Scrumptious (15 page)

“My lady at table seven wants to know what the specials are tonight.” Eric leaned against the wall looking as if he wanted to grab a nap while standing there. There were hardly any reservations on the books tonight, and Eric generally slept on the job when he knew he wasn’t going to make any money.

“Thai curry. Weren’t you listening at the staff meeting?” Marlene scowled at the lazy waiter. He thought he was tired. She and Joe had pulled over to have sex three times on the way home. It was a miracle they made it back in time for service. Maybe it was a good thing he was leaving soon. She couldn’t keep up this pace for much longer.

The drive back to Norton had restored her equilibrium, just as she had hoped. She was still angry at herself for behaving like a girlfriend at the cabin, but all that sex on the ride home had helped her get her mind back in the game. She had her eye on the ball again, so to speak.

Sex.

As much sex as humanly possible until Joe left. No thinking about the future, no expectations, no tomorrows. Just hot sex. And lots of it. After a nap, that is. She was dog tired, saddle-sore, and still just the tiniest bit hungover.

In contrast, Joe seemed to be getting more energetic by the minute. He was still running in Thai mode, and the scent of sweet ginger and onions, sharp garlic, and full-throated summer basil filled the kitchen.

Eric dropped another ticket in the window. “Table seven wants some curry then. She’s already worked her way through half the menu. A real pain in my ass. She wants to know every ingredient in every freakin’ dish,” he grumbled.

Marlene and Joe looked at each other.

“Food critic,” she said. “Definitely.”

Joe turned to Eric. “Little notebook, maybe a tiny tape recorder on the table, a million questions? Did she ask you to pair a wine with her appetizers? Any of that ring a bell? Make you think, hmmm, that’s odd, all my years of experience waiting tables tells me that these people are either spies or perhaps, say, food critics from the newspaper? Are you a fucking idiot? You’ve been lollygagging around all night, dragging your heels and thinking about tonight’s TV topics! You waiters kill me.”

“Olivia’s gonna flip. She knows them all by sight,” Marlene added.

Joe sent her a dark glare.

“Just thought I’d throw that in there.” She took a perverse satisfaction in his frustration.

Eric put his hands on his hips. “Hey, you didn’t seem to notice that you sent four appetizers to a two-top, so don’t yell at me! Just make some freakin’ curry and get off my back!” He stormed off, presumably to improve the level of service at table seven.

Marlene bit her lip. “Shit. He’s right. We did send four appetizers to that table.” She would have sent another four too. She wasn’t thinking about cooking at all. She was thinking about Joe, naked. And clean sheets. And soft pillows.

“I guess we better make some freakin’ curry, and get it to table seven,” Joe said with equanimity. “We’ll send them some dumplings too.”

“Excuse me, are you the same guy who was flipping out and ripping Eric’s head off five seconds ago?”

“He caught me off guard. Eric’s a waiter. He’s used to getting yelled at. If he didn’t deserve it now, he’ll deserve it some other time,” he said.

“You’re just full of surprises today.”

“Part of my charm, sugar. Now do me a favor and find some wonton skins.” He tossed the filling together while Marlene hunted through the reach-in.

“What do you want me to do with these?” she asked when she had a dozen dumplings stuffed with Joe’s hastily made filling.

“Drop them in the fryer.” He grabbed half of the dumplings. “I’ll turn the rest into pot stickers. A little chicken chili sauce, a little ginger soy, a pretty plate, a nice pile of cilantro, and, darlin’, we’ve got a dumpling duo. Two styles, two sauces, they’ll love it.”

Marlene plopped her dumplings into the fryer basket and lowered it into the hot grease. The oil bubbled and sizzled. When they were golden brown, she pulled the dumplings out of the fryer, and shook them onto a sheet pan covered with paper towels.

Joe pulled the lid off the pot stickers and used a heatproof spatula to gently roll them out of the pan. He carefully arranged the pot stickers, her dumplings, and the two sauces on a black and white plate with geometric designs. The dumplings looked hot and inviting, and the green cilantro and bright orange chili sauce popped against the black and white of the plate.

“Buzz Eric, and I’ll finish the curry,” he said.

When Eric returned, he gave Joe a filthy look when he took the dumplings and dropped a stack of tickets in the window. Joe winked at him.

