Intercepting the Chef
Page 3
Except I’d already anchored a franchise. When I’d been drafted to the Blizzards, they’d been one of the worst teams in the league. It’d taken years of hard work and commitment to the daily grind of physical and mental exhaustion to drive a winning team. Now Phil wanted the ultimate payday—for him and for me. It was imperative I produce a streak of Super Bowl rings. As if I had an endless supply of energy. As if the sport wasn’t taking its toll. The first game of the season was a week away and my knee was still throbbing from last week’s preseason win.
A championship still evaded me, and he knew just how to dangle the possibility of the ring in front of my face like a gold-dipped carrot. I couldn’t slow down and certainly could never quit. Not until I’d matched Dad’s success. Stepped out of his shadow and created my own chapter in the record books.
“Consider this your warning,” Phil continued. “Your focus needs to be on preparing for the Patriots next Sunday, not on asking diners how their dry-aged porterhouse tasted.”
“Interesting. I thought ensuring the guests’ appetites were met was in my wheelhouse of duties, so thanks for the clarification.” Gwen’s voice jolted me, and I glanced over my shoulder to find her propped up against the men’s bathroom door, grease stains marring her checkered pants. “But if you’re finished scolding Wonder Bread about his inadequacies, can you move out of the way so I can use the ladies’ room?” She shot Phil a sarcastic grin I’d received on countless occasions growing up, and I forgot how her right incisor was slightly crooked, a small defiance.
“And I thought we agreed the kitchen was your domain, Gwen. Any reason you’re not there?” I snapped, hating the look she cast my way, the one that said, Seriously, you couldn’t handle this guy on your own? Gwen had always been too observant, too quick to pinpoint my weak spots. “As you often remind everyone, the food doesn’t prepare itself. So perhaps you should do the job I hired you for and get back to it. We quarterbacks like to call it ‘staying in your lane.’ ”
The brief flare of hurt in her eyes sidelined me, a blitz I hadn’t seen coming. In the past, I never worried about bruising Gwen’s feelings—she’s too tough to be bothered with anyone else’s opinion of her. But this time . . .
Shaking my head, I strode away, ignoring the shame stirring in my stomach. I couldn’t deal with her and Phil. Not now. Not tonight.
CHAPTER
THREE
Gwen
Stonestreet’s was deserted when I arrived at sunrise the next morning.
Most chefs loved the bustle of the dinner rush. The heat, the noise, the frenetic pace constantly nipping at your heels, ready to pounce if you so much as dropped a dish. I thrived off that energy, craved it even. But in truth, the best part of my job was the solitude and rich relaxation of the morning after. The hum of the fridge fading into the cavernous quiet. The gleam of polished stainless steel. The lingering aroma of yesterday’s entrée special. A great night in the kitchen, like an evening spent with a skilled lover, had the power to wear you out so completely that sleep, when it finally came, was a deep, luxurious escape that revived you so completely you couldn’t wait to do it all over again.
As I strolled across the parking lot to the entrance, I breathed in the fresh scent of newly cut grass. The sky was bathed in shades of purple and yellow, the clouds creating fractal patterns around the towering, snowcapped mountains in the west. I’d become so accustomed to living in San Francisco, with its year-round moderate weather and soft blue haze over the bay, I’d forgotten the unparalleled beauty of Colorado. Somehow, I’d never thought to miss the four true seasons, the invigorating, clean-smelling air, the water so cool and pure you could drink it straight from the source.
The longing, the sense of homesickness that had been dormant until now, hit me with the force of a powerful memory, buried but not lost. It conjured up the vision of me at eight years old climbing into my father’s ancient Volkswagen Bug he refused to get rid of and driving to the predawn markets to purchase ingredients for his new restaurant. Those markets had been as magical as crossing Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross Station and discovering a vibrant world that existed for only hours, between the quiet of the dark and the hustle of the daylight. Where chefs bid on prime cuts of meat and the freshest catch overnighted from overseas. Where they battled over the limited selection of locally sourced fruits and vegetables and bartered for exotic herbs and spices, whipping up ideas for culinary delights on the spot. The spontaneity and inventiveness in action had snared my heart and never let go, forever marking my destiny.
