She skimmed the comments, looking for clues, but if anyone else in Chicagoland knew what The Eater looked like, they weren’t telling. A couple of comments expressed amusement, several said The Eater was a jerk—yeah, jerk!—and one person said she’d been to Babka and had a delicious meal.
Wasn’t all publicity supposed to be good publicity? She’d take some pity customers right now. Her food would convince them to come back.
Tilly signed in to Twitter and scanned #babkacatfight for more news and, hopefully, more photos. No luck. There were several comments on the demonstration, mostly positive, some lingering jokes and comments about The Eater’s appearance at the demonstration, but no other photos. Only one lone photo drawing all the attention. One person helpfully pointed out The Eater was wearing a white shirt, but so were at least five of the men in the picture, including Dan. You couldn’t have described his shirt better? Logos or anything more specific than white?
Imbir mewed loudly as he threaded his body between her legs. Breakfast. She didn’t have time to hunt around the internet for a photograph of The Eater. Again. The photo on the blog was a headshot of a guy in a Cubs hat and sunglasses stuffing an oozing Italian Beef in his mouth. A Google search had revealed the faces of many different men, including the frustrating blog picture, but nothing she could conclusively pinpoint as the right Eater living in Chicago and currently ruining her life.
“Meeeoooow!” Imbir bit her ankle.
“All right, I get it. It’s breakfast time and if I don’t get a move on, I will be late for work. Then who will bring you home bits of sausage for your late-night snack?” She picked up her cat and groaned. “You are one heavy kitty, Imbir. It’s a wonder I need to feed you at all.”
His only response was a squirm as they neared his dish. She poured out some food and he began to chow down, purring contentedly. “What do you think, Imby? Should I look at the image search for The Eater again and see if my Dan is one of the pictures?”
He ignored her, which was all the answer she would get until his bowl was empty and every last taste of kibble licked off the crockery.
“You’re right. I don’t have the time, nor do I have the inclination. The Eater may be a jerk for writing the review, but no person could be so cruel as to write that review and then kiss the woman whose career he tried to ruin.”
* * *
HER SOFT SKIN REACTED to his fingers, her rosy nipples puckering as his hand caressed her perfect, white breasts. Her body was as wonderful as he had imagined. She was as wonderful as he had imagined. The English language did not contain enough superlatives to describe how he felt right now.
Blue hair spread across the white pillowcase was hotter, her voice sexier, and the way she squirmed and stretched at his touch was enough to keep him aroused all night. For days. Weeks maybe. His hand traveled down her stomach and she laughed her husky laugh as he tickled her sides. A dirty gleam came into her eyes, her bottom lip lowering, inviting...
“Dan!” A heavy hand pounded on the small table of the coffee shop where Dan was desperately trying to finish his edits for a Vanity Fair article. “Wake up. You’re supposed to be editing your next column, remember? Slamming another upstart restaurant.”
Some people had voices fitting for their personalities. Shane wasn’t one of them. If the world were just, Shane would have a voice for print media instead of the deep baritone that made his evening radio show the most popular in its time slot. Most of the time, Dan didn’t mind him, but today he wasn’t in the mood. He had been happily engrossed in an erotic fantasy about a blue-haired chef and Shane had killed it. He couldn’t even return to that fantasy for at least an hour. He wasn’t going to risk Tilly saying something in Shane’s voice again. He shivered. The idea was too disturbing to even joke about.
“What do you need, Shane?”
“I was walking by when I saw you in the window.” Shane lowered his booming voice, but half the coffee shop heard what came out of his mouth next. “Sex with the hot Polish chick whose restaurant you tried to destroy? Way to go!”
Dan pinched the flesh between his left thumb and forefinger with his right hand and willed the pain to keep him from exploding at Shane. “What are you talking about?”
