I squeezed her arm, then pushed through the steel door and surveyed the softly lit room, warm light playing against the dark wood of the bar and the floor, and I felt my mood lift. This was my sanctuary. But only about a third of the tables were still occupied. Palmer was right—one misstep can kill a restaurant. Mine.

  I found Paul in a center booth with an open bottle of wine in front of him. He was leaning back against the wall, watching me, studying the room and absently fingering the bottle’s label. Perfectly pressed, precisely dressed, with just the right hint of gray at his temples.

  I slid in next to him. “Robert Craig? Howell Mountain?” I tilted the bottle.

  “I hadn’t tried the ’07. Here’s a glass for you.” He slid a glass under my fingertips. “How was tonight?”

  “Exhausting.” I leaned back against the balustrade, swirling the wine in the glass. It picked up the light and glowed ruby red and warm.

  “You say that every night.”

  “And it’s true every night.” I took a sip and let the wine rest in my mouth. “It didn’t used to be,” I whispered, then snapped myself awake. Paul Metzger, as much as I knew he cared about me, was still my boss. His venture capital firm owned Feast.

  “I need to talk to you about that, dear.”

  I sat straight. “Dear? You only say that when you’re annoyed.”

  Paul chuckled. “I keep saying you know me best. Lisa never caught on to that one.”

  “I’ll be sure to prep your next wife.”

  “Very funny, dear.” Paul’s voice dropped, low and careful.

  I turned to face him directly. “Out with it.”

  “Feast is underperforming.” His glance swept the room. “You can see that.”

  “I can. And I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.”

  Paul reached over and covered my hand. “I know you want to, but I’ve been watching. I don’t think you know how.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your hours are beyond reasonable, even for you. Your food . . . it’s tight, not as expressive as usual. I called John to discuss it.”

  I narrowed my eyes in frustration. I wanted to scream, I’m not a child, but on some level, when it suited Paul and Chef John Palmer, I was.

  “And what did you two diagnose?”

  “Burnout? Stress? We’re not sure, but I’ve got a lot invested in Feast, so I’m making a move. I hired you a new chef de cuisine.” Paul raised his hand as my jaw dropped. “Before you say anything, Trent Murray trained at the California Culinary Academy in San Francisco and spent years under Dugar at Pot au Poulet. He’s got seventeen thousand followers on Twitter, dozens of appearances on the Food Network, and he knows how to create the buzz we need.”

  “That’s not what I’m about. That’s show. That’s not food.”

  “Elizabeth, John Palmer trained you and pushed me to back you. He’s your biggest champion, and even he’s concerned. It’s a small culinary community and there’s chatter. We need a rainmaker.”

  “It’s just a slump.”

  “Call it anything you want, my dear, but it’s real and it’s affecting Feast. I’ll call it Jane, if you don’t mind.”

  I shot him a look.

  “You can’t multitask, Elizabeth—you never could. That’s partly why you’re so gifted in the kitchen; you’re usually so focused. But right now you’re divided.”

  “I don’t mean to be. Jane’s got her battle and I’ve got mine. I know that sounds horrid, but I’ve put everything I’ve got into this place. Don’t hire somebody else.”

  “Two close friends fight breast cancer as I sit here. Don’t tell me their friends and husbands don’t feel that, don’t fight beside them. And when Kara went through it five years ago, I dropped everything to help her, and we’d already been divorced for a decade. And your mother? I know you better than to think you believe what you just said.”

  I sat back and closed my eyes, letting Paul’s words sink through me. I recalled a night three years before when he and I, flush with the excitement of a glittering launch, had sat in this very booth and chatted for hours. The empty restaurant, the soft leather cushions, the quiet after the chaos—we were in our own world. He shared stories from his marriages, his ex-wife management strategies, the woman he was pursuing for wife number three. Stories about his children, who were scarcely a decade younger than I. And I told him about leaving home for college, about cooking school, my early jobs, and, eventually, my mom. How her perfume smelled of gardenias; how she couldn’t cook worth a darn but loved it nonetheless; how I’d started cooking at twelve to spend time with her and basically took over the kitchen at thirteen; how we had been so alike and created magic together; and how, when I was eighteen, all that magic died with her. Paul had never used that moment, that vulnerability, against me until now.

  “I consider you a friend, Elizabeth,” he said, “more than that on some days, and your personal decisions are your own, but this is business.”

  “I know. And I understand . . . I just didn’t expect this.” I leaned forward and swirled my wine as my eyes trailed from him to the huge mahogany bar that glowed deep brown and red across the room. It captured the gold radiance of the full-wall antique mirror behind it. I had designed it and paired its warmth with white walls and linen-covered tables that still looked crisp and cool after the busy night. Black-and-white photographs, all landscapes except the one of Jane and me near the front, made my sanctuary complete. I knew Feast, every quirk and every detail, and now I felt it slipping away.