I walked through Stonestreet’s empty dining room, mesmerized by the neon-colored jellyfish dancing elegantly around the tank, their stinging tentacles trailing like tattered gowns through the water. As I approached the kitchen, my cell rang, making me jolt and jarring me out of my memories. I fished my phone out of my pocket to see my mother’s name on the screen.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, dropping my tote on the floor and leaning against the wall.
“Oh, Gwen, I’m glad I was able to get in touch with you before my tee time,” she said, far too chipper for so early in the morning. “There was a recall on my passenger airbag, and the first available appointment the service department has isn’t until the Monday after Chris’s first game. Unfortunately, I have several doctors’ appointments that day, so I won’t be able to retrieve the car once it’s ready. I need you to take Chris to the Mercedes dealership to pick up the car and then follow him to my house to drop it off. I’m informing you now so that you can adjust your schedule and plan accordingly.”
This was why she’d called me? Because she needed me to act as a chauffeur, not to congratulate me on a successful first shift as an executive chef? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, my mother’s desire to picture me anywhere but the kitchen stretched back decades, probably since the moment my father had taught me how to dice an onion. Still, her refusal to even mention Stonestreet’s opening night stung when she so easily offered praise to my brother.
“I can drive Chris as long as we’re done by midafternoon. I have errands of my own I need to take care of.”
“That shouldn’t be an issue, sweetheart,” she said. “I need to run. My golf instructor wants me to hit some balls on the range before starting the course. Talk later.”
Sighing, I pushed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen, grabbing my knife kit and apron from my tote and shoving my bag into a storage cubby. As I turned to place the items on one of the prep stations, I stopped short at the bottle of prosecco marring my pristine work area. My name was scrawled on the outside of a card taped to the neck. When had that been delivered?
I tore open the envelope. My father’s near-illegible scrawl surrounded the generic Hallmark message. Congrats on the new position; keep reaching for the stars; seize this opportunity. It was as if he’d perused the cruise ship gift shop for celebratory cards, then restated the least saccharine platitudes for me.
Still, a cheap bottle of sparkling wine was more than I’d expected. My father might know and like Logan, but that didn’t mean scoring the top job at Wonder Bread’s restaurant would make him proud. On more than one occasion my father had intoned that nepotism served only the less talented and unambitious. But unlike my mother, at least he’d acknowledged that I was now an executive chef.
I checked my watch—it was just past 7 a.m. I might be able to reach him. The last time I’d talked to my father, the ship had been docked in St. Thomas, but that was a month ago; he could be anywhere now—the Maldives, Greek Isles, Mexican Riviera. I tried calling his cell phone anyway. He answered on the fifth ring.
“Gwendolyn!” he said above the jarring sounds in the background—laughter and slurred accents, the high-pitched ka-ching of a casino, dance music so intense I could almost feel the bass through the line.
“Where are you?” I asked, plugging my ear, my voice bouncing off the subway tiles on the walls.
“Bali,” the man yelled back.
“Catch that?” my father asked me. “Great views of the Indian Ocean out here. Glad I connected with you, Gwen. I only popped outside for a quick breath of fresh air before the late dinner service got under way.”
It was just like my father to not know his current location. My entire childhood he’d spent buried in the dreams of all the titles he’d someday claim—Michelin-starred executive chef, restaurateur, James Beard award winner—that he’d never paid much attention to the present. One of the many reasons none of his enterprises had ever succeeded.