“Looks like we’re gonna get busy after all,” Joe said. “Fire the chicken and salmon on table five and give me three Caesars, a caprese, and two grilled asparagus apps.”

“Yes, chef.” Marlene kept her head down so Joe couldn’t see her smirk.

Much-needed adrenaline began to pump through her veins, burning away her exhaustion. Nothing like a food critic to get the juices flowing. Well, a food critic and Joe Rafferty.

Working on the line with him was an education and an inspiration. He had everything under control. Since her thoughts were only about two steps from the bedroom whenever he was in the room, she thought about how his kitchen manners compared with his bedroom manners. Bossy? No doubt. Ambitious. Definitely. Talented? Oh dear God, yes.

She laid the chicken on the grill, dredged the salmon in a sweet Indian curry oil, and laid it on the hot side. She wiped her forehead with her arm as she got her chilled salad bowl out from under the salad station. A container labeled sugar fell out from underneath the station, and she set it up on the shelf where it belonged. Marlene tossed three Caesars and put them up on the cold side.

Man, it was getting hot in here.

“Are you all right?” Joe asked. The fire in his eyes told her he knew exactly what was going on with her.

“Perfectly fine,” she said, watching Joe lick red curry sauce from a tasting spoon.

“Got any sugar over there?” Joe said.

“Sure,” Marlene handed him the container from the shelf. He dumped some into his sauce and tasted it again. He made a face.

“Not funny, Marlene.” He added more coconut milk and chicken stock, readjusted the heat and stirred in a bit more red curry paste. “You want to get me some sugar this time? Brown, just to be safe, smart ass.”

“That was sugar.” She held up the labeled lid.

Joe took a pinch out of the container and dropped it on her tongue.

It was salt. “What the hell?” she asked.

“Good question. That’s the container I found in the bakeshop Saturday night.” Joe put the finishing touches on the curry dish for table seven. “Let’s get these plates out of here.”

“Think you made enough?” She eyed the sauté pan full of chicken curry. “Are you feeding an army?”

“I’m practicing. Might do a Thai menu for the resort in Napa.”

“Thai and wine?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Think fusion.”

She turned her attention to the grill. In the nick of time, she flipped the chicken and salmon, then stepped out from behind the line.

“Watch the grill, will you? I want to go take a peek at table seven.” Marlene rounded the corner to the dining room and ducked into the bumped out supply closet they used as a bar. Mikey was clumsily opening a bottle of Riesling.

“For table seven?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, how’d you know?” he asked.

“Lucky guess.” Riesling would actually be great with the fried dumplings and the sweet, spicy curry. Maybe Joe could use it on his damn menu. Did they make Riesling in Napa? “I’ll take it out.” She grabbed the tray and headed into the dining room.

The woman at table seven was fiftyish, on the hefty side, with painted on eyebrows and dark lip liner. Her hair was medium length, mostly blond, and had the remnants of a spiral perm kinking out the ends. She totally had that on-the-ball, rabid reporter look in her eyes. There were two plates on the table, but no sign of a companion.

“With the compliments of the kitchen,” Marlene said, placing the glasses on the table.

“Are you the chef?” the woman asked.

“I make the desserts. I’m Marlene Bennet.” Surprise lit the reporter’s eyes. “Are you enjoying your dumplings?”

“They’re marvelous. New chef?” she asked.

“On the record?” Marlene gave her a conspiring smile.

“My secret is out, huh? I’m the new food critic for the
Norton
Herald
. Somebody tipped my editor that Chameleon had taken a turn for the worse. I thought I should check it out.” She slid her voice-activated tape recorder into her purse.

“In my opinion, the food has gotten a lot better lately,” Marlene said.

“I’d have to agree. Please join me.” The reporter indicated the empty chair. She looked apologetic. “My friend went to get something out of the car.”

“Since we’re off the record, I can tell you that the owner, Olivia Watson, fired her co-chef and husband and replaced him with an old culinary school friend.” Marlene glanced up and saw Joe making a slow beeline for their table. “He’s coming this way.”

Joe’s long legs carried him fluidly through the dining room. He was carrying two bowls of curry easily in one hand. He caught customers’ eyes and smiled as he passed them, eliciting smiles in return. “Chef Joe Rafferty has cooked all over the country. I’ll handle the kitchen while you two chat. When you’re ready for dessert, just let me know. Joe, this is our new friend…”

“Margaret O’Leary from the
Norton
Herald
.” The reporter extended her hand. Joe placed the bowls on the table and took her hand with both of his. The reporter blushed.

