The Satyr's Curse (The Satyr's Curse Series Book 1) (2 page)

“How can I stop him?” Jazzmyn waved her hand at Kyle. “You know how he is.”

“You got all the morning prep done?” Kyle snapped.

“I got it done. When ain’t I got it done? And don’t you go and be pullin’ no sassy attitude with me, boy. I may be just a cook ‘round here, but I know a hell of a lot more than your skinny ass about food.”

Kyle indignantly gestured to Ms. Helen as he glared at Jazzmyn. “Are you going to let her talk to your chef that way?”

Jazzmyn rolled her eyes. “I really don’t need the two of you going at each other this early. We haven’t even opened yet.” She took a step toward the kitchen door. “I’m going to my office.”

Ms. Helen motioned to Jazzmyn. “You look pretty in that,” Ms. Helen remarked, noting Jazzmyn’s black trousers and white cowl-neck sweater. Ms. Helen came closer and scrutinized her face. “You put makeup on, child?”

Jazzmyn gave Ms. Helen a dismissive shrug. “Just a little.”

“Since when you put lipstick, blush, and mascara on, Jazzmyn? You never wore makeup in the past to greet the diners. Or are you expectin’ someone special again tonight?”

Jazzmyn began pulling nervously on her brown leather purse strap while avoiding Ms. Helen’s inquisitive gaze. “No, I just felt like putting on makeup.”

Ms. Helen turned to Kyle, who was nursing the glass of Jack Daniel’s in his hand. She nodded to his drink. “Is that why you needed a drink this mornin’? ‘Cause you know who she got all dolled up for, don’t you?”

“I told you I didn’t get ‘dolled up’ for anyone,” Jazzmyn insisted.

Kyle never looked up from his whiskey. “We know better, Jazz. Let’s just hope he doesn’t come tonight.”

Ms. Helen crossed her arms over her chest. “He’ll come. The way that man looks at her makes it real obvious what he’s thinkin’.”

“Jesus, Ms. Helen,” Jazzmyn admonished. “It’s not like that.”

Ms. Helen moved closer to the bar. “Of course it is, Jazzmyn. Why else you think he hangs out here? He’s after you.”

Kyle rolled the old-fashioned glass around in his hand. “That’s just what I needed to hear. Thanks, Ms. Helen.”

Ms. Helen snorted with impatience. “I don’t see you doin’ nothin’ to stop it.” She leaned across the bar and wrestled the glass from Kyle’s hand. “That crap ain’t gonna help you, son.” She smacked the drink down on the opposite side of the bar from Kyle. “You gonna let somethin’ slip through your fingers ‘cause you keep hidin’ behind a bottle?”

Kyle fixed his blue eyes to Jazzmyn. “I don’t have much say in the matter, now do I? It seems Jazz has already made her choice.” Kyle rested his elbow against the bar and frowned at her. “What do you see in him, anyway?”

When Jazzmyn opened her mouth to reply, Ms. Helen’s raucous cackle reverberated throughout the large dining room.

“He ain’t some drunk chef runnin’ behind her hopin’ to be noticed. He’s goin’ after her…just like you should be goin’ after her,” Ms. Helen scolded.

“Ms. Helen, please, don’t start that again,” Jazzmyn implored. 

Kyle reached across the bar and picked up his drink. “Yeah, Ms. Helen, spare us your motherly concern.” He raised the glass to his lips.

Ms. Helen shook her head. “You better shape up boy, or you’re gonna lose a lot more than your liver.”

Kyle said nothing and emptied the contents of the glass in one sip.

Disgusted by Kyle’s display, Jazzmyn turned from the bar and headed toward the kitchen. She cursed under her breath as she angrily shoved the black kitchen door open. Her day was already off to a wonderful start.

