Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Duck Two Ways
JAMIE
The prix fixe menu Chef Pascal had so meticulously created for the soft opening of his new restaurant Piccolo was turning out to be a feast of epic sophistication and flavor. And thankfully thus far, death-free.
Jamie had Googled him while sipping her Old Fashioned at the bar when she first came in and was surprised to learn—and slightly concerned—about their chef’s provenance.
His former career as an up-and-coming chef de cuisine in the Cow Hollow district of San Francisco was fraught with bad timing, bad weather, and bad clams, and finally brought to an end by the untimely death of a wealthy patron at the hands of an undiagnosed shellfish allergy.
The asterisk notating his dish had shellfish in it had saved Chef Pascal from a lawsuit, but not from bankruptcy.
That was five long years ago. And now after working sous-chef jobs up and down the California coast, Chef Pascal was back, stronger, confident, and more exuberant than ever about this new endeavor—at least according to his interview in the Daily Breeze.
Jamie imagined that his enthusiasm was being slightly disrupted, based on the amount of sweat currently glistening on his forehead, at the arrival of the tall, thin man with the roman nose and bushy eyebrows he was currently serving, none other than Los Angeles food critic Nigel Spokes and his wife.
An act of bravery, Jamie thought. She was fairly sure Nigel knew what he was getting into when he sat down at that table.
Chef Pascal returned to the kitchen after serving the pair a plate of duck that was magazine-shoot perfect.
He was currently peeking out of the round window from the kitchen door watching Nigel examine each bite like a scientist examining alien specimens.
Nigel seemed to wear a permanent scowl except when he tasted an interesting morsel (right eyebrow would raise) and when he tasted something divine (he would spear it with his fork and examine it like a specimen in a lab). So far, he’d done both.
Watching Nigel eat and enjoy his food was making Jamie hungry.
Chef Pascal finally left his post at the window and returned to the kitchen.
Not five minutes later, the door swung open. The chef personally carried out three plates of duck, followed by an uncharacteristically coordinated Amber with the other three.
They made their way to the middle of the room.
“Good evening, I am Chef Pascal, and I would like to present Duck Two Ways. Leg of duck confit prepared in the traditional French way with a modern twist, crispy skin and cardamom au jus. Second, we have a duck breast seared to perfection and complemented by delicate hen-of-the-woods mushrooms and Moroccan saffron sauce. Homegrown broccolini made with brown butter and a potatoes Dauphine croquette. Bon appétit,” Chef Pascal said as he bowed.
“This looks fab,” Shannon said.
“Agree,” said Kyle.
Rick delivered as well. “The last time I had good duck, I was with award-winning documentary filmmaker Werner Herzog at his ranch in Argentina.”
Holly rolled her eyes and broke her serious expression for a moment to inhale. “Smells good.”
“Wow, this looks truly fantastic,” Jamie said. Her eyes drifted to Cliff, who she noticed looked like he might be related to George Clooney in the low light.
Jamie sighed as he added, “Inspired. Thank you, Chef.”
They all picked up their forks and began.
Chef Pascal backed away as Amber refilled water glasses and the sommelier poured a fine Rh?ne blend.
As he breezed through the door and back into the kitchen, Jamie heard him sigh and saw his sous-chef smile broadly at him and hold up two glasses of champagne to toast.
The evening was picture perfect. Redemption was in the air.
One moment later, an explosion went off.
The blast shook the windows of the small Manhattan Beach restaurant and plunged everything into darkness. The clatter of plates and flatware flung in all directions mixed with the shrieks from the diners as panic overtook everyone.
Jamie began crawling away from the door as Chef Pascal rushed out from the kitchen, his massive six-foot-five frame filling the doorway. He was armed with a fire extinguisher, wild eyes, and a first aid kit in hand.
“Who is hurt?” Chef Pascal asked. “I have all the things to help,” he said in his German accent and accidentally sprayed the fire extinguisher. A gust of white powder spurted out, scaring him.
Suddenly Cliff was there, positioning his body over hers. How he found her in the darkness, she didn’t know, but he found her. He came to protect her. “I’ve got you,” his voice rasped. “Stay down.”
Hair pinned uncomfortably to the floor, Jamie jerked her head slightly to the side to loosen it, and settled into the comfortable heat pulsing between them.
If she was going to die, this would almost be the way to go.
Cliff’s face dropped lower toward her until she felt his breath on her cheek. Yes, great way to die.
Seconds later the lights came back, and Cliff extricated himself from Jamie. She sighed and sat up.
“Thanks for—” Jamie motioned to the ground where moments ago their bodies had been intimately close, searching for the right words. “Protecting me?”
Cliff actually blushed and said, “My pleasure.” But then he seemed to realize his words and added, “But not in a creepy way!” He held out both hands, hoping she did not misunderstand.
She did not misunderstand. “Just your normal first-date behavior.”
Cliff said, “Whatever it takes to get me to a second date.”
They smiled goofily at each other. Jamie then looked around.
The front window had somehow remained intact.
The dining room itself was scattered. The rich aroma of roast duck still hung in the air, but cutlery and Chef Pascal’s delicious duck were everywhere.
A few tables were overturned, the candles all snuffed out.
The rest of the party was coming out from their various hiding places around the restaurant—dazed, shaken, speechless.
That is, all the guests except one.
Nigel Spokes, notorious food critic who was revered and feared in equal measure by all chefs and restaurateurs in Los Angeles, remained slumped forward in his dining chair, forehead nearly dipping into his Moroccan saffron sauce.
Chef Pascal quickly lumbered over to check for a pulse. He looked back at the crowd and started hyperventilating.
He held his fingers to Nigel’s neck a few more seconds. Waiting. Hoping. Pressing.
But there was nothing. Chef Pascal’s face fell and with it his hope.
Nigel, Jamie was sure, was dead.
A low moan emanated, not from Nigel’s wife, who sat in a state of shock on the other side of the table, but from Chef Pascal. “No, no, NOOOOOOO, not again!”
Talk about bad luck.
Cliff offered Jamie his hand to pull her up. His hand rested softly on her lower back as Jamie stood rooted to the ground taking in the scene, ears ringing, sirens wailing in the distance racing their way, and all her brain could spit out in that moment was that nobody got a chance to try the duck.