Cocky Chef

by JD Hawkins

  “Bye bye baby,” Tony says to the vast, empty space, before I helpfully take his arm and console him away.

  After a twenty minute drive to the outskirts of Hollywood, Andre brings us to a busier street, one with plenty of foot traffic. We get out of the car and follow him toward a quaint building between a high-end salon and a shoe store.

  “This place was actually a restaurant before it shut down and we picked it up,” Andre explains as he searches the ring for the right key. “Some British themed, pub-type place. They actually had the building made for it.”

  He pushes open the door and we step inside. Andre follows and quickly steps in front of us to carry on the tour.

  “Now because this place was a restaurant, it’s still got all the connections for the kitchens and stuff—plumbing, electricity, cold storage. We’d have to equip it with our own appliances, of course, but technically there are no big structural changes needed here. You could have this place serving dinners in just a couple of months if you like it.”

  Andre stops and I feel both of the men’s eyes bore into me expectantly. I can almost sense their held breath.

  I let out a sigh. “No.”

  Tony leans toward me, as if he didn’t hear me.

  “What was that? No?”

  “No.”

  They glance at each other for a second, then look back at me, the silence heavy.

  “Is that it?” Tony says. “Just ‘no’?”

  I shake my head and step forward into the dark space.

  “It’s…it’s awful.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Tony asks.

  “It’s…faux European.”

  Tony frowns and throws up his hands. “Ugh! You always say that and I never know what you mean!”

  “I mean that it’s another one of those places that just seems ashamed of existing in America. Why is it so dark in here? This is California, for God’s sake! I feel like I’m in a basement. And so much dark oak paneling, as if it’s scared of being snowed in, and the ceilings are so low…a hobbit would feel claustrophobic walking around! And these windows! When was the last time you saw windows like this that weren’t in a period drama?”

  “Who cares about the windows!” Tony says. “What does serving great food have to do with Gothic windows?”

  “Everything. The place has to work as a whole, a complete experience. I want to serve food that makes the customers feel energetic and alive—this place will make them feel like they’re falling asleep in a Jane Austen novel.”

  Tony is about to reply but Andre puts a calming hand on his shoulder.

  “The lady hath spoken,” he says in his good-natured way, and we turn around to trudge back to the car, Tony shooting me the stink eye the entire time.

  The third place is a beautiful building in Culver City that I reject before I’ve even entered as soon as I smell the burning rubber and hear the screeching drill of the garage next door. The fourth is an okay-but-small location in Midtown that I dismiss when I notice that the windows look out upon an eyesore of a government building across the street. Each time the words between me and Tony get more and more terse, while Andre’s interventions and peacekeeping become more and more necessary.

  When we turn up at the fifth place, a low-ceilinged location tucked behind wildly-unkempt bushes, Tony’s beyond caring about decorum.

  “So what about this then, Goldilocks?” he says, melodramatically. Opening his arms wide and looking at me as he backs into the center. “What’s wrong with this one?”

  “The ceilings are too low in this one too,” I say, deadpan in the face of his derision. “And the walls seem to be made of paper, you can hear the traffic from the street on all three sides.”

  Tony snorts derisively, looking at Andre for a second as if for support.

  “And the feng shui is wrong,” Tony adds sarcastically, “and the air doesn’t smell like roses, and you’ve got a feeling the place is haunted too, I’ll bet.”

  I glare at him and fold my arms.

  “You don’t have to be a jerk about this, Tony.”

  “Me?! You’re the one who’s been making us drive all over Los Angeles since—”

  “Tony,” Andre says, almost habitual now, “let’s ease up and—”

  “No,” Tony interrupts him back. “Andre, can I have a word with Willow? In private?”

  Andre stops and glances at me to check if it’s ok. I nod that it is, and he shrugs as he steps past us.

  “I’ll go wait in the car then. Take all the time you need.”

  Tony waits for him to go, then looks at me, his anger faded now, leaving a deep disappointment in its place.