Truth was, my father had tried and failed and tried again to open his own restaurant. But no matter the concept, timing, or financial backing, every single one had crumbled. Now he seemed content to sail the seven seas, directing a floating kitchen as the head chef for an all-inclusive cruise line, feeding overpriced banquet food to the boozed-up masses and transferring his hopes of culinary stardom onto me.
“Thanks for the prosecco.” I rested an elbow on the vegetable chopping station, the cold metal of the surface seeping through the fabric of my sleeve, and picked at a chip in my nail polish.
“I’m saving the champagne for when you break out on your own,” my father said. “Just because you’re not living up to your full potential doesn’t mean I’m not proud of you. But I’m confident that time will come.”
“Having one famous child isn’t enough for you, Dad?” My voice was pleasant, but underneath, my stomach was a tangle of knots. Because I did want to make my dad proud, prove I was capable of achieving everything he thought I could. “Chris is kicking ass, by the way.”
“Oh?”
“He crushed the all-time yardage record last year,” I said.
“That’s impressive I take it?” my father asked. The background noises disappeared, as though he’d stepped off the main deck into a quiet alcove, yet his voice remained distracted.
“It’s unprecedented,” I said, aware that when I started spouting football stats, my father tuned out.
And okay, I got it; football wasn’t something my father particularly cared about. But Chris was his son—how hard was it to set a Google alert? To take the time to note the big accomplishments, even if they sound like oddball mathematical figures. Chris and I might have varying interests and keep in touch sporadically, but we still managed to be aware of the major happenings in each other’s careers. At least Chris had our mother to be his constant champion and Bob Stonestreet, Logan’s father, to act as his stand-in role model and sideline coach.
“I figured maybe you had watched the coverage on TV?” I said, a stupid assumption. No doubt he’d been too busy playing the role of culinary pirate besieged by wanderlust and a taste for the exotic, droning on about how lady luck was a cruel mistress and ruffling the feathers of the ship’s showgirls.
“How was opening night?” my father asked, switching the subject suddenly. “What was the highlight?”
I paused, unsure of what to say. There’d been the oh-so-impressive leaning tower of onion rings, the basic red wine sauce drizzled over the porterhouse, the popular-with-the-masses chocolate molten lava cake. “Too many to choose from, really,” I said, keeping my tone upbeat, hoping he couldn’t hear the lie in it.
“That’s great, Gwen. But don’t forget Stonestreet’s is merely a jumping-off point. The career stop before you rip off the training wheels for good and finally break out on your own.”
I’d heard that before—he’d been saying that same thing one way or another since I’d graduated from culinary school.
“Listen, I gotta get back . . .” he said, trailing off. “Give your brother my best, and let me know when I need to send over the champagne.” He hung up before I could utter a good-bye.
I pocketed my phone, then unrolled my distressed leather case and laid out each knife, inspecting the blades for sharpness and birchwood handles for tightness. I slipped on a crisp new chef’s coat, concealed my hair with a bandana, and tied a long apron around my waist, my prep ritual completed.
Now what? I thought as I glanced around at the state-of-the-art appliances and sterile space that lacked flare and personality.
Any other executive chef would use the time alone to tackle tasks like menu planning for the upcoming week, order necessary ingredients and restock any dry goods, and test recipes, but I had no creative control. Stonestreet’s cookie-cutter bill of fare had been decided long before Logan had hired me. I was only responsible for executing dishes that never changed.
I eyed the bottle of prosecco again, remembering the basket of fresh oranges in food storage and the juicer behind the bar. I shook my head. Absolutely not. I might’ve been dumped, reduced from innovative new talent to head backstabber in the culinary world, and resigned to working for my brother’s best friend, but I was not now, nor would I ever be, desperate enough to drink alone.
Besides, mimosas were best enjoyed with old friends and new gossip. I happened to be short on the former and long in the latter and knew just the person who had a particular affection for midmorning cocktails and the latest dirt.
