Scrumptious (8 page)

“Salmon,” he prompted gently. “Hey, Anthony, could you get me some more onions and peppers from the walk-in?” He had two backups underneath, but he didn’t want an audience.

“Sure thing, chef.” Anthony cleared the line.

Joe turned to Olivia. “All right, kiddo. What the hell was that?” Her shoulders hunched as she laid the salmon on the grill. “Olivia Marconi does not lose her shit over a little grease fire.”

“Olivia Watson does.”

“Gimme a break.” He rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious. I told you. I can’t do this by myself. Keith sucked, but at least I wasn’t alone. I hate to be alone. I’m beginning to think I married him so I wouldn’t have to do this all by myself.”

“You aren’t alone. You’ve got Marlene. And you’ll hire someone. “

“The résumés coming in are crap, and Marlene’s always got a guy. Or six.”

“What does that have to do with anything? Marlene can cook, girl. She kept up with me. I know Keith was no great shakes in the kitchen, so I assume someone has been helping you run this place. Marlene, right?” Joe asked.

Olivia sighed. “Marly’s a great cook, but she doesn’t have the patience to handle the whole kitchen. There’s more to it than just cooking, you know that. You have to come up with new dishes, write the menus, handle the staff. You’ve seen it yourself. Marly is a loose cannon. If you piss her off, she’ll either rip you a new one or walk out the door. She asked to leave the line, Joe. I think that’s a pretty clear sign she doesn’t want to run the restaurant.”

Joe laughed. He saw her point. Siccing the waiters on him wasn’t exactly a sign of the maturity needed to run a restaurant. Still, he didn’t want to point out that Marlene had kept her head when the line had gone up in flames, and Olivia had run away, weeping. Nobody was perfect, and it seemed to him that Olivia and Marly made a great team.

Olivia checked the tickets again before she spoke. “Don’t get me wrong, Joe, Marly is a great friend and a great cook. I just…I don’t know. I don’t feel like I can put the whole restaurant in her hands.”

“Why not? You put it in Keith’s hands,” Joe said.

“That was different.”

“Please tell me you’re not buying into that whole gotta have a culinary degree to be a chef mentality.”

Olivia’s cheeks turned pink. “Of course not.”

“Because that would be really stupid. Talent is talent, and I have no doubt you could teach anyone anything they need to know. Anthony, here, is a perfect example.”

Anthony had returned to the line, automatically checked the orders, fired his salads and appetizers, and was now furiously prepping his station for the next day.

There was one ticket hanging. Joe turned to Anthony. “C’mon, kid. Get me a roll of masking tape, a marker, a wet towel, and a bucket. We’re on cleanup duty until Olivia has more than three tickets hanging in the window. You can get the salads too, right?” Joe kept his expression blank. Olivia returned his look through narrowed eyes.

“Of course,” she said tightly.

There was only one way Joe could think of to give Olivia her confidence back, and he and Anthony could set the kitchen to rights at the same time. Two birds with one stone. After that, maybe he would start teaching Anthony how to make some of the sauces. This place needed a damn prep cook.

***

“Uh, chef?” Beth peered under the heat lamp and caught Joe’s eye as he sliced a roasted vegetable stuffed chicken breast into neat, colorful rounds. Olivia had been swearing, but doing fine when they’d returned to the line, so Joe had taken pity on her and sent her out to schmooze the dining room. He was almost done with the last reservation, and Anthony was hanging on his every word as he explained basic sauce techniques.

“My table says their crème brûlée is terrible. They said they were expecting something unusual, but it sucks. Their word, not mine.” Beth slid the ramekin into the window.

Joe grabbed a spoon and dipped it into the uneaten side of the custard. “Oh, Jesus! That’s salty.” He leaned over and spit the custard into the garbage can. “Hang on a sec.” He finished plating the chicken and placed it in the window next to a pair of lamb chops. “Buzz Eric, will you?” Anthony hit the button that would page the server and let him know his table was ready for pick-up.

“Follow me.”