  “Willow…” he says slowly, as if carefully searching for the words. “What’s going on? Why don’t you want this to happen?”

  “Of course I want this to happen.”

  “I don’t think you do,” Tony says ruefully. “Ever since I negotiated this investment you’ve been pulling back. First you don’t believe in it enough to commit, then Andre brings the papers and you don’t want to sign them, now we’re looking at place after place and all you keep saying is no. People would kill for some of the places we’ve seen.”

  “Tony,” I say softly, moving closer to him, “I just want to do this right. I don’t want to do a half-assed job of this. Like you said, this is a one-in-a-million opportunity we’ve got.”

  Tony sighs, wringing his hands with exasperation.

  “Windows? I mean we’re rejecting places because you don’t like the windows? We can always put in new windows, at some point.”

  I shake my head. “If you settle for windows you hate then you’ll end up settling for second-rate ingredients from distributors, then you settle for chefs who turn up on time but can’t cook for shit, and before you know it you’re just another restaurant that people like because it’s close and the food is just about edible.”

  Tony turns away from me and takes a few steps, as if contemplating. After a few seconds he turns back and I can almost see pity in his eyes.

  “Cut the crap, Willow. I know exactly what this is about.”

  “What?”

  “It’s about Cole Chambers,” Tony says, shaking his head a little in contempt. “You’re in love with him. And now that you’re happily banging your celebrity millionaire boss you’re afraid to ruin it, so you’re jeopardizing our whole venture.”

  “What?!” I yell so loud that Andre can probably hear me. “That’s insane, Tony! I mean…maybe that’s part of it, but…it’s complicated. There’s more to it than that.”

  Tony looks up and smiles sadly again, shaking his head as if my fumbled words are all the evidence he needs to know he’s right.

  “Look, you’re a little bit right,” I say, striding toward him to show I’m being direct. “I am in love with him.”

  “I knew it!”

  “But this is my dream,” I say, the force of a lifelong wish behind my words now, a direct honesty that even Tony can’t look away and deny now. “And even love isn’t going to stop me from making it a reality.”

  Tony and I stare at each other for what feels like both an eternity and a split second, our eyes telling each other far more than any words. Finally, he nods.

  “But that also means,” I say, once I see that he understands now, “that this place has to be worth it. If I’m gonna betray him…lose him…if I’m gonna get hurt…then this can’t just be some restaurant I happen to own—it has to be the place I always wanted it to be, the place we always dreamt it would be. Anything less than that, and I’m losing more than I gain.”

  We stare at each other again, and this time he pulls me toward him for a hug.

  “Ugh,” he says, and I can hear the feelings blocking in his throat, “I hate it when you get all emotional on me.”

  “I hate it when you get me emotional.”

  We break apart and Tony rubs his face, sniffing a little.

  “Ok,” he says, taking deep breaths. “Let’s get back to Andre an
d try to convince him he didn’t invest in a couple of bickering schmucks who can’t even find their own assholes.”

  We leave the building all smiles and walk toward Andre, who’s leaning against his car, swiping at his phone. He looks up at us when we draw near, eyebrow raised.

  “Everything ok?” he asks.

  “Yep,” I say. “We’re good.”

  Andre checks both of our expressions, then nods.

  “So maybe we should show her the one,” Tony says.

  “The two-floor?” Andre says.

  Tony nods.

  “What’s ‘the one’?” I ask.

  “The one that I know you’ll love,” Tony says, confidently.

  I check my watch quickly and shoot him back a pained look.

  “Is it far, though? I have to start a shift in, like, thirty minutes.”

  Tony smiles a little knowingly.

  “Oh, that’s not a problem. See, the reason I thought you wouldn’t want to visit this place is that it’s pretty close to Knife. A couple of blocks away.”

  “Ah…”

  “Is that going to be a problem?” Andre asks, looking between us like a third wheel who’s out of the loop.

  I take a moment to purse my lips, then answer. “No. That’s not a problem at all.”