Chapter 2

The late lunch rush had departed, and as the skies over New Orleans dimmed into evening, the early dinner crowd began to wander into The Sweet Note Bistro. Jazzmyn stood by the podium parked at the entrance to the restaurant, welcoming the early diners. Most of the patrons beginning to fill the tables were regulars. Occasionally, an odd tourist or two would be waiting to find a table after having heard about the restaurant from their hotel concierge or doorman. But for many New Orleans eateries, tourists were not lucrative. Restaurants in New Orleans thrived because of loyal, local customers and great food. Unlike other cities in America where mediocre restaurants could do well, in New Orleans there were no mediocre restaurants. In a city where food was a religious experience and every diner was a harsh food critic, you had to cook your heart out seven days a week in order to survive.

As Jazzmyn seated a party of seven at a large table, she smiled at the other customers. It was going to be a busy night and she needed to make sure all of her staff were on their best behavior. One of the things her father had taught her was that a big smile and a warm welcome could go far in this town. People may have been able to forgive an off night for the chef, but in New Orleans a cool reception was never tolerated.

“How you doin’, Ms. Mae?” Jazzmyn asked a short, round woman with gray hair and thick glasses as she gleaned the menu on the table before her.

The woman turned her dark eyes to Jazzmyn. “Jazzy, honey, you got any more of those grilled oysters tonight? I don’t see them on the menu anymore.”

Jazzmyn gave the woman a big smile. “For you, Ms. Mae, absolutely.” She nodded to the menu. “We just changed the menu for the spring crawfish season, but I’ll go in the back and tell Kyle to fix them up special for you.”

Ms. Mae squirmed with delight in her chair. “I told Harold you could not be out of them oysters already.” She patted the arm of a tall, lanky, bald man sitting next to her.

“And I told her,” the man beside her spoke up in a rather authoritative manner, “that she better not eat any more of them damned things. They give her indigestion, and then she’s up all night complainin’.”

Jazzmyn frowned at Harold’s long face. “Judge Serpas, you know I could never disappoint your wife. She’s one of my best customers.”

Judge Harold Serpas drew his dark gray eyebrows together. “I know that, Jazzmyn. She must have made you a fortune over the years with all the food she has put away in this restaurant.”

“Yes sir, and I am absolutely thankful,” Jazzmyn remarked with a playful grin. “You know I always do what I can to keep Ms. Mae happy, for both our sakes.”
Ms. Mae lightly tittered and clapped her hands together with glee. “You see there, Harold? Jazzy knows who wears the pants in our family.”

Judge Serpas nodded to wife. “Don’t call the girl Jazzy, honey. Her name is Jazzmyn.”

“I like Jazzy. I think it’s cute.” Ms. Mae swerved her big brown eyes to Jazzmyn. “Why did your parents name you Jazzmyn? It’s such an unusual name.”

Jazzmyn shrugged as she tried to recall how her father had explained the selection of her name to her. “Before Dad got into the restaurant business he was a jazz musician. He wanted to name me after a great jazz singer. They went through Louisa after Louis Armstrong, Ella after Ella Fitzgerald, Nina after Nina Simone…oh, the list went on and on, until my mother found Jazzmyn in a baby name book. So, I became Jazzmyn Simone.”  

Judge Serpas grunted and picked up his glass of scotch and soda. “You look more like a Simone than a Jazzmyn to me.”

Ms. Mae waved off her husband’s comment. “Jazzy, when you go back in the kitchen, tell Kyle to send us out one of his side orders of cheese bread, too. I’m starvin’.”

“You’re always starvin’,” Judge Serpas admonished. “You’ve been starvin’ since 1972.”

Ms. Mae gawked at her husband, but Jazzmyn quickly cut in. “I’ll go right away and get some cheese bread started for you, Ms. Mae.” She nodded to Judge Serpas. “I’ll tell your waitress, Lally, to get you another one of those, Judge.” She pointed to the drink in his hand.

Judge Serpas smiled. “Good girl,” he added, right before he brought the rim of the glass to his lips and took a hearty sip, downing half the contents in one gulp.

Jazzmyn left the judge and his wife and smiled happily at the other diners as she maneuvered her way through the tables. When she reached the bar, she waved down a short man with graying blond hair and small, hazel eyes who was mixing drinks for the customers.