* * *
An hour later, there was a knock at the staff door. The hinges creaked, followed by the sound of shuffling down the hall. I almost called out to Missy that I was preparing her favorite gravlax recipe but decided against it, not wanting to ruin the surprise. As the footsteps drew closer, the fresh, clean scent of laundry detergent and cologne hit my nose.
Wait. Was that . . .
Logan walked in holding a package covered in Spider-Man wrapping paper, a broad smile splitting his face. Fresh out of the shower, his hair still curling at the edges, and dressed in faded jeans and an old Blizzards T-shirt, he managed to embody both a lazy morning and an effortless energy. Ass. He should look like how the rest of the restaurant staff probably felt—hungover and exhausted from a long night of drinking and celebrating.
“I thought I smelled Axe Body Spray,” I said, my voice steady and strong despite my sudden nerves. I wiped my dirty hands on a towel tucked into my apron strings, hoping he couldn’t sense how his appearance had left me slightly off balance.
Was he checking up on me? Did he not trust me to be alone in his restaurant? I shook my head, telling myself not to jump to conclusions. I’d given Logan no reason to believe I wasn’t 100 percent reliable.
He eyed the raw salmon filets coated in a sugar-salt-peppercorn mixture on my worktable and made an expression better suited for a picky three-year-old. The curing brine I’d developed was a spin-off of the classic recipe but with a modern twist. I knew it was something Logan wouldn’t approve of, but I figured what he wasn’t aware of wouldn’t hurt him. I guess it was too late for that now.
“Give me a little credit, Gwen,” he said, putting the package on an empty workstation. “Drugstore cologne is for pubescent teenagers who haven’t been taught any better. Though I’m shocked you even know what that toxic crap smells like, given how you scorned the high school experience.”
“I didn’t scorn it. I just wanted no part of it,” I said, folding plastic wrap tightly around the salmon filets and placing them in the fridge.
“You know, I never really got that mentality,” he said. “I always thought high school was what you made of it. It wasn’t the stereotypical teen movie depicted in Hollywood with clear hierarchies and segregation between groups. Sure there were people in band, sports, theater, honors classes, but in reality, it all overlapped, everyone mixing together. We were all just trudging along, intent on getting our diplomas.”
“Spoken like the lead actor in a John Hughes flick,” I said. “You realize he’s dead, right?”
“And yet his movies and what they represent live on,” he said.
“No wonder you don’t look hungover. You’re still drunk.”
“Nah, I understand the concept of work-appropriate behavior and limited myself to two drinks the whole evening. Something I see we don’t share,” he said, dipping his chin toward the mimosa bar I’d set up. “Isn’t consuming alcohol on the job generally considered a no-no, especially when the boss is around?”
Shit.
Because I’m the executive chef, this kitchen should be my territory, my domain, where I was free to act as I pleased. Heck, Stephen threw back several shots of whiskey before every dinner service. He’d claimed it calmed his nerves and allowed him to focus on the food. When he’d actually been present, anyway.
But it was careless of me to assume the same type of behavior would be acceptable here, where I had no real authority. Getting fired from a three-star Michelin restaurant had been embarrassing and damaging, but getting fired from a glorified steakhouse chain would destroy my career. If Logan had trusted me before, he certainly wouldn’t trust me now.
Double shit.
“My father sent a gift. For a successful opening night,” I said, stumbling over the words and trying not to glance at the champagne flutes partially filled with Grand Marnier or the prosecco bottle chilling in an ice bucket. Why had I been so stupid as to create such a display? “Since Stonestreet’s doesn’t seat people until five o’clock and the kitchen is closed, I didn’t think it’d be an issue. I apologize if I overstepped my bounds.”
Logan moved closer, his face an unreadable mask, his bright blue gaze fixed on me. I fought the urge to step back. His presence didn’t feel intimidating—more like overwhelming—but still I was sharply reminded of Stephen’s temper in the kitchen when his staff had stepped out of line. My heart raced and sweat pricked up along my hairline as I waited for his response.