Beth trailed after him. Joe pulled open the door of the reach-in and looked at the remaining crème brûlées. There were four that were caramelized and ready to go. Joe pulled one out and grabbed another tasting spoon. This time he took a smaller bite. “Ugh, I don’t know who would like this even if it wasn’t salty as hell.”

Joe tried one of the uncaramelized brûlées. It was fine. Not his favorite flavor, exactly
—
in fact, it was kind of a cross between melted ice cream, mouthwash, and Chinese food. He took another bite. Then he polished it off.

He found a torch under the table and liberally sprinkled the top of the custard with the sugar he found in a labeled container on top of the dessert station. He fired up the torch and touched the blue tip to the pile of sugar. It had been a while, but he remembered that the trick was to tip it almost 90 degrees and roll the caramelizing sugar over the custard. He waited for the sugar to liquefy and caramelize.

Instead, it sputtered and blackened, and the custard underneath scrambled with the heat of the torch. Joe was glad Beth had gone back to coffee her table and tell them dessert would be on the house tonight.

He stared at the blackened mess of another dessert, the fourth one to bite the dust tonight. He had never seen sugar behave this way. He rubbed his face and then brushed his cheeks as the sugar from his fingers stuck to his five o’clock shadow. He licked his lips. His mouth watered. He licked his fingers. Salt.

Joe tossed some of the sugar from the labeled container into his mouth. It was definitely salt. That little bitch.

It was one thing to sic the waiters on him. That was pure fun and games. Deliberately sabotaging the food at Chameleon was another matter entirely. No wonder Marlene had been baiting him in the bakeshop this afternoon. He wondered whether she had planned this before or after her little come-hither routine. Was she responsible for some of the other bullshit that was happening around Chameleon too? Olivia was absolutely right. Marlene was a loose cannon.

Joe pulled the large sugar bin out from under the table and slid the lid open. He tasted it to make sure it was sugar. Just to be absolutely certain, he nicked a tiny bite out of a fifth brûlée. Satisfied, he washed his hands, then covered the custard with a quarter-inch thick layer of sugar and torched it to deep amber. He was careful not to get any caramelized sugar on his hand. Next to roux, it was the hottest thing in the kitchen, and it stuck like glue.

Beth returned, and she set the finished dessert on a doilied plate, added a homemade fortune cookie and a sprig of basil, and then headed back out to the dining room.

He cracked open another fortune cookie and read the slip of paper inside. “You will get what you deserve.” He snorted. Yeah, he wasn’t the only one. Joe gathered up the dishes from the dessert disaster, plus the mislabeled salt container and the remaining questionable brûlées, and took them to the dish room.

Jacques eyebrows shot up beneath his hair. “Did you eat all those? Marly’s gonna kill you.”

“Not if I kill her first.” The dishwasher gave him a look that could have torched another brûlée. “Just kidding.” He looked at the older man’s thin chest and saggy jeans. In his experience, kitchen help were the hungriest people on earth. “If you keep my secret, I’ll hook you up with dinner. You like fish?”

“Yup.”

“Coming right up.” Joe slung the salt container into Anthony’s station. “Here, kid, do something with that. It’s salt.”

He wouldn’t tell Olivia about the brûlées yet. That was between him and Marly. He’d set her straight himself
—
tonight. Too bad for her if he broke up her little love fest with her special guy. The job came first
—
always.

Marlene surfed through two hundred cable channels and gave up. Usually the eleven o’clock news could send her into oblivion, but she’d watched every news story, wide-eyed, while demolishing half a large spinach pesto pizza from her favorite pizzeria. Why was there never anything decent on television? She was tired, but she couldn’t sleep.

It was going to take something a little stronger than television to knock her out tonight. She’d given up her no booze rule an hour ago, after the Ghiardelli hot chocolate had failed her too. Two glasses of wine later, she was still wide-awake and considering busting into her emergency stash of cigarettes and heading up to the roof. Or heading to Johnny’s. Samson wouldn’t mind. He’d been a good boy while she was at work, so she’d been petting him for the last three hours to reward him. He was exhausted from the attention, asleep on the couch, belly up, nose tucked under a pillow.