  Chapter 2

  WHILE IT WAS UNUSUAL FOR A RESTAURANT TO OPEN for
weekday lunch but close for lunch service Saturday and Sunday, the decision had worked in Feast’s favor. Weekend dinners glowed with an aura of exclusivity, and I relished the two peaceful mornings. I preferred to prep alone, and these times had long become my favorite moments—and the only days I entered Feast through the front door.

  I turned the deadbolt and stepped into the small waiting area in front of the hostess stand. The day was cloudy and cold, and the dining room mirrored the distant coolness of the photographs, which had felt so warm and alive the previous evening. Yet the hush still whispered and soothed me in a city that usually shouted. I paused in the doorway to absorb it.

  But something was wrong . . . It took a beat to isolate it. Silence. The alarm hadn’t sounded. I turned to the panel and noticed the steady green light. I recalled my actions from the night before. I’d set it; I was certain. Had I forgotten a meeting with Tabitha? I caught a noise from the kitchen, soft but discordant, and hoisted my bag tighter as I passed through the dining room, hoping it was she—and questioning my sanity for hurling into the kitchen alone and unarmed if it wasn’t. I swung the stainless steel door open, and rap music filled the air.

  “Excuse me? Hello?” I yelled. All the lights were on, and music pulsed from the small dock on my desk.

  I shouted louder. “Hello?”

  Tabitha emerged from the freezer, her eyes wide. “You scared me,” she shouted back. “You don’t usually come in for another hour.” She crossed the room and turned down the music.

  “And you for another three. What’s up?”

  “I wanted to try some new ideas.”

  I dropped my bag on the small wooden desk. “You’re worried.”

  “I am. This is a tough town and we’ve got a good gig. How many thirty-three-year-old women get a chance like this? Paul hiring a new chef isn’t good, especially for me.”

  I dropped into the chair and held my head in my hands. “I know.”

  “Then fix it.”

  “If I knew what was wrong, it’d be fixed already.” I looked up. “Paul said my food was ‘tight,’ and it’s true. Maybe Trent Murray’s ‘buzz’ will be enough distraction to lessen pressure on the kitchen, on me.”

  “And my job?”

  “Paul said nothing about changes. He wouldn’t do that.” I cringed slightly, knowing that wasn’t necessarily true. “At least not yet, not without talking to me.”

  “Show him some interest.”

  “Trent Murray?”

  Tabitha slanted her eyes. “Paul. He’s adored you for years. Use it.”

  “Tabitha!”

  “It’s not so wrong.” She waited a moment, then pointed to something on the desk. “What’s that?”

  I sighed and tapped the small blue box toward her. “A new charm for the bracelet he gave me. It’s a little silver colander.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Please, Tabitha. It’s what he does. His assistant, Lois, sends the gifts. They mean nothing.”

  “It means you’re on Paul’s list.”

  “Stop it.”

  “My job is on the line here, Elizabeth.” She ground out the words.

  “Mine is too.” I stood and faced her.

  “Not in the same way.”

  “Hey.” I pulled her into a hug. “We’re going to get through this. We’ve survived three years because we can cook. Really cook.”

  “And what if we don’t survive?” Tabitha patted my back. “You have to admit he’s handsome.”

  I gently pushed her back. “And his three ex-wives are beautiful. We’re not really having this conversation, are we?”

  “But see? It’s a sure bet. New York men never divorce the fourth wife.” She shrugged at my glare. “No, we aren’t really having this conversation. I just feel . . . I don’t know. I stayed up till three reading Trent Murray’s blog postings and credits. It didn’t help.”

  “That’s like looking up symptoms on WebMD. Didn’t anyone tell you never to do that?”

  “Lesson learned.” She glanced to her board. “I’m prepping the sofrito for lobster risotto. Can we add it to the menu? Marco texted me he’s got some beauties.”

  “Sure. I love that dish.” I pitched my voice high and delighted. It was not a favorite dish of mine, but it was Tabitha’s heart song, and she needed something of her own right now.

  She nodded, pacified for the moment, and returned to her onions, celery, and carrots. I pulled out vegetables of my own. A hush fell over the kitchen; neither of us wanted to disturb our fragile peace.

  “Chef Hughes!” A man with cropped brown hair pushed through the steel door from the dining room. He rushed forward, hand outstretched—magnanimous and glowing, like a TV game show host.

  Tabitha and I both jumped, and I heard her murmur, “Trent Murray.”