Shane knew the local music scene, was a good writer and—Dan hated to admit this—an excellent DJ. His personality was also stuck in middle school where all the boys could talk about was which girls filled out their bras first and who would let you touch their butt at the school dances. The man couldn’t have an adult conversation if he needed to talk his way out of being bounced from a club. At least after Shane left Dan could get back to work. The upside to Shane’s visit was he could get back to making his Wednesday productive.
Noticing Dan wasn’t going to ask about the rumor, Shane decided to pull up a chair and share what he knew. “My girl went to the Taste on Monday and decided to check out the cooking demonstration of the poor woman whose career you ruined. Lo and behold, who does she see with his arm around the blue-haired lady, but The Eater. The charming food writer who never gets drunk at parties and still manages to be the most entertaining person there, who always seems to have a beautiful date, was making pretty with the chef owner of Babka.”
Dan marveled at the generosity of the female sex. It never ceased to amaze him Shane could have a girlfriend. He understood the attraction of the voice, but how did women manage to ignore the crap pouring out of Shane’s mouth most of the time he opened it? Then the full force of Shane’s story hit home. If Shane knew about Tilly, he would tell the whole world. He might have already told the whole world on his radio show and decided to make sure he had the pleasure of telling Dan the story himself because he knew Dan didn’t listen to his station.
This was a disaster.
Shane was still talking. “I got to know—how does a man get to screw a woman twice? Sheer class, man.”
Dan had been feeling guilty enough about Monday and the Taste, without the lowest man on earth implying he was a dung beetle. Despite how much he liked Tilly and how hard his libido was trying to convince him that withholding the truth was okay, he knew it wasn’t and he couldn’t go through with taking Tilly on a date under false pretenses. He couldn’t “screw a woman twice,” as Shane had nicely put it.
Dan had been a douche for not telling Tilly, or even for going to her demo after meeting her, and it was possible the whole of Shane’s audience knew. He wanted to be mad at Shane, but his humiliation—Tilly’s humiliation—was his fault. He had made the mistake and, no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find anyone to blame it on. His father always told him people had to own up to their mistakes. Realizing in his junior year of high school that he’d never heard his father admit to a mistake or apologize had tempered that particular parental lesson. If Dan Sr. couldn’t convince someone they were wrong with honeyed words, he used vinegar, but the injured party always admitted they were at fault.
Saying goodbye to Tilly had led to a photo that embarrassed her, but apologizing would only make the situation worse. It was better for both of them, Tilly especially, if Dan stayed away from her. The punishment didn’t quite fit the crime, but every time he wanted fresh pierogi and had to eat frozen ones, he’d know it was his own damn fault.
“This is a story to go down into the triumph of testosterone tales. What did you tell her to make up for your review? Did you say the editor was riding your tail? Did you feed her some line that you could make her restaurant great again with the right incentive? I got to know.”
Shane wasn’t going to leave. He had made up his mind to torture Dan and he was going to stay until state secrets had been revealed. Dan could leave, but he had a message to deliver first. Shane needed to learn he couldn’t talk about Tilly. If he’d already mentioned Tilly on his radio show, Dan would have to deal with the fallout later, but he could stop any talk from now on. He reached over and grabbed Shane’s wrist. “Don’t ever talk about Tilly again.”
Then he squeezed.
&n
bsp; Dan dug his fingers into the tendons and veins in Shane’s wrist as the man yanked his arm, trying to get it away from the pressure. Dan’s grasp was far stronger than Shane’s ability to pull his arm away and Dan held on until Shane finally gave up.
Message delivered, Dan grabbed his laptop and left the coffee shop and Shane, who was sitting in the chair rubbing his now-tender wrist. Like a middle-school boy, Shane understood threats. Especially since he knew Dan had the ability to carry them out.
Mike found him later, sitting in a German bar off Irving Park, an undrunk beer in his hand, and brats and kraut uneaten on his plate. The lunch crowd had thinned, leaving a barstool beside Dan for Mike to slide onto.