She walked into her bedroom and pulled open her underwear drawer. The way she saw it, she had two options. Go to Johnny’s and find someone to put out the fire that was raging though her body. Or stay home and put it out herself. Marlene pulled her vibrator out of the drawer. How desperate was she?

Not desperate enough to show up at Johnny’s and admit her date was a dog, she decided, as Samson followed her into the bedroom. He jumped up on the bed, turned around three times, and collapsed into a furry heap.

She could handle this herself. A man, while nice, was not necessary. Pride makes a cold bedfellow, but a very efficient vibrator can do wonders for a girl’s state of mind. She was going to make herself come so many times she’d forget her own name, not to mention the name of the man who had gotten her into this state. She crawled into her bed and stretched out on her back, shoving her cut-off sweatpants down to her knees, already heating up in anticipation.

A loud knock at her back door made Samson raise his head, but Marly ignored the summons. There was no one, absolutely no one, she wanted to see in her condition. She might consider answering the door in ten minutes if anyone was still there. She flipped the switch on the vibrator.

The knock at the door sounded again, louder. Samson got up and began to howl.

God damn it. Was the universe trying to kill her? She turned off the vibrator. Was one orgasm asking too much?

Marly rolled out of bed and onto her feet, dragging her sweatpants over her hips and slamming the door on her way out of the bedroom. God, if this was Bill or Thomas coming to pick up Samson because they’d had another stupid fight, she was going to go postal.

Marlene peeked through the window and saw Joe’s tall frame outlined by the porch light. Right on cue, her blood began to simmer. The way her hormones went on high alert every time Joe came on the scene was pathetic. She was beginning to feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs
—
one of Pavlov’s inbred, slightly slow, first-cousin-loving dogs, who responded to cues without the benefit of positive reinforcement. This was not good. So not good.

She knew her hair was going in every direction, and her sweatpants and sweatshirt were so old she was entering
Flashdance
territory. She had a feeling her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were heavy, and her mouth looked, well, ready. Not a good time to answer the door, especially when the guy responsible for her frustration was on the other side.

On the other hand, maybe he was into girls with stick-up hair, ratty sweatshirts, no makeup, and “Fuck me,” tattooed on their foreheads. She indulged in three more seconds of hot flash fantasy where she opened the door, pulled Joe inside, and had him flat on his back on the kitchen floor before he could say a word.

Since that was just not going to happen, maybe she could ignore him and head back to her bedroom. She peered carefully out the door again. Nope, he’d seen her. Joe stood with his feet planted on the deck and his arms crossed as if he was gearing up for a fight.

Hallelujah. Since she couldn’t get laid, a good fight wasn’t a bad second option. She unlocked the bolt and opened the door. “Yes? Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.

Joe smiled at her, but he didn’t look happy.

Marlene braced her hands on her hips and lifted her chin as his eyes raked over her. It took an effort Joe could hardly appreciate to look regal in the clothes she had on. Thank God she was still wearing her bra.

“Yeah, you can do something for me,” Joe growled. “Quit screwing around at Chameleon. You need to grow up and get your priorities straight because Olivia does not need any more trouble.”

Marlene was dumbfounded. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. The salt on the crème brûlées. It’s one thing to have a little fun with the waiters. I can handle your childish bullshit, but what you did tonight was unprofessional. If you’ve got a problem with me, don’t take it out on Olivia. The restaurant is her business, her livelihood, and she’s got enough on her plate right now. Enough is enough. Leave the coolers alone, don’t ruin the fucking produce, and for God’s sake, clean the grease trays properly.”

All of the blood that had been circulating south of the border shot straight to Marlene’s head. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Joe. I told you, I cleaned the grease trays on Wednesday. Maybe Olivia spilled some oil. Maybe you did, hotshot. I didn’t touch the coolers, and I don’t know what the fuck you mean about the produce.” Marlene shook her head in disgust, then remembered his original point. “Wait, what do you mean about salt on my crème brûlées?”

