Chapter 14 Mariah
It was Wednesday of the next week before Dante called again. I’d employed Google. I should have recognized him last week, but now that I knew who he was, I wasn’t letting him get away from Tabby’s.
“I’ll stop by in few hours,” he said. “I’d like to see the menu.”
Tabby’s did not have a website. I offered to email it to him, but he said he preferred to put his hands on it. I was glad he was looking forward to the work. We weren’t opening soon, but I thought we might be able to find some catering jobs to bring in money.
Sabrina and I were making paint decisions when I let Dante in. He was carrying bags of groceries in one hand, rolling a cooler with the other. I introduced him to Sabrina. After she gushed over him being a South Carolina–famous chef, he walked to the table where we had all the design stuff laid out and asked, “What are you getting into over here?”
“Making decisions about our updated look for this part of the restaurant,” I said, panning my hand around the space.
A loud saw ripped on, and Dante looked in the direction of it.
“Obviously our construction crew is working on the build for the new section,” I added. “Did I tell you that was in the works?”
“You did,” Dante said. “And there’s that mysterious black tarp.”
I picked up two pictures. One had dark walls and the other had light walls.
“I like the idea of going dark,” Sabrina said, “and using a ton of lighting to bounce off glass and metal.”
“Black just seems so permanent and hard to undo,” I said.
Sabrina picked up another picture of the same room shot from a different angle. “I know it’s drastic, but with the light blue and white trim and the right lighting, flowers, and accent décor, it’ll be perfect.”
I rotated it. “I do like this.”
Dante sorted through the pictures and then returned his attention to the one in my hand. “She’s right. That’s fire.”
“Okay. That’s two votes to my uncertain one,” I said. “We can start tomorrow.”
Sabrina clapped her hands like an excited child. “I’ll pick up the paint right after I drop off Kenni.” Sabrina flipped her wrist and looked at her watch. Speaking of which, I need to go get her now.”
“Ask Abel One about the number of cans we need.”
“I already did. It was nice to meet you, Dante.” Sabrina was out the door before he could reply.
“She’s the creative one, and you’re the business head.”
“It takes creativity to run a business,” I said, teasingly, “but the artsy stuff is her jam.” I walked into the kitchen with Dante following.
I eyed his bags curiously. “What’s all this?”
“A little surprise. Let’s talk about the menu first. I want to see what you have in mind.”
I grabbed my notebook and sat on a stool at the island with him. I showed him the current menu and then showed him a list of ten dishes I thought were good, cost-effective choices that we could rotate. “I was thinking about that langoustine pasta you posted on your Instagram last week.”
Dante chuckled. “So she knows who I am now.”
“Of course. Why didn’t you just tell me? I was looking at you like you were a creep.”
“Is that what that look was?” he asked, smirking.
My mind went back to the moment I’d blushed over his physique, and I blushed again. He was cooking up too much in here.
“Anyway...” I rolled my eyes. “You could have told me you were Dante That Food Truck Chef.”
He smiled. “It sounds so corny when people say it, but it is catchy.”
“You once came to Spartanburg. I was going to drive up to taste your food, but something happened—I don’t recall what—and I couldn’t make it.”
“You see, last week you were looking at me like I was any old Stanley, and once upon a time you were trying to come see me.”
I folded my hands over my chest. He wasn’t wrong. “And I insisted you cook for me.”
“Yeah, well, I’m still going to do that,” he said. “Clark’s Diner is a spot. You get mad respect for what you did with that place.”
I was stunned that he knew who I was.
Dante’s dimples stretched his cheeks. “You’re not the only one who googles.”
I cocked my head. “How many geniuses does it take to change a light bulb in a kitchen?”
Dante laughed, a hearty laugh full of his personality. “She has jokes too I see.”
I walked closer and watched him unpack his ingredients. He reached into the small duffel bag he had with him and removed a case that held his knife collection. Chefs rarely worked without their special set.