“Yeah, Jazz?” the man asked as he came up to her, shaking a tumbler in his hands.

“Scott, send Judge Serpas another scotch and soda. He’ll probably need about three more before the food arrives. Remind Lally not to bill him for the drinks.”

Scott nodded to a young woman with a long braid of brown hair down her back, walking away from the bar. “Already sent Lally to the table with one when I saw you talking to him.” Scott shook his head as he poured the drink he had been shaking into a tall glass on the bar in front of him. “You’re losing money on that one, Jazz. The man drinks like a fish.”

“Just keep him happy. Judge Serpas has bailed more than one worker in this place out of trouble with the police. That’s why he always drinks for free here. That man has saved me a fortune in legal fees.”

Scott placed the tall glass on a black serving tray. “Just because they work for you, Jazz, doesn’t mean you have to go down to the courthouse and bail them out when they get busted for drugs or driving drunk.”

Jazzmyn leaned in closer to the bar and picked up a maraschino cherry from the fruit container. “Dad always said, ‘treat your workers like family and they will treat your customers like gold.’” She tilted her head back and dropped the cherry in her mouth.

“Yeah, that was before he found out he hired half of the occupants of the Orleans Parish Prison to work for him.” Scott took a glass from the rack behind him. “You need to watch your back around these characters, Jazz. You know practically all your kitchen help has arrest records.” He picked up several maraschino cherries and put them in the glass.

“I already know that, Scott. But anyone who works in this business in this city has an arrest record. Look at Kyle.”

Scott handed her the glass of maraschino cherries. “Kyle is an alcoholic, not a criminal. If you ask me, that DUI was bullshit, anyway. How do you bust a guy for DUI parked outside of his house?”

Jazzmyn took the glass from him. “Kyle is not an alcoholic.”

“Jazz, no one else in the city would touch Kyle after the mess he made over at Commander’s Palace. But he comes here to apply for a job and you hire him.” Scott began wiping the bar in front of him. “Even Jack thought you had lost it then,” he added.

Jazzmyn picked one of the cherries out of her glass. “But I was right about him. He’s a talented chef. Look at what he has done for this place. I tripled the business coming in the door after I hired him.” She popped the cherry in her mouth.

Scott shrugged his wide shoulders. “As long as you keep him sober, he’s great.”

“You’re no help. What kind of bartender are you if you can’t give me a little encouragement every now and then?”

Scott stopped wiping the bar. “I’m your friend, not your bartender, and I’m just telling you to run things around here more with your head and less with your heart.”

“I don’t see why I can’t use both, Scott.”

Just then a loud bang came from the direction of the kitchen.

Jazzmyn turned to the kitchen door. “How many has he had tonight?”

“Just one. But it’s not the booze making him mad tonight.”

“Then what is it?” She put her glass of maraschino cherries on the bar.

Scott shook his head and then nodded to the kitchen. “Perhaps you’d better ask him that.”

Jazzmyn made her way to the kitchen, and waited a moment before she went through the doorway, counting to ten. She performed this ritual every night right before confronting her chef. It was her ten-second rule for staying calm when having to deal with whatever catastrophe was occurring in the kitchen. She just hoped that tonight Kyle would be able to finish out the evening without incident.

When Jazzmyn stepped into the kitchen the aromatic spices of cayenne and red pepper instantly tickled her nose, while the heady aroma of garlic hung in the air. All around the sounds of plates clanking, oil sizzling in hot pans, knifes chopping on cutting boards, and the hum of people hustling about filled the room. She immediately began searching the large kitchen for Kyle.