“Always happy to have more Irish in the house. I bet they call you, Maggie, don’t they?” Joe asked.

“Actually, no. But you can,” she said.

Marlene grinned as she headed back for the kitchen. Mission accomplished. Margaret O’Leary wouldn’t know what hit her. Before Joe was done with her, she’d think Chef Joe Rafferty was actually Emeril Lagasse, and that Eric, the slowpoke, was the finest waiter in Norton. She headed for the bakeshop, determined to join the cast and make Margaret O’Leary and her date believe that she, herself, was the reincarnation of Julia Child.

***

“Marly?” Olivia’s voice broke the silence of the bakeshop, where Marlene was making a special dessert for table seven. “Do you know your dad’s in the dining room?”

“Huh?” She felt another surge of adrenaline, this time not the good kind.

“He’s at table seven laughing it up with some old blond,” Olivia said, tucking her own blond hair behind her ears.

“The food critic?” Her goodwill toward the reporter sailed out the window.

“Food critic!” The panic on Olivia’s face probably matched the horrified expression Marly knew she was wearing.

“Don’t freak. We’ve got it covered. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were gone for the day.” Olivia had shot out the back door to meet her lawyer as soon as Joe and Marlene had pulled into the parking lot this afternoon.

The stricken look on her friend’s face made Marlene forget all about her father and the food critic. Olivia looked at the floor. “You’re going to kill me.”

“What did you do?” Marlene asked.

“Keith kept calling and calling, and since you and Joe were both gone, and I booked a late party, I let him come in to work last night.”

“Oh God.” Dread wrapped its fist around her heart.

“Yeah, tell me about it. He walked in the back door, took one look in the bar, and ran back out to his car. With the way he peeled out of here, you would have thought somebody was standing in the parking lot with a machine gun. You were right. It’s just…I thought maybe if I gave him one more chance, it would all go back to being fine again.”

“Oh, Olivia, it hasn’t been fine for a long time. You know that. There isn’t going to be a quick fix for Chameleon. We’re going to have to work really hard to get back up on our feet
—
”

“Keith took more money too.”

“What? How? I thought the accounts were frozen?”

“Everything but the restaurant overdraft. He cashed a check this morning, and the bank covered it. That’s why I ran out of here. I had to meet Sean at the bank before five. I’m tapped out. No credit. Can’t even order from Sysco. I didn’t want to tell you.”

“How much did he take?”

“Ten grand.”

Marlene gasped. Her heart began to race as her mind searched for a solution to this new problem.

“There’s more.” Olivia pulled a chair out of the office and sank down into it. “I got an offer for Chameleon.”

“No fucking way.” Marlene’s rejection of the idea was unequivocal.

“It might be the best thing to do, Marlene. Just liquefy everything and start over. I don’t know if I want to do this anymore. I’m not good at it. Sean is looking into the buyer, and I’m going to talk to my parents. I want to consider all my options.”

“Options? You don’t need options. You just need to get your shit together. You picked a bad husband, Olivia. Big deal. It’s happened to a lot of other women too. It isn’t the end of the world. It isn’t the end of your life, or your career. It’s just the end of your marriage. Life goes on.” Marlene dropped to her knees and took her hands.

“You don’t get it. I can’t change gears this fast. I’m not like you. You barely flinched when the line went up in flames. You just cleaned up the mess and kept cooking. I should be able to do that
—
”

“Olivia, nobody said you have to be perfect.”

“Perfect! Ha! I’d settle for adequate.”

“You’re way more than adequate. You’re fabulous.” She squeezed Olivia’s cold hands. “There isn’t anybody I’d rather stand next to on the line. We’ve had each other’s backs for half our lives. You can’t quit on me now.”

They both jumped when the swinging door banged open, and Joe strode into the back room followed by a tall, gray-haired man wearing a tan linen suit. Marlene stood up and gritted her teeth, trapping a low hum of frustration in her throat. Olivia stood beside her.

Not now. Not this too.

“Marlene? You have a visitor. Actually, he’s dining with Ms. O’Leary. I assume I don’t have to introduce you,” he joked as he stepped back. “Nice to meet you, Dale.”