As much as I hated needing his help—I’d wanted to land the meeting on my own, but every time I’d called Trent’s office, his assistant had claimed that his calendar was booked solid for the next three months—I was also grateful that my father had supported one of my decisions enough to pull strings for me. Though I knew the change in his tune was a result of me finally taking steps to break out on my own.
An hour later, the limo pulled up to the curb in front of Brookfield Place, home to the Institute of Culinary Education—ICE to those of us in the industry—and the TK Hospitality Group offices. I stepped out onto the plaza, smoothed out the wrinkles in my skirt suit, and stared up at the massive complex. The frigid air bit my cheeks and nipped at my fingertips. Boats bobbed around the docks in the nearby Hudson River, and the all-glass exterior of One World Trade Center across the street reflected the dark clouds swirling above.
“Enjoy your visit,” the driver said, popping the trunk and retrieving my duffel.
I paid, thanked him again, and stashed my journal in my bag. I watched the limo’s taillights disappear around the street, breathing in the cold air and stealing a few more seconds of calm before I entered the building and rode the elevator up to the twenty-fifth floor.
As I hovered outside the frosted-glass doors adorned with the TK Hospitality Group logo, I wondered what was happening with Logan and the pregame and briefly considered checking my phone for updates, but decided against it. I needed to keep my focus here, and it wasn’t like Logan was thinking about me—he’d made that clear.
I smoothed down my hair and straightened my suit. Lifting my chin, I pulled my shoulders back, determined to channel the anxiousness inside me into confidence, and entered the reception area designed in a sleek modern style.
“Thank you for your promptness,” said the woman at the front desk. “Mr. Keller is ready for you. Please follow me.”
Trent stood when I walked into his office. He wore a wool herringbone blazer with a gray collared shirt beneath, dark denim jeans, and black-rimmed glasses.
He nodded to the receptionist and gestured for me to sit. “Well, Ms. Lalonde, you better make it good and you better make it quick, as I’ve got a busy schedule today.” His tone was cool and reserved, bordering on uninterested, as though the few seconds he’d already spent with me had been a waste.
I cleared my throat and perched on the edge of an uncomfortable plastic chair that had probably cost more than my car, my nerves returning in full force. “I appreciate you agreeing to see me and on a Sunday no less.”
“As a favor to my business partner,” Trent said, as if I’d needed the reminder of why he was bothering with me at all.
“Favor or not, I’m aware that rejecting the invitation to work with you should have precluded this conversation entirely, so I’m so thankful that you’re willing to hear me out.”
“We’re clear on the point that the position we originally discussed has been filled and that I’m not in the habit of granting second chances, are we not?” he asked, reclaiming his seat and propping an ankle on the opposite knee.
I nodded and swallowed down the negative thoughts running rampant through my mind. “We are.”
“Then I’m not sure what you’re doing here, Gwen.”
I inhaled a deep breath. “I came to discuss a venture of my own.”
His eyebrows rose. “Oh? And what is that?”
I wiped my palms on my pencil skirt, grateful I’d hadn’t left a sweat mark. “I want to open a restaurant in Denver, and I’d like you to consider financially backing it. Become my business partner.” Direct, to the point. I wanted the words to come out assured, but the slight wobble in my voice betrayed me.
I waited for Trent to respond, and when he didn’t, I continued. “It’s a growing area primed for fresh, innovative cuisine.”
“Emerging market is often another term for a dead market. The average shelf life of a debut restaurant is three years in the strongest of areas,” he said. “How do you plan to combat that in a weak one? This industry is as relentless as it is unpredictable, and exceptional food and an inviting atmosphere will only get you so far.”
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and said, “Because Denver is a fun, vibrant city with adventurous people who thrive on trying new things and taking risks, but the culinary scene doesn’t reflect their personality. It’s dependable but safe.”
“And you think you can bridge that gap?” Trent asked.