I pulled an apron over my head and handed one to him. “What are we making?”
He walked over to me and placed a bundle of celery in my hand. “You can wait to find out, but I’d appreciate it if you would chop these as small as you can make them.”
I washed the celery, reached for one of grandpa’s knives, and walked to one of the cutting blocks. Dante did what all Gullah men do—start telling a story, a funny one about his restaurant. He had lots of stories to share. We found our rhythm working together. My job was to chop and fetch ingredients and his, commanding the pans over the fire. At one point, he tapped out a drumbeat on the bottom of a pan while singing an old Gullah spiritual. “So glad I’m here. So glad I’m here. So glad I’m here in my Jesus’ name.” I’d questioned his barely discernible Gullah accent, so he sang to prove his roots were deeply planted in Gullah culture, as he’d spent his summers on Sandy Island.
“I’m convinced,” I said, laughing. “And you’ve got a nice voice.”
“Thank you much. Oona got me makin’ all this ruckus.”
“You sound just like my grandfather.”
He laughed and got back to his cooking. Dante’s dark skin glistened with a light coat of perspiration as he moved around the kitchen with purpose and skill. He sliced meat and shellfish with delicate precision, and his long, nimble fingers worked quickly. His eyes scanned the unfamiliar kitchen for last-minute additions to the dish. A smile fueled by joy simmered just below the surface. His artistry was no different from that of a painter.
He battered and fried catfish nuggets and made red rice with sausage. Finally, he started a she-crab chowder, and I knew he was showing off. Crab chowder was my favorite thing. I watched as he added the butter and flour for the roux and then expertly added the cream and milk and broth and other ingredients. The kitchen had been smelling good for hours, but once he added the crab roe and crab meat, it produced a heavenly fragrance.
“You can turn on the oven now,” he said, taking his dirty pots and pans to the sink. “Just enough to warm the bread.”
I reached under the sink for the detergent and sprayed everything.
“So, how long are you going to be in this area?” he asked.
“My plans are kind of open. Certainly long enough to get things under control,” I said, being vague.
“You have someone else to manage the restaurant up there?”
I cleared my throat. “It’s fully staffed and able to run without me for a while.”
“It’s like a family-run spot right? Husband-and-wife team, if I’m remembering correctly.”
I didn’t respond to that. It was a statement more than a question, and he was right and knew it. He moved on quickly to his next question.
“So why you say your name is Holland?” A little Gullah had slipped back into his diction. Maybe that happened when he was not talking business.
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Nosy much?”
His lips slipped into a broad smile. “Yeah, I actually am nosy, and your grandmother had already told me your name was Mariah Clark. How do you think I googled you?”
I reached for a sponge and turned on the water. “I feel like a Holland when I’m here.”
His eyes showed he read my BS meter, but he didn’t question me more. He returned to the stove, and I washed what was dirty.
With the bread out of the oven, Dante placed two serving sets next to each other. I sat while he plated the food. He reached into his bag, pulling out a strip of fabric.
Recognizing what it was, I said, “A blindfold?”
“I have some food that goes along with our dinner. I want you to try it and tell me what you taste.” I quirked a questioning eyebrow, and he added, “The blindfold will help you focus more on the flavor and smell instead of what you see.”
I let him tie the fabric around my eyes, found my stool, and pushed back onto it. “I don’t often give permission for strangers to do this.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” he mumbled.
I could hear him digging around in his cooler. I could also hear the opening and closing of containers and the sound of food being added to plates. Finally, I felt Dante moving toward me.
“I’m going to give you a spoonful of each thing. Let’s see how sharp your palette is.”
I was excited about this. I’d never tasted food with a blindfold on.
The first dish was creamy with tiny pieces of shrimp, bacon, and cheese in a savory gravy served on grits. “So good,” I said. “That’s shrimp and grits.”
“Okay, easy one,” Dante said. He put a glass in my hands. “Clear your palate.”