Joe glared at her. “Don’t play innocent. You covered them with salt.”

“Why the hell would I sabotage my own desserts?” she asked. Was he serious? Or crazy?

“To get back at me,” he said. “I told you I wouldn’t put up with anymore of your bullshit tricks. If you’re still mad at me for
—
”

“Wake up, Joe! I’m not mad at you. There’s way more going on around here than you, buddy. I’ve made a few mistakes lately, but ruining my crème brûlée isn’t high on my priority list. The restaurant is my life too. I’ve spilled just as much sweat in that kitchen as Olivia has. Maybe more. After all, she left for two years to go learn how to cook
—
something she could have learned just as easily by staying at home. You’re nuts if you think I would do anything to hurt Olivia or Chameleon, and think what you want, but I’d never ruin my own desserts. I only use kosher salt in the bakeshop just to avoid that kind of mix-up. That’s the big kind, and it’s pretty damn hard to mistake it for sugar. If you can’t tell the difference, you should reconsider your profession,” she said sarcastically. “You’re an idiot, Joe. Go home. I’m sure Olivia will back you up, just like she backed Keith up. I’m too tired for your bullshit.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re exhausted,” he jeered. “Burning the candle at both ends, huh? If you’re so tired, maybe you should get some sleep instead of staying up half the night entertaining your dates.”

Marlene heard a sharp bark, followed by a whine, then a howl. Joe looked over her shoulder, trying to see into the kitchen. “Where’d the dog come from? Are you sure your social schedule permits enough time to take care of an animal?”

She stared at Joe in fury. Not even fit to take care of an animal? That was what he thought of her? This was just getting better and better. Not good enough to sleep with, unprofessional, and now a dog abuser. Well, at least he thought she was popular. “Since you’re not interested, I don’t see how my social life is at all your concern.”

Joe held the screen door open with his shoulder, so she moved to shut the inside door, but it bounced off his steel-toed boot.

“Do you always run when the going gets tough?” he challenged. “You hightailed it off the line the minute Olivia married Keith, didn’t you? Did you ever think about helping out when the food went to hell, or did you leave her hanging? Any idea why she hasn’t told you, her best friend, about the problems she’s having at the restaurant? Maybe she thinks you’re just as unreliable as he was.”

Marlene envisioned herself slamming Joe’s foot repeatedly in the heavy door. Boing! Boing! Booooiiiinnnggg!

That was the second time he’d struck to the core. She pictured her heart nailed to the back wall of her kitchen with a quivering arrow right through its center. At least her sense of humor was still intact. That was comforting.

Her eyes watered a bit, but she met Joe’s cold blue stare. “No, cheffie boy, I don’t know why she hasn’t told me she’s having problems. But I do know that I didn’t leave her hanging when she married Keith. I stuck around and filled in the cracks. I did everything I could to cover for him without actually taking the sauté pan out of his hand and knocking him upside the head with it. I didn’t fail Olivia. If you want to know the truth, she failed me. Keith was slinging food into the window that I wouldn’t feed a dog, and every time I mentioned it to her, she said the food was fine. I’ve worked at Chameleon for half my life, but you’re right: when push comes to shove, Olivia never turns to me. First, she turned to Keith, and now she’s turning to you. When you’re gone, I’m sure she’ll find some other man, some good
chef
, to help her.”

“So why do you stick around?” he asked.

The dog was barking like a maniac, but not so loudly that she couldn’t hear Joe’s quiet question. She could definitely see the pity in his eyes, and it made her blood burn. Marlene exploded, finally, in the direction of the bedroom, “Sam! Shut up!”

The dog stopped howling.

The absolute silence screamed her mistake. When Marlene turned back to Joe, it was too late.

“Sam? As in Sam your sweetie? Sam your sure thing? A little Saturday night bestiality, huh? You’re even kinkier than I thought.” His voice was kind.

Marlene gave him an echo of a smile and automatically responded, “You have no idea.” She felt a little sick.