“You heard the rumor,” Dan said.
Mike took the beer from his hand and took a swig. “The whole city knows.”
Dan scowled as Mike confirmed his fears, probably relishing being right.
“Haven’t you been paying attention to the news? Facebook? Twitter?” Mike asked.
“I assumed Shane announced something on his radio show. I don’t know anything about the others. Twitter annoys me more than Shane ever could and I check my Facebook page once a week, no matter how many stupid emails they send me about birthdays and events.”
“Shane wasn’t the one who announced anything. One of the morning shows has a picture of you with your arm around Tila after the demo and someone at the station knows it’s you.” Mike pulled his phone out of his pocket and Dan peered at the tiny, blurry photo of him giving Tilly a peck on the cheek while the audience crowded around her counter.
“I’ll bet you a hundred dollars Shane’s girlfriend took that photo. Doesn’t she also work at a radio station?”
“Did you tell her who you were?”
“No.” Before Mike could start in on him, Dan held up his hand. “It’s not the way Shane made it sound. I didn’t know who she was when I started talking to her and I certainly didn’t take her home with me. We had a nice conversation and I watched her demo. Then I left.”
“Didn’t want to tell her, huh?”
“You make it sound like I did something dirty. I didn’t know who she was. When she told me, it was too late.” I’d already kissed her. “I couldn’t tell her right before her demo. I’m not that much of an asshole.”
“She looks cute.” Mike took another drink of Dan’s beer and smiled. “And the hair sure is blue. Why didn’t you recognize her from the night of the review?”
“She was wearing a bandanna over her hair. From the chaos, I remember this woman with a bandanna who got control over the customers, the dog, the cat, everything. Mom said Tilly came by the table to greet everyone after the place was cleaned up. I was in the bathroom cleaning smoked fish spread and butter off my lap. I would have remembered the hair.”
“Just the hair?” Mike had finished the beer and pulled Dan’s plate of brats over. Dan watched his lunch disappear and tried to work up irritation as Mike ate his food, but he was too angry with himself to be angry at Mike.
“Okay, dammit. She’s very pretty, even with the hair.”
“And there was no moment, not even a second, when you had the time to tell this particular cute chef that you were not just another Dan enjoying a day at the Taste, but The Eater from CarpeChicago?”
“When was I supposed to tell her, oh great and wise sage? When she told me who she was, while she was blushing furiously? Hell, I could practically see her nerves. What about when the woman was attacking her business and accusing her of being another restaurant casualty? Now that would have been great.” The volume of his voice was rising. People were starting to stare at them. He calmed himself. His problem wasn’t Mike’s fault. “Not only would she be nervous about all the people there to watch the demo, but she’d have to worry about the asshole critic in the audience. It was for her own good and I’m not going to apologize for it!” He slammed his fist down on the bar, making the plates jump and drawing a nasty look from the bartender.
“Why’d you write the review?”
“We’ve already had this conversation. We have a bet on this, remember?”
“You seem to be feeling rather guilty about something. Since it’s not keeping your identity from the cutie-pie chef, I have to assume you feel guilty about the review.”
“I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about.” Dan regained control of his voice. He didn’t want the bartender to toss him out of one of his favorite lunch spots. “The review was legitimate. Being a restaurateur is about creating the perfect meal, consistently. No mistakes. No overcooked steaks, no undercooked chicken, no chipped plates and no cats. Not everyone gets to eat out at an expensive restaurant every night. There should be no question about the quality of the experience. The apologies, free drinks and free desserts don’t matter. Tilly failed her customers that night. She failed badly enough that she doesn’t get another chance.”
“You let me know how comfortable that knowledge is while you’re sleeping by yourself at night.”
“Dammit, Mike. I don’t feel guilty about the review and I don’t need to apologize for it.”
“Hey, friend, no one was saying you have to apologize. I’m just here for the gossip. Think about what you said and thanks for lunch.” Mike pushed back his plate and walked out of the restaurant.
