Chapter 5
Lunch service is a blur, but I feel invigorated by the adrenaline.
It’s been ages since I’ve been part of a kitchen staff, and something is magical about the kinship found there.
Comrades in arms, all baptized in the fire of our first dinner rush.
Even the newest kid washing dishes understands the hustle. Respects it.
I should be beat, but as I leave the restaurant with a parting kiss on Jean-Rémy’s cheek, the bounce in my step is undeniable.
Even though I dread the party I have to show up for in two hours, I am high on kitchen magic.
Despite it being ages since I was in New Orleans, I find my old studio apartment with no trouble.
The keys are securely zipped in my backpack’s inside pocket, and it seems the Ticket Agent wasn’t kidding about it having all I need.
I take a long, luxurious shower, hoping in vain that the smell of oysters hasn’t permeated my skin so deeply that it’s become part of my personality.
I sacrifice liberal amounts of body wash and shampoo in the endeavor and will chase them with a spritz of my favorite perfume.
It has notes of coffee and spices, with a floral undertone to soften it just enough that it doesn’t take away all the hard edges.
It’s subtly foodish without being an overly sweet “gourmand” scent I never felt was right for me.
I love the idea of some confection with notes of praline and chocolate, but they come across as too juvenile for someone built like a Viking warrior woman.
No, the earthy spices and hint of lilting jasmine are better suited to someone like me.
Robin gave me a bottle for Christmas when I was in college—the year before Dad died—and I’d been addicted ever since.
She has a knack for picking out the perfect perfumes and colognes for people, I have to admit.
Even as broke as I was back in this era, I permitted myself a bottle of the stuff every year, hunting desperately for sales or at least a decent “gift with purchase” promotion that would help me cut back on my makeup expenses for the year.
I’d made a special thrift run to find the perfect dress for this event and discover the spoils of that hunt in my closet.
I run my fingers along the silhouette of the dress I’d been too timid to wear ever since that night.
It’s long and red and makes no effort to conceal my height or other attributes I’ve been conditioned to conceal.
I’d purchased it in a moment of confidence and wondered whatever happened to it in the years since.
I rarely got rid of clothes, preferring to maintain a small wardrobe of high-end pieces purchased on consignment or at thrift that would last, but this must have been one of the rare pieces I’d sacrificed back to the gods of Goodwill.
Returning some underused pieces back into the wild is the ethical thing to do, after all.
The holiday party at Hotel Esmeralda is legendary.
While we at La Fontaine Mirabeau close for a family dinner prepared and served specially by Antoine and Jean-Rémy, Hotel Esmeralda sets aside their ballroom for a lavish spectacle of a party for their employees as well as VIP patrons and the who’s who of the hospitality industry in the city.
The passed hors d’oeuvres are always next level, and the specialty cocktails flow like water.
I didn’t have much time to sample either on my first iteration of this timeline.
Dressed, coiffed, and made up, I admire myself in the mirror, pleased with the effect.
It’s jarring to see my face with fewer lines and the bright skin of youth, but this young face lacks some of the character of my thirty-seven-year-old one.
The lines had been etched there with fifteen years of well-earned laughter and tears, triumphs and tribulations.
I’m glad to know I won’t feel a sense of loss when the time comes—and I assume it will—for me to leave my dewy skin behind and go back to the present day.
All the while I worry about how I will react when I see Edward again.
Every part of me is compelled to act as though nothing is wrong.
To allow events to unfold naturally and see where things lead.
But do I have the fortitude to do that? How tempting will it be to head off Edward’s hateful comments before they happen?
To defuse whatever anger is bubbling under the surface before it comes spilling over?
Or to simply choose not to be in the room when the words are spoken?
I don’t know how long his little tirade might have lasted if I’d not interrupted it the first time, but I can probably gauge things well enough from my memory to avoid the scene if I want to.
But that doesn’t feel right either.
Edward needs to see me and my reaction to his words. So at the sound of the car horn that has just blared on the street below, I go downstairs and meet Edward and deal with the night’s events as they come to me.
Even from his profile, which I admire as I slide into the passenger seat of his beat-up coupe, he is as alluring as ever.
Most people, and I must say men in particular, develop a swagger when they reach a certain level of competence in their chosen field.
Edward radiates it. The swagger isn’t off-putting, though, because he’s earned it.
He’s climbed the ranks to sauté chef in short order, due to nothing but his own talent.
He and the saucier are the lead station chefs, and it’s quite an accomplishment for someone so young.