The part of the kitchen closest to the dining room door had a long stainless prep table with heating lamps positioned over plates of the various Cajun delicacies served at The Sweet Note. The left side of the station was for salads, the middle portion for hot food, and the right side was for desserts. On the back wall, a six-burner stove was brimming with pans of sautéing chicken, shrimp, vegetables, and scallops. Next to the stove, four stainless convection ovens were loaded with large trays of black bean lasagna, roasting potatoes, biscuits, breaded pork chops, and crawfish pies. In the cooler, along the right side of the back wall, ready-made desserts of various fruit pies, bread pudding, and individual chocolate fudge cakes were waiting to be served. A dishwashing station was at the far right of the room, with a small desk and phone set up next to it for takeout orders. On the slick concrete floor, rubber mats were scattered to protect the kitchen workers from slipping on spilt food and liquids. Staff were darting from station to station, preparing plates for service and cooking the variety of dishes on the menu.

In the center of the action was Kyle. His white T-shirt and white apron were already drenched in sweat, and the red bandana on his head—his answer to the health code required hair net—was soaked through. He was looking down at a plate of scallops in his hand.

“Goddamn it, Leon,” Kyle shouted at the short cook with thick arms and a very muscular body. “The scallops are supposed to be seared, not raw,” he berated.
“Sorry, Kyle,” the young dark-skinned man apologized as he took the plate from Kyle. “I’ll do them again.”

“Kyle,” Jazzmyn called to him.

Her chef’s blue eyes turned to her. When he saw her standing in front of the prep table, she could see the change in his expression.

He nodded to a gangly young man next to him, pouring a small bit of cream sauce over a plate of shrimp and pasta.  

“Carl, take over,” Kyle instructed to the lanky youth.

He grabbed a towel on the station in front of him and came around the prep area to Jazzmyn’s side.

“Are you all right?” she questioned, and ushered him off to the side of the kitchen. “I heard something hitting the floor back here and I was wondering—”

“What? If I was loaded again?” Kyle curtly replied.

Jazzmyn placed her hand on his forearm. “No, I was wondering if you were worried about something. You haven’t been yourself today. It’s like you’ve been preoccupied. What’s going on?”

Kyle took a breath and waved at the prep area. “I’m not preoccupied. It’s Leon. He burned something, again. I swear, Jazz, I don’t know what possessed you to hire that kid as a cook. He’s worthless in the kitchen.”

“He’s cheap, and he asked to work with you. Your former boss over at Commander’s Palace sent him here.”

“Harry Ellis sent him here to screw us over, not to help us, Jazz.” He wiped the towel across his sweaty face. “When are you going to learn that everyone is out to hurt you in this business, not help you?”

“Does that include my chef? Because shouting at my staff and tossing things around in the kitchen so all the customers out front can hear is not helping me either, Kyle.”

Kyle placed the towel around the back of his neck and cast his eyes to the floor. “Sorry, boss. Won’t happen again.”

Jazzmyn sighed with frustration. “Kyle, that’s not what I—”

An attractive, brown-haired woman dressed in the server’s uniform of black pants and a long-sleeved, white shirt pushed through the kitchen door to the right of Jazzmyn.

“Hey, Jazz, your wino friend is here.”  

Jazzmyn nodded to the waitress, trying to hide her displeasure. “Thank you, Lally. Now, get back to your tables.”

When Jazzmyn’s gaze returned to Kyle, she could see the anger already simmering beneath his blue eyes.

“We’ll talk about this later,” she asserted, noting how all the faces in the kitchen were observing their every move. “And fire up more of those grilled oysters for table six, along with some cheese bread. Ms. Mae’s hungry tonight.”

Kyle pulled the towel from behind his neck. “Sure, Jazz.” He motioned to the dining room with his head. “You’d better not keep him waiting,” Kyle grumbled, before heading back to the prep area.

Jazzmyn glimpsed the black door that led to the dining area, but instead of walking through it, she turned around and hurried down the narrow hallway to her left. She made her way past the walk-in refrigerator and the door that led to the deep storage room until she came to the last doorway at the end of the hall before the rear entrance. She turned the knob and glanced back once more to the kitchen. She listened to the banging of pots as Kyle began raising his voice and barking orders at his kitchen crew. Jazzmyn shook her head and slipped inside.