The Lost Recipe for Happiness (24 page)

It was also
very
scary. Elena fought the urge to double-check her locks, and told herself that Alvin would go insane if anyone tried to break in.

At the end of the movie, the young woman—bloodied but triumphant—outsmarted her killer, and as she stood there, breathing hard, marks all over her from her struggle, Elena found herself in tears—suddenly knowing more than she wished about Julian, about his losses.

Suddenly curious, she opened her laptop and typed his name into Google and called up all the movies he’d made. Sixteen in a little over twenty years, starting with
The Importance of Being Earnest,
a ghost story that had been made for next to nothing and was a surprise smash. It had launched his career.

In the body of his work, there were three ghost stories, one historical vampire flick that was a cult classic, a foray into a dark romance, and the rest slasher movies.

He was either killing killers or resurrecting the dead.

Resolutely, she did not look around for her own dead, but turned off the computer, turned off the light, and told herself to get a good night’s sleep. As she closed her eyes, she saw his stricken face when he looked at the altar that afternoon. As she drifted toward sleep, finally, she wondered what to cook for him next, how to feed that hungry, hungry heart.

TWENTY-NINE

Vintage postcard of Paris, black-and-white, showing a woman smoking in Montmartre:

Dear Elena,

How long are you going to keep this up? I know you’re furious with me and you have a right to be, but will you please just listen for three seconds to me? Haven’t I earned that much? I’ve forgiven you lots of times. Love you (still, even if you don’t love me),

Mia

THIRTY

S
aturday, the energy in the kitchen was palpable. The restaurant would open at five-thirty, and Elena checked the reservations list when she came in at three. Julian had orchestrated a marketing campaign that would kick in the first of December, but for now, some of the kitchen guys had gone into town with flyers, letting everyone know the restaurant was open. So far, the list showed reservations for six-thirty, seven, and seven-thirty. Not tons, but a satisfying number.

Next, she did a walk-through of the entire restaurant, starting with the front of the house, which had been, thanks to Patrick and Julian and Alan, completely transformed. The old tattered, seventies-style furnishings and fixtures had been removed, along with all the kitschy Old West art. The downstairs rooms each had one bright wall—rich terra-cotta rose in one, a warm yellow in another, with intimate corners set up for couples as well as tables for small groups. The light fixtures and hardware had all been replaced with mission-style iron with an Art Deco flair, to complement the early-twentieth-century paintings by Diego Rivera and Georgia O’Keeffe and other artists from the Taos school. There were small tributes to Elena’s New Mexico, in the
milagro
crosses she’d posted in nooks and crannies, and the whimsical El Día de los Muertos skeletons—paintings and little statues—engaging in all the pursuits of life—getting married and dancing and holding little babies and, of course, eating and cooking. Patrick’s elegant eye kept everything in exquisite balance—color and ethnic eccentricities together with beautiful art—in both setting and décor.

Upstairs, the open bar area was less formal and just as gorgeous. Here were tables for larger groups, and, by the windows overlooking the valley, a space for those who just wanted drinks and snacks.

Patrick and Alan were in the middle of the room, setting up a long table for the staff meal, at which Juan would serve the special of the evening to servers and cooks and bartenders and hostesses—everyone.

She hugged Patrick quickly. “Great job. It looks so good!”

Alan, who had at first seemed temperamental, nodded. “I can’t believe it’s the same place.”

She went through the kitchens, too, checking stores of prepped items such as guacamole and sliced vegetables and fruits, and the numbers of tamales ready to be steamed and served, and the desserts Tansy had left. She went through the stocks and sauces, tasting, making sure the seasonings were right. “Add a little cracked pepper,” she said, “and some lemon juice to the soup.”

Juan served the family meal at four, and Ivan narrated the specials of the evening for the wait staff. When he was finished, she delivered a short, sweet pep talk. “We’ve worked hard for this. Be sure to keep notes of things that work very well or don’t work well, so we can talk about them at the staff meeting Monday.”

There was, after that, an hour of music in the kitchen, of cooks and servers sharing war stories of openings they’d worked in other restaurants, other times, other places.

It was only then, during the hush before what they all hoped would be a storm, that Elena was suddenly ambushed by memories of the opening of the Blue Turtle in Vancouver. She and Dmitri had worked so hard, the menu there a fusion of southwestern and French cuisine, a blend of such gorgeousness that both chefs had been giddy with the display that first night. And it had been a spectacular opening. From the minute it opened, the Blue Turtle had been beloved by Vancouverites. They loved her dishes in particular, though Dmitri always took credit.