The electricity between us is there, as though no time has passed for me at all.
His gorgeous bronze hair begs to be tousled.
The proud line of his nose longs to be kissed.
Slowly. By me. I had often looked back on my time with Edward and wondered if the chemistry I remembered was just the product of nostalgia, but now it seems like my memories have done a disservice to what we shared.
I can’t find it in me to care that future Edward might destroy me.
This Edward is young, ambitious, and full of hope.
And he is, by every indication, very into me.
He leans over and pulls me into a deep kiss.
The kind that says, “I have nowhere else to be and no one else I want to be with,” that leaves me gasping.
All the dreams of being a culinary power couple come rushing back, and I hate myself for enjoying the familiar tingle of longing a bit too much.
This is the man who is hours away from disparaging me in front of his friends.
I remember every word I overheard him say as though they were etched on my heart. Moreover, this is the man who, a decade and a half later, is threatening to ruin my career with precious little cause.
But I find I can’t hate him. This Edward hasn’t done these things . . . yet. Maybe he’ll surprise me and this time it will be different. But in any case, I have to play along for now.
“Hey.” He rests his forehead against mine.
He’s tired from his shift, glad to see me, and both excited about and dreading the party all at once.
I used to be able to read him like a book.
Not unlike how I had been able to read my dad’s moods .
. . And I missed having someone I felt that connected to.
“Hey.” I try to react to him as I would have done, so I rub his knee, remembering the joy of such familiar contact with him. With anyone, really. I don’t want to calculate how long it has been since I felt free enough to touch someone this way. Or how long it has been since someone touched me.
Another kiss or three and we reluctantly decide to proceed to the party. The engine in his ancient Mazda stalls once before roaring back to life. “Sorry,” he mutters to the universe in general rather than directing it specifically to me.
Driving a crap car isn’t generally a sore point for younger chefs; rather, it’s a badge of honor that you’re still in the time-honored trenches of paying your dues.
Not so for Edward. I know in his heart of hearts, he has his eyes on the Emeril-Lagasse-Gordon-Ramsay-esque levels of fame that come with fancy cars.
Or at least cars that don’t make noises that cause people to duck out of fear of a nearby robbery.
“How was work?” I try to keep my tone light and brace myself.
Just as powerfully as the mutual chemistry has resurfaced, the memory of having to walk on eggshells around him after a shift tags along.
This I don’t miss at all, and I remember the lightness I felt once I got over the initial pain of the breakup.
His workplace back then was volatile, and the answer to the question could go in a number of extreme directions.
One day he could extoll his triumph for an hour when the head chef complimented his efficiency.
The next day the same head chef would be a talentless buffoon with no vision because he didn’t like a new dish he’d auditioned for inclusion on the menu.
“Well, given the event we’re headed to, I think it’s safe to assume I spent a whole lot of time making canapés and mini quiches. Not exactly riveting.” His tone is indifferent, meaning the day wasn’t stellar, but it wasn’t awful either.
I pat his knee. “I expect a less-than-riveting day in the kitchen is a nice change of pace this time of year.” I have to speak as though it’s my first Christmas in a professional kitchen, so I don’t offer anything more insightful.
He looks world-weary as his eyes scan the traffic. “It was just a time suck.”
“I’m sure Jerome is grateful you delivered for him.
” I don’t add that I’ve learned in years since that volunteering for these less-than-exciting tasks, rather than being “volun-told” to do them, frequently is a deciding factor in promotions in the restaurant world.
Often, reliability is more sought after than raw talent.
It doesn’t matter if you’re this generation’s Jacques Pépin if you don’t show up and seek opportunities to show off your skills. Opportunities like these.
“Sure. Kitchen karma, I guess.” His hands are tight on the steering wheel, and I know he is just trying to assuage me. He feels like he’s spent the day as a kitchen grunt, and there is no making him feel better about it.
I see his point, to an extent. It’s important not to make yourself so available that you’re taken advantage of, but showing a willingness to be a team player is essential.
Even more so is proving that you don’t have such an ego that you see certain tasks as “beneath you.” I’ve seen head chefs wash dishes when the situation called for it.
But things are far more convivial at La Fontaine Mirabeau than they are at Hotel Esmeralda.
My coworkers want to see me succeed, and most of Edward’s are either indifferent to his attempts to ascend the culinary ladder or downright hostile toward it.
I wonder if reminding Edward of this lesson is why I’ve been sent here, but as Edward pulls into the employee parking near Hotel Esmeralda, I decide it might be worth nudging him toward this