  We bundle into the car and after another quick ride pull up outside of the property, a two-story corner building set in a larger complex of boutique shops. It’s boarded up with plywood currently, torn gig posters hastily stuck to them, and the junction it points to is busy with people, cafes and bookshops and antique stores sharing the other corners and giving the surroundings a local color and vibrancy that was absent at all the other locations.

  “This would all be glass, of course,” Andre says as we step out of the car toward the skeleton of a building. “All the way up.”

  “Uh-huh,” I nod. I can see it already.

  He unlocks the place and we step inside to a decently sized area, the second floor a loft space that runs around the edge, a wide, spiral staircase with ornate railings twisting up to the platform.

  “Let me tell you,” Andre says again, as he goes into real estate mode, “this place is hot. And by hot I mean that I’ve already had nearly a dozen offers for it. An art curator from NYC wants to make this a gallery, a bunch of brands want to make this a retail clothing store, and you’re not the only restauranteurs who’ve been here either. Do you know Sylvain Thibault?”

  “Of course. Sure,” Tony and I chorus.

  “Well this was going to be his American flagship—but I guess he got sidetracked. Once the windows go in there’s gonna be a lot of natural light. Great place to people watch—especially on the second floor—if you like that kinda vibe. And all the Indian laurels on this street make for a decent amount of privacy out front, which will likely appeal to any celebrity clientele. Anyway,” Andre says, pointing at a large window that separates the back of the building, “this could be easily converted into an open window to the kitchen area—or just knocked down altogether if you really want to meld the spaces.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say, lost in thought, imagining what we could do here.

  “I’m not gonna lie,” Andre says. “This place is expensive. If you guys wanna use this place it’s gonna have to be a hell of a business.”

  “Of course. Show her the back,” Tony says keenly. “The outside.”

  “This way,” Andre says, striding away. He unlocks double doors set at the end of a small passage, and pushes them open for us to walk through. The studio-sized space a tangle of overgrown weeds, car junk, a moss-clogged fountain and dumped, weathered furniture.

  “It’s a mess right now,” he says, as we step out onto the rocky space, an ivy-covered brick wall on one side and a window to the kitchen on the other. “Looks smaller than it actually is, due to all this trash, but you could use this for storage or…I don’t know. Use your imagination a little and you could even make this a little outside dining area—with a lot of work, of course.”

  I stand there, frozen for a moment, taking it all in as the two men cast their gazes on me again, waiting tensely for a verdict. I’m overwhelmed. The morning sun is shining through some tree branches overhead, casting soft, dappled light all around me. I can smell the ocean not too far away, the air is cool, and birds are chirping nearby.

  “Well?” Tony says. “Willow, what do you think? It’s great, right? ...Willow? ... Are you crying?”

  I cover my mouth with my hand, but it can’t stop the built-up emotion that threatens to explode in wet tears from my eyes.

  “This is it…” I say, voice shaking and slow from overpowering sensations. “This is my restaurant…I’m here…I’m really here.”

  Tony looks quickly at Andre, then back at me before shouting out and grasping me in a tight bear hug. Andre laughs and comes to join us, until the two men are smothering me in a sandwich of fine fabrics and cologne. Squeezing me so hard I can barely breathe, though I don’t care anymore—because I’m already in heaven.

  The shift I put in after I sign the contract for Andre is probably the most difficult one I’ve ever done. I cut my finger chopping shallots, almost ruin a filet, and take twice as long to plate the dishes as I usually do. For the next few days I can’t think of anything but color schemes, kitchen layouts, renovating that back garden—all the things I said I would do if I ever owned a place, the mental recipes I’ve spent my life concocting.

  The excitement and nerves swirl inside of me like a perpetual hurricane, keeping me awake at night and daydreaming all day, every fiber, every pore of my body entirely taken over by the task of making this fantasy become a reality. The future stretching out ahead of me now like some magical, winding path that I want to run down.

  It’s almost enough to make me feel better about Cole. Almost.