  He was lanky and strong and his arms were fully inked. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  “You’re Murray?” I looked past him, expecting Paul to follow through the door. “How are you here?”

  He stepped closer—too close—and I automatically leaned away. I was about to step back to reestablish my personal space when I caught myself. Don’t give any ground. I forced myself a microstep forward.

  “Paul told you about me, right?” He shoved his hand toward me again.

  “Not that you’d be here. Today. How did you get in here anyway?”

  Trent stepped back. “That’s bad, isn’t it? Paul insisted.” He opened his hand to reveal a key and a scrap of paper. “I didn’t need the alarm code, obviously. Give me five minutes and I’ll have forgotten those numbers.” He shoved both items into my hands. “I thought I’d come early and get a feel for the kitchen.”

  I stood there speechless, and he turned to Tabitha. “Trent Murray.”

  “Tabitha Philips.”

  “Great to meet you. You came with Chef Hughes when you opened, right? Palmer’s famous duo.”

  I stepped into the silence. “Paul said you survived Dugar for three years.”

  “I did.”

  “That’s impressive. I would think you could run your own restaurant after that . . .” I caught a flicker in his eyes. “And you know it.”

  Trent smiled broad but flat. “I could; you’re right, but that’s not what I want. This is a good fit for me.” He looked as if he was about to say more, then stopped. I worked not to glance away. “Look, I’m sorry about Paul not getting to you first about today, but I’m ready to start tonight as your assistant, and I have no ulterior motives.”

  “An assistant.” I gestured to Tabitha. “Tabitha, remember?”

  AS THE FIRST PARTY ARRIVED FOR SERVICE, I SURVEYED the kitchen. One would think Thomas Keller, or more on point, Ryan Reynolds, had joined the staff, judging by the overly warm reception that had accompanied introductions earlier, but now everyone seemed focused. Trent was overseeing meats and all seemed in perfect order . . . until something caught my attention.

  “What is that?” I bellowed from the line. All heads turned to me.

  “Your balsamic steak.” Trent stepped away from his station.

  “It never looks like this. Did you sear it and finish in the oven?”

  “Yes, but don’t you add a little sauce up front to caramelize? The sugars give you a better sear.”

  “I’m aware of that and choose not to. I don’t like the texture change. Do it again.” I passed back the plate and returned to the line.

  “May I speak to you a moment, Chef?” I turned and found Trent directly behind me. He nodded toward the freezers.

  The entire kitchen watched as we stepped out of the central space. Trent cupped my elbow. I wanted to pull away, but knew the gesture would look defensive and insecure—and all eyes were on us.

  He whispered, “This is my first night. Give me a chance. I will learn your preferences.”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  Trent sighed. “Paul approached me a couple weeks ago . . . I thought you were on board.”

  I b
it my lip. “I am . . . I mean I will be.” I couldn’t risk my petulance reaching Paul’s ears. “None of this is about you.”

  “Maybe a little bit about me?” He tapped his forefinger and thumb together.

  I couldn’t help but quirk a small smile before I brushed past him and back into the fray. Everyone, pretending not to pay attention, visibly exhaled, and the kitchen returned to its normal tempo.

  I worked sauces, constructed and checked plates. As I moved through the evening, I listened to the light chatter, the calling of dishes, the banter between the pâtissier and Tabitha, and I began to relax. Then I noticed a new note—Trent chiming in on jokes and conversations. He had an easy way about him that brought him into the group seamlessly, like egg whites whipped to perfection, just shy of that single beat that hardened them. I felt a twinge of jealousy—I was that single beat. I didn’t blend into the life of my own kitchen. But neither had any head chef I’d ever worked with—isolation came with the job.

  The orders exited the line smoothly, and they included more small plates and appetizers than I’d sent out in months. I wondered if a party had escaped my attention.

  A waiter returned. “A patron at the bar requested the beef tartar and bone marrow fritters?” He let his question hang above us.

  “What? That’s not on the menu.”

  “I know. I told him, but he said he was a friend of Chef Murray’s.”

  Trent stepped beside me. “I’m sorry about that. It’s a dish I used on a show last month, and it’s gotten some play.”

  I crossed to the door and peeked through the dining room to the bar. It was packed. A lot of other restaurants commanded that atmosphere—a true bar culture—but Feast never had. It surprised me and, oddly, concerned me.

  I turned back to Trent. “Your friends?”

  “This is your kitchen. We can tell them no, or I can whip one up. We have all the ingredients.”

  I looked around the kitchen. One misstep. If I wanted Feast to succeed, there were concessions to be made, but like the steak, they had to be my decisions.

  “Go ahead and make it.” I turned back to the waiter. “Tell them we’re delighted to prepare it, but it will take a few extra moments.”