I did as I was told and prepared for the next thing, which was the catfish nuggets, but there was something sweet on top of them. “Chopped pieces of fruit, onion, cilantro. I taste pineapple and mango. There’s a little bit of lime.” I thought on it for a moment before saying, “It’s a salsa.” I couldn’t see him, but I raised my hand for a high-five. He slapped it. “That’s delicious.”
The last thing was fried, sweet, and easily recognizable as a fried green tomato. It was dipped in a creamy, citrusy, peppery sauce. “Geechee dip for the tomatoes. That is so good.”
I removed the blindfold. Dante was pouring a small amount of sherry into the she-crab. He stirred it, then sliced some of the bread and served the chowder in a bowl next to it.
My mouth exploded with all the rich flavors of the chowder. This guy was talented, and I was stuffed. “This is the best food I’ve had in my life.”
“And to think, I had to blindfold you to get the job.”
I smirked. “You did not. I had already hired you in my head.”
Dante sat down to eat. He was pleased with himself. “I know I am. Ya been salivating in here.”
I snatched my head back. “Chefs. You guys are so cocky.”
He tossed up his hands and smiled. “When you know who you are, no way can you show up different.”
He had the right attitude. I’m sure it served him well throughout his career. “Tell me again why you’re not working somewhere already.”
“It’s complicated, but let’s just say I had a restaurant in Florida. My investors turned out to be shady, we lost the building, and I decided I didn’t want to start over down there, so I’m in between spots.”
“Are you planning to open another restaurant?”
“Once I find the right location, but I’m not in a rush.”
“In Georgetown?”
“Not as long as Tabby’s is open. People follow chefs. I wouldn’t open something in this county, but I might operate my food truck in Charleston until I find the right spot.”
He took some of the empty dishes to the sink. “What’s your favorite Gullah dish to make?”
“I don’t cook Gullah.”
“A what you say, gurl? That doesn’t make sense. Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
Dante folded his arms over his chest. “Shorten it up.” He was determined to know.
I sighed and gave him the short version. “I had a chance to go to a cooking program once, and it fell through. Then I got married and started building Clark’s. My husband needed me to focus on the business side.”
Dante nodded, but he wasn’t done with the topic. “Why didn’t you learn from your grandparents?”
“I wasn’t interested when I was a kid. I was too busy playing, and then once I became a teenager, whenever I came down here, I worked at a bookstore. They hired me every summer, so I just never got in the kitchen,” I said frankly. “Is your curiosity satisfied?”
Dante had many smiles; the one that covered his face was playful. “Not nearly.” He folded his arms over his chest. “You may not cook Gullah, but I noticed you have skills in the kitchen.”
“I mostly cook soups and stews. They’re popular in the Upstate because of the mountains.”
“A pot girl. All right now. I like that.” He did look impressed. “Most Gullah food is one pot, so you’re Gullah in spirit and by blood. You just need teachin’.”
“It’s intimidating, especially after watching you today.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who is easily spooked.”
I shrugged. “I cover well.”
Dante nodded. “I can teach you some things.”
I joined him at the sink. “I get to get your fancy education for free.”
“I told you. I learned how to cook before I went to college. That I got for free too.” He smiled, and my tension eased. “We need to preserve the culture. One more person knowing how to cook Gullah is one more archivist of our food ways.”
His eyes were serious. I’d read up on him on a few blogs and watched some media interviews. He was intent on keeping the Gullah alive through food. I liked that. A lot.
“That’s righteous,” I said, and the admiration was real. “I can’t wait for us to start serving the community again.”
“I have an idea, something that will get you back in business faster than that paint can dry.” Dante flashed me that million-dollar white smile. “I still have my food truck, Ms. Holland.”
I laughed, surprising myself. He had no idea how close I was to becoming Ms. Holland again, but I didn’t let the thought of it steal a second of my excitement about the truck. I raised a glass to him and said, “Now that, sir, is a good idea.”