  At first I avoid him, citing a lack of sleep, feeling overwhelmed at work, a few personal tasks I have to take care of. Hoping that maybe, given enough time, I’ll somehow figure out what to do about us. It helps that Cole spends the next couple of days handling business in Vegas, which is a relief for me, though I still feel waves of guilt slam into me every time we exchange flirty texts late at night.

  Eventually, however, sordid text messages aren’t enough to keep that kind of appetite satiated, and I arrive home one day to find Cole standing by his Maserati outside my apartment. He grins when he sees me, opening his arms wide, and I feel a different emotion flooding me when I fall into his embrace. It’s so much harder to ignore what I feel for him when his body’s pressed up against mine. I almost feel like throwing all my dreams away just so I can spend a little longer in those arms, so I can spend an entire month wallowing in bed being engulfed by that physical charisma.

  “Hey! What are you doing here?” I say, finally pulling back.

  Cole pulls my chin toward him and steals a kiss that I can feel he’s been thinking about since we last parted. It steals the unsettled tension from my body, the stress of my work shift, the twist of reconciling my dilemma, and softens me until I feel like I could fall into him forever.

  “I missed you,” he says softly, once we part.

  “I’ve been working hard,” I say, playfully. “So have you.”

  “You work too much,” Cole says, his hands still squeezing my midriff against him, fingers gently clenching and unclenching against my skin until my whole body is humming.

  Something turns in me at the comment, as if seeing a glint of light at the end of a tunnel. I smile and press a finger into the chest exposed above the second button of his shirt.

  “Well…maybe I should quit,” I say, trying to keep the hope out of my eyes, trying to make it sound like nothing more than an innocent joke.

  Cole laughs softly, and I feel the rumble of his ab muscles against me.

  “As if I’d let you go anywhere,” he says, and I have to struggle to keep my smile. He kisses my forehead and then steps away to open the car door for me. “Come on.”

  �
��Where are we going?” I say, getting in.

  “Let’s call it a surprise,” Cole replies.

  “Hmph. I’m getting used to those.”

  It’s only when we park outside the Hollywood Bowl that I notice the picnic basket Cole pulls out from the back seat. He slams the door shut, takes my hand, and leads me through the lot until I can hear the sound of classical music.

  “What’s that?” I ask him.

  “The L.A. Phil. They rehearse here in the summer, and anyone can just come through and listen.”

  “Oh,” I say, enjoying the sweeping strings for a second before turning to him. “So you’re cheaping out on me, huh? Am I not worth the real thing?”

  Cole laughs and stops to look at me.

  “I’d fly you first class to Tuscany in a heartbeat if you told me you liked the anchovies there.”

  I smile as if I find it funny, but there’s no hint of a lie in his eyes. Just pure, devoted resolve. A restrained but wild passion for me that almost scares me with its power. But beneath the rush of love and desire I feel in that moment is a dark shadow, a lurking reminder that I’m going to betray him. I look away, hoping he interprets it as simple shyness.

  We reach the box seats and settle down, Cole setting the basket between us and opening it to reveal still-warm bread, a spread of cold cuts, effervescent jams, and a number of dips and salads.

  “Did you make all this?” I say, as Cole expertly cuts the bread with a serrated knife.

  He chuckles warmly.

  “Did I never mention that I like to cook?”

  “Actually,” I say, taking a slice of bread from him and fishing around in the basket until I discover a salmon mousse, “I figured you were sick of it, and that’s why you went into the business side of things.”

  “It wasn’t the cooking I got bored of—it was the people I cooked for,” Cole says, punctuating it by offering me a tub of mixed olives.

  I grab one and chew slowly, if only to hold back the escalating nerves.

  We eat and talk, until our bellies get full and the words start to run out, allowing the orchestra to take over the mood. Until the basket is closed and put away, and we’re sitting next to each other, his arm around me, my head on his shoulder, his fingers stroking my hair as we allow ourselves to be carried by the music, by the diminishing fire of the sunset in the hills beyond.