Bastard, she thought again, going through the kitchen one more time. One more time. This time, it was all hers.

Win or lose.

In the end, they did 141 covers, managed to get the diners in and out without much fuss. Elena, sweaty with the hard work of the night, was at her desk, feeding numbers into the computer, when Julian showed up at the door of her office. “Everyone gone?” she asked.

He nodded, came into the office and closed the door. A small smile curved up the edge of his lips. Coming around behind her, he bent as he kissed the back of her neck. “Are you finished?”

“Oooh,” she protested, ducking away. “I’m sweaty! You won’t want to do that.”

“I might,” he said, his hands on her shoulders, brushing away the hair from the back of her neck. “I might like you sweaty. I might like—” He bent and touched his tongue to the knobs of bone below her hair. The concentrated nerves there, so unused to attention, leapt up like flowers to the watering lap of that muscle. “Mmm,” he said, and did it again, slowly licking from nape to shoulder, “lightly salty.”

Elena shivered, closing her eyes. His slid a hand around her throat, fingers lightly brushing into the indentation between clavicles, swirling around her chest, the top of her breasts, that muscular tongue swirling around her neck. He nipped her and a bolt of lightning ran down her nerves to her low belly, making her snap “Ow!” and pull away, a little irritably.

He laughed and caught her around the waist, pulling her into him so she felt the thrust of his cock nuzzling between the cheeks of her bottom, against a thigh. He bit her neck, like a tomcat, and unfastened her shirt with the other hand and then ripped down the cup of a bra so one nipple spilled into his hand, and he deftly rolled it between his fingers, sucking at her neck, holding her in place with one long, strong arm, rubbing his erection into her. Sharp, hot spikes moved from nape to nipple to groin, and she wiggled, trying to free herself or get more, she didn’t know which.

“Julian,” she protested, pulling at his hands, “I stink.”

“No,” he said in a raw voice.

“Yes.”

He loosened his hold on her and she turned, and then with a low laugh, he pushed her up against the wall, hands on either side of her head, and kissed her. Hard. Then not, pulling back a little to nip the edges of her lips, the side of her mouth, as if to eat them.

“I saw you a long time ago, in San Francisco,” he said.

The smell of him, the taste, made her dizzy, off-center. “You did?”

“I saw your mouth and wanted to fuck you on the spot.” He was breathing over her, and kissing her, and with skill or perhaps lots of experience, he edged the tip of his cock right against the edge of her clitoris. She found her hips relaxing, her breath coming in hot, open-mouthed gasps.

He bent and kissed her neck, let her arms down to slide the bra off her shoulders. She dug her hands into his thick hair and tried to yank him away, but he was stronger, and only chuckled, and when she looked down, his mouth was closing around her nipple, the sight electrifying—that tongue, that beautiful mouth! She let go of a long breath and found herself falling adrift in the heat, forgetting everything, and then he licked her throat, shoulder, and lifted up an arm and licked her underarm, and it was so electrifying that she slammed against him, pulling his clothes away, and he tumbled her to her desk, papers flying, and thrust into her, hard. She locked her legs around him and felt her body screaming, singing, her breasts bobbling with his violence, her hands finding his shoulder, his hair. They locked together. He pushed his hands between them and touched her, and when she cried out, he covered her mouth with his hand and she bit him and he came, too, and when she opened her eyes, he was looking at her and it was deep, too deep, feeling that pulse between them and seeing so deep, and letting him see
her,
so she closed her eyes.

He fell on her neck, laughing softly. Even in this, he was different from any of the men she’d known, in his pleasure, his laughing. His breath, then his mouth, fell on the place between shoulder and neck and he gathered her with one arm, bracing himself with his other against the desk. “Do you want to go eat somewhere? Have a margarita or something? Portia is staying with a friend. We can play.”

“Let’s just go to your house.”

“Sounds perfect.”

She was over her head, she thought, as he helped her up. But she didn’t really know what she could do about it now. He was the hungriest man she had ever met.