“I know I can,” I said, all my earlier apprehension gone. “You mentioned the menu I’d developed would give guests the impression they were dining abroad in their own backyard when eating my dishes. And that is exactly the experience that Denver residents are searching for, that sense of wanderlust while at home. They want to be transported and surprised and inspired. They want to try new ingredients as well as familiar ones. I can provide all of that.”
“In ability and talent, perhaps,” he said. “But to succeed in this business you also need commitment and reliability. What I’ve witnessed from you thus far doesn’t inspire much confidence.”
I nodded again. He was right. I had been unpredictable and indecisive, but not anymore. “I’ve secured a small business loan, which is contingent upon my finding another investor to fund the remainder. I’m here today to do whatever it takes to convince you that you want to be that investor.”
Trent rested his elbows on the desk, papers crinkling under his weight. “There are hundreds of restaurateurs around the country who have just as much expertise as me. One based in Vail, Colorado, in fact. So why me for this endeavor?”
And I’d approach each of them if I had to, but I was saving that as a last resort.
“Because I feel like you get me and my cooking and have always recognized my potential,” I said. “It’s why you asked me to audition. With your expertise and my talent, I believe the two of us working as a team could make a thriving establishment that could alter the Denver foodscape for the better.”
“Even so, it’s a big risk,” Trent said.
“It is,” I said. “But one I strongly believe is worth taking.”
“When I met with you at Stonestreet’s, you never indicated that this was something you wanted to pursue,” he said. “I’m curious why this is the path you’ve chosen.”
“At the time I didn’t know what I wanted—or where I wanted to be. Denver was just supposed to be a temporary stop.” I cleared my throat. “For most of my life, I’ve flitted from place to place in the hopes of enhancing my skills and perfecting my craft. I told myself that the reason I never planted seeds anywhere, or branched out on my own, was because I was a nomad at heart. But if I’m honest, I think I chose that path because it was easier than getting attached. I didn’t have to fully invest myself. But then I returned to Denver and finally felt grounded for the first time in my life. I reconnected with old friends and family . . . fell in love. It just took several months for me to admit all that to myself. Now there’s nowhere else I want to call home.”
Tilting back in his chair, Trent tented his fingers and pressed them against his mouth, regarding me through narrowed eyes. I forced myself not to fidget under the scrutiny. From his expression, I couldn’t tell if he was intrigued, laughing inside, or insulted that I’d had the audacity even to bring this proposition to him.
We sat in torturous silence for several moments before Trent dropped his hands and said, “Tell you what. You make a dish of my choosing in a specified amount of time for me right now, and if I’m blown away with what you present, we can discuss your plan further. How does that sound?”
The whole thing sounded terrifying, not because I doubted my cooking abilities or because I wasn’t up to the challenge. It was terrifying because the outcome rested on my shoulders alone. There was no sous chef or restaurant critic to blame if I failed to deliver on the dish. But I’d had enough of running other peo
ple’s kitchens, of fulfilling other people’s dreams. It was my turn now.
“I’m ready,” I said, my tone steady and assured even as butterflies erupted in my stomach.
“Great,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing. “You may leave your belongings here. This way.”
Trent led me to the elevators, and we descended to the third floor. The steel doors slid open to the ICE lobby area.
Like a flash flood, memories from my own culinary school days hit me full force—the aching muscles and sore wrists from dicing thousands of onions, carrots, and celery into uniform-sized cubes all in an effort to hone my knife skills; the countless hours spent deboning fish and properly butchering short ribs; the frustration at creating batch after batch of the five French mother sauces only for me to burn the milk or overbrown the flour, and the euphoria that had surged through me when I’d finally mastered them.
I remembered it all as though it were yesterday.
Trent spoke to the person at the reception desk. She nodded, glancing at me standing awkwardly off to the side, and ducked around a corner. A few minutes later, she emerged and handed me a new chef’s coat, apron, toque, and a knife case.