Joe’s rough hand was gentle as he touched her arm. “I’m sorry, Marlene. I shouldn’t have blown my stack tonight. You deserved the benefit of the doubt.”

She frowned at him, annoyed. A decent, straight up the middle apology was not what she was expecting. Most of the apologies she received from men were of the “if apologizing will get me laid, I’ll do it, but it’s all your fault” variety.

“That’s so unfair,” she said, jerking her arm away from him.

“Huh?” He looked confused.

“You can’t just apologize. I’m mad at you. I want to make you suffer.”

“Sorry,” Joe said, his lips beginning to curve.

She crossed her arms. “Fine. I forgive you.”

Joe was grinning now, not the wicked grin, thank God, just a friendly, average, rip-your-clothes-off smile that wasn’t much easier to bear. “That’s it? You aren’t going to make me grovel? Are you sure you’re female?”

“You don’t seem the type to put much energy into an insincere apology, so I’ll take what I can get,” she said, surprised that she meant it.

“Yes, I’ve heard that’s your standard approach,” he said.

She ignored the gibe. The accusations had cleared the air between them, and she really did want to know more about what had been happening at the restaurant. “I don’t give a crap what you think about my sex life, but I didn’t put salt in my crème brûlées.”

“Not in. On.”

“Well, there you go. Waiter error. Somebody grabbed salt instead of sugar and fired away.”

Joe didn’t look convinced. “I thought you said you only keep kosher salt in the bakeshop.”

“I’ll remind the waiters.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s just keep this quiet for now. We don’t know where that salt came from or who put it there.”

“You think someone did it on purpose?”

“I don’t know that they didn’t, and if someone is running around causing trouble, I want to find them my way.”

“Sherlock Chef?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

“Keith was in the back yesterday, but there’s no way he could have caused that much trouble in ten minutes, even if he came in with a plan,” Marlene mused. “He just isn’t that fast, or that smart. So is he sneaking in or does he have someone on the inside?”

“I think he’s got someone on the inside,” he said.

“Who?”

Joe shrugged.

“You’re starting to freak me out, Joe. I’ve known most of the staff for years. No offense, but I think you’re a little paranoid. You know how restaurants are. Confusion abounds, and we’ve been balls to the wall for a while covering for Keith.”

“Just to bring you up to speed, he cleaned out the safe when he was in the office yesterday.” Joe toed the inside door open with his foot. “Do I get to meet the dog now, sweetheart?”

She took a step back, still trying to process all the things that Olivia hadn’t told her. “Do you ever call women by their first names?” she asked to buy time to decide how she felt.

“Nah, too hard to remember,” Joe said, walking into the kitchen.

“Try.”

“Marlene,” Joe said patiently. Her name on his lips gave her a zing. “Do I get to meet the dog now?”

She might have been able to say no if he hadn’t chosen that exact moment to give her his wicked smile. The one that made her want to crawl into his lap. Naked. She felt her cheeks get hot. On second thought, she’d better get him out of here before she jumped him.

Too late.

Samson was barking again. Joe stepped past her and walked down the hall toward the bedroom. “What took you so long to get to the door, anyway? Were you sleeping?” he asked.

“Uh, not exactly.”

Oh God, where had she left the vibrator? In the middle of the bed? The floor? “I couldn’t sleep. Tried hot chocolate. Tried wine. Didn’t want to go out so
—
” She held her breath as Joe opened the bedroom door.

The barking cut off abruptly and Samson tore out of the bedroom, wagging his tail like mad. He raced down the hall, claws scrabbling on the hardwood. Marly and Joe followed him to the living room. As he rounded the corner of the couch, picking up speed for another lap, Marlene saw her vibrator clamped firmly between his jaws.

“Hot date, huh?” Joe observed.

Lucky for her, inner traitor returned, re-armed. She didn’t have any reason to be ashamed. It wasn’t like she’d been having sex with the dog, after all. Samson just happened to be there. And, apparently, he liked her vibrator as much as she did.