Elena shredded a pork roast with two forks in the quiet of Monday’s kitchen. The sharp spices wafted up to her and she swirled a spoon into the broth, tasted it. Frowned. A little flat. She threw the spoon on the stainless steel counter by the dishwasher and, leaving the forks in the meat, whirled to grab a head of garlic from the shelf over the table, slid cloves from their thin, stiff coats, and crushed them under her knife. Into a small heavy pan, she tossed a dollop of stiff white lard and let it melt, then shook the garlic into the pan, swirling it around to let it go golden, release its flavors into the fat. Some old French folk songs played in her ear from an iPod connected to her shirt, tucked beneath the chef’s whites to keep it from getting polluted with dustings of flour and oil and whatever else flew around the kitchen. It was further protected by a thin plastic sleeve; still, she didn’t expect it would last long.

“Don’t you have prep cooks to do that for you?” Julian came into the kitchen, touched her arm.

Elena grinned and pulled the earphone out. “I’m a chef because I love to cook,” she said. “I don’t want somebody else doing all the prep without my hand in it, too, at least some of it.” She pulled the garlic off the heat and ladled a taste of red chili into a fresh spoon. “Taste this,” she said, offering it to him.

He obliged, rolling it over his tongue. “A little flat.”

“Garlic,” she said, nodding. Scraping the golden bits into the chili, she said, “You’re out and about pretty early. What’s up?”

Julian raised the newspaper he carried. “We made the paper.”

A painful arrow went through her middle. It was impossible to read his expression. “And?”

He handed it to her, folded to the review.

ORANGE BEAR A COLORFUL AND SPICY DELIGHT

L
OCAL
F
AVORITE
T
RANSFORMED WITH
F
LAIR

Patrons of the old Steak and Ale remember the painfully dated décor and crowded grime, but put up with it because the menu, largely written and carried out by former head chef Ivan Santino, was so astonishingly good. There was a collective chatter of worry when Hollywood director Julian Liswood, known for his West Coast eateries, swooped in to take over the failing restaurant. Locals have watched through narrowed eyes as work crews gave the faded, gold-rush-era building a face-lift, and speculated over what surprises might be in store from new executive chef Elena Alvarez, who came to Aspen via Vancouver, San Francisco, Paris, and, more to our purposes here, Santa Fe.

The restaurant opened to little fanfare on Saturday night, and voilà! One of the most delightful transformations in recent memory was revealed. Now called the Orange Bear, in keeping with Liswood’s other restaurants, which are all named for animals, the restaurant features a menu that has been completely rewritten to a southwestern theme, upgraded and deliciously freshened by Alvarez’s unique eye and flair for combining the best of French and haute cuisine with the ingredients and basic dishes of her roots in New Mexico. In a wise move, chef and owner retained Santino, whose flair for game meats and local produce has been put to extraordinary use here (try the duck tamales with sour cherry mojo, $17).

Happily the Olde West décor has been scraped away and replaced with a sleek and cheerful spirit of Latin America, in both high and folk art. Be sure to notice the crosses hung with milagros and the whimsical plate decorations of pink candy skulls and marigold blossoms.

The Orange Bear, Tuesday–Sunday,
11:30–3 and 5:30–10 p.m.
Southwestern Nouveau.
Call for reservations.

She lifted her head, and grinned. “Yes!”

“Good work, Chef,” he said, and offered his hand to shake, formally.

“Thank you, Julian!” She whooped and did a little dance. Her first wish was to call Mia, which she squashed. Her second was to rub it in Dmitri’s face. She’d figure out how to do that, for sure.

But mainly, she wanted her staff to know. She posted the review on the kitchen wall for the crew, and as they all came in for tamale duty, they cheered. They gathered in the sunny upstairs kitchen for the assembly line—with such a labor-intensive menu item, it seemed the best idea to spend one afternoon a week in assembly. Tamales froze well. The music played overhead, a mix of Bruce Springsteen and Madonna and Mexican favorites one of the prep cooks had brought in.

The manufacturing line started at one, when a cook spread a dollop of masa in a reconstituted corn husk, then passed it to a cook who filled it with one of the mixtures developed to go inside and then passed it to the last station, where nimble fingers tied them off with thin strips torn from the largest corn husks in each package.

The basic steps for every tamale were the same. The dried husks had to be soaked, and to keep the varieties straight in the storage and serving process, they were dyed in the soaking bath. The masa, made ahead, was flavored slightly according to the filling it would acquire—a little chile mixed into the pork tamales, a little brown sugar into the caramelized pear.