“I often rent spaces here for demonstration and testing purposes,” Trent told me as he escorted me down a series of hallways. “Having a culinary school in such close proximity is one of the primary reasons I chose to headquarter my business at Brookfield Place rather than in Midtown like many other groups.”
Through the windows in the closed doors, I caught glimpses of classes in midsession, students in white coats and amateur cooks in aprons alike listening with rapt attention to their instructors. Trent ushered me into a private event area that overlooked Lower Manhattan, a pristine industrial kitchen on one end and a formally set table on the other.
“All right, Gwen. You have two hours to prepare the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’ve ever tasted,” he said.
I kept my posture rigid, my expression neutral, despite the surprise I felt at his words. I expected Trent to request a dish that was more elegant and refined or even the standard-issue culinary school test to cook the perfect omelet. But a PB&J? Daunting in its simplicity, limitless in flavor combinations—savory versus sweet, crunchy versus smooth, traditional or inventive—I had no idea which kind he’d prefer.
“There’s a fully stocked fridge and pantry for your use. Good luck,” he said, then excused himself, leaving me to the task ahead.
I slumped against the stainless steel counter, my mind racing for the right recipe to impress Trent and coming up blank. Snap out of it, Gwen, I told myself. You can do this. It’s what you’ve trained for. Take it one step at a time.
Sighing, I changed into the chef’s coat, tied the apron over my pencil skirt, and hid my hair under the toque. I washed my hands, sharpened the knives, and moved into the walk-in pantry.
As I stared at the assortment of ingredients in front of me, a memory floated up of me as a little girl, sitting at the kitchen table with a bloody nose and split lip from Chris accidentally hitting me in the face with a football, while my mother fixed me a PB&J, though her version had swapped the strawberry preserves for jarred apple chutney and had added prefried bacon. She’d claimed it was better than chicken soup for curing what ailed you, but I’d always assumed she’d said that because the sandwich only required assembly and my father had refused to allow sodium-laden canned soups into our house.
But now I remembered how the salty-sweet notes in the peanut butter, the smokiness and fatty texture of the bacon, and the ginger and cardamom in the chutney had filled me with warmth and comfort. Had made my bruises hurt a little less. The memory felt special, sacred almost. Just me and my mother bonding over a modest, unpretentious sandwich.
I realized it was often the no-frills dishes that called back an emotion, a memory, a detail almost forgotten, yet always there, right at your fingertips, ready to rush forward with the subtlest scent or the briefest taste. And I hoped my spin on my mother’s recipe would do the same for Trent.
Glancing at the clock—an hour and a half left—I quickly gathered all the ingredients I’d need, preheated the oven to 375 degrees, and started on the mise en place for the chutney. I peeled and chopped apples and pears into one-inch chunks, diced a yellow onion, grated fresh gingerroot, and measured out the apple cider vinegar, dry spices, and sugar.
I set a saucepan on the stove over a high flame and added all the ingredients. While I waited for the chutney to boil, I spread raw cashews and peanuts into an even layer on a quarter-inch sheet pan, drizzled the whole thing with olive oil, salt, and fresh rosemary, and slid the baking sheet onto the top oven rack to roast. Wiping my fingers on a towel, I cut slab bacon into slices and arranged them in a cold skillet on the stove and turned the burner on low until the meat released some of its fat.
Once the saucepan was bubbling, I reduced the heat to medium low and covered it so the chutney could simmer, then removed the nuts from the oven, dumped them into a Cuisinart, added a touch more olive oil, and turned the food processor on high to transform the peanuts and cashews into a smooth paste.
I looked at the clock again. How had fifty minutes passed already? I couldn’t worry about the time—I needed to keep my head down and my concentration focused.
Grease popped in the skillet, the bacon buckling and curling, and I flipped the slices to brown on the other side, brushing maple syrup over each. I shut off the Cuisinart and scooped the creamy nut butter into a bowl, floated the saucepan over an ice bath to let the now-reduced pear-and-apple mixture cool, and removed the bacon from the skillet and onto paper napkins to drain.
A sort of Zen-like calm had settled over me, my movements fast, fluid, and precise. And as I tasted each individual component, the flavors complex yet approachable, my earlier nerves were replaced with confidence.
When five minutes remained, I laid out two slices of the fluffiest white bread I’d ever touched—there was a time and a place for artisanal rustic multigrain or a thick crusty loaf, but this wasn’t it—on a cutting board, slathered the homemade chutney onto one and the nut butter onto the other, crumbled the crunchy bacon over each, and pressed them together.
I had just finished toasting the sandwich in a buttered cast-iron skillet when I heard the clip of Trent’s leather-soled footsteps down the hallway. I’d hoped to steal a few moments of tranquillity before the judging commenced, but the universe had refused to cooperate with me.
Trent strolled into the room, his expression revealing nothing. He’d changed into a gray suit with a purple paisley tie and a pale lavender shirt for his event after this.
“So, Ms. Lalonde, what do you have for me?” he asked, leaning against the stainless steel counter opposite me and crossing his arms. My heart dropped into my stomach at his tone. It was one I recognized, one that indicated he’d set me up only to watch me fail.
“A twist on a classic,” I said, cutting the bread diagonally and sliding each half onto a plate. “This is a rosemary and roasted peanut-cashew butter, maple-glazed bacon, and apple-and-pear chutney sandwich. My mother made something similar for me as a child.” I passed him the dish and waited.
He broke off a chunk, examined it under the lights, sniffed the center, and popped the piece into his mouth. His eyes stayed glued to the ceiling. Every part of me was buzzing, desperate to know what he was thinking.
But then he smiled, hummed, and took a giant bite. “I’m going to bring this with me if you don’t mind. I’m attending a fund-raiser later, and I loathe mass-produced banquet food,” he said. “Touch base with me next week. We’ll discuss the details.”
A cheek-splitting grin stretched across my face. I’d nailed it. And the only person I wanted to call to share the news with was the one person I couldn’t.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Logan
“Any discomfort?” Doc Baxter a
sked, holding my foot and moving my left leg in various directions on the padded table in the training room.
I shook my head. The Toradol shot was working wonders already, and the physical therapy sessions I’d had in between practices over the last two weeks leading up to the Super Bowl had helped me regain enough strength and stability in both my knees that I could step onto the field with confidence against the Saints.
“That’s what I want to hear.” He inspected the joints and muscles around the injury, applying pressure. “How about now?”
I winced ever so slightly when he squeezed my knee cap. “A little tender. Nothing I can’t play through.”
Since arriving in Miami, I’d suffered through endless press junkets, interviews, and finally, media day. As usual, it had been the same stupid questions over and over again, and of course not a single reporter had failed to ask how I was recuperating after being released from the hospital. Each time I’d responded with a version of I’m fine. And for once, it’d been honest, much to asshole Tom Phelps’s dismay. In fact, I was more than fine, my recovery fueled by my overwhelming desire to suit up and finish what the team had started back in September.
Doc Baxter nodded and grabbed the athletic tape off the counter. As he wrapped my ankles, knees, and wrists, the ceiling rocked beneath the raw energy of seventy-five thousand hungry Colorado and Louisiana fans waiting for the game to start. The sounds of cheering and stomping overhead sent a hum through me, my whole body buzzing with power and anticipation like an overloaded wire.
“Okay, Logan, you’re all set,” Doc Baxter said, securing the last of the tape around my elbow. He tossed the roll toward the tray lined with syringes and bottles of pain medication, but it was intercepted by Chris as he entered the room.
“So, how about it, Doc? Ready to pick this fool off the turf in the event he gets knocked unconscious by a defender?” Chris asked, slapping him on the back.
Intercepting the Chef Page 27