Dan looked down at his now-empty plate, sitting next to his empty beer glass. If Mike hadn’t been one of his closest friends, he’d say the guy was a complete jerk.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DAN CURSED HIS ringing phone as he rolled over in bed. The screen was lit with Mike’s phone number. Why the hell was Mike calling him at four-thirty in the morning?
“I hope you need bail.”
“Good morning, sunshine. I scheduled my next post. I believe I beat you and you owe me two lunches.”
“Couldn’t this wait until a reasonable hour?” Dan growled into the phone. This was Mike’s second win in a row.
“I figured you would want to know as soon as possible, so you didn’t have to rush. I mean, you’re not going to beat me anyway. Why hurry?”
Dan threw his head back into his pillow, wincing when his skull glanced off the headboard. “What I want is to go back to sleep.”
“Since you owe me two lunches, I’ll cut you a deal and we can make it one dinner.”
“Whatever. Text me where you want to go and I’ll meet you there.” How was Mike chipper at four-thirty in the morning? “Don’t expect a response until at least ten.”
“We have a deal? We’ll eat dinner wherever I want tonight?”
“If it will make you shut up.”
Mike laughed. “Sleep tight, Goldilocks. Bring your appetite.”
His phone faded to black after Mike disconnected, but Dan still didn’t trust it. He turned the damn thing off entirely and shoved it into his bedside table drawer for good measure. Then he pulled his blankets over his head and hoped for a couple more hours of sleep before whatever torture Mike had in store for him tonight.
* * *
THE RESTAURANT WAS EMPTY. Again. Sure, there were a couple of full tables, but it was eight o’clock on a Thursday night and any successful restaurant would be more than half full. The money her grandmother had left her was powering lighting for her and her staff. No customers. What a waste. This couldn’t continue. She had to have some customers or her restaurant would fail. More important, somewhere in heaven, Babunia would be disappointed.
Her more immediate problem was that the staff was out of sync. AM Carlos had put all the prepped ingredients in the wrong places in the sandwich units and PM Carlos was threatening AM Carlos’s entire family and all future generations every time he reached for softened butter and got breadcrumbs instead. He refused to move the ingredients, defended them against Tilly’s attempt to put everything back in its proper place, because the prep work should be right. If it was wrong, everyone should suffer the consequences. And suffer they did. He was impervious to threats of being canned. PM Carlos was a solid line cook and could ge
t a job at another restaurant easily. Right now, Tilly needed him more than he needed her.
The upcoming soccer game between Mexico and Guatemala was making the tension in the kitchen worse. Enrique would normally side with PM Carlos against the bad prep, but Enrique was rooting against Mexico and using the prep mistake to further nettle PM Carlos.
As a consequence, the kitchen was behind. And so dinner service was behind. The servers were flustered by the strain in the kitchen and making little mistakes. Customers left disgruntled, but couldn’t identify why. Karen was busy keeping the waitstaff together and she didn’t have time to make her usual careful notes on customers for Babka’s records.
What should have been an easy night was speeding its way into disasterland because AM Carlos had put the breadcrumbs where the butter went. Something he had never done before. When she had called him to ask about it, AM Carlos claimed he had put everything in the right place. Which meant Tilly was left blaming a poltergeist. Did poltergeists haunt restaurants?
Tilly sighed and walked back through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Bright white plates sat on the metal shelving, waiting for food to be elegantly arranged on them. Enrique was sautéing trout and Tilly could see the salamander glowing as it browned a babka kartoflana z pieczarkami, a potato-mushroom cake and one of Babka’s few vegetarian dishes. The smell of butter and onions filled the kitchen. Everything was ready for the food to come off the heat. No tickets were printed out, so she stood at the pass with nothing to do but ban any mention of soccer for the rest of the night.
To emphasize her ban, she repeated it in Spanish.
Reservations for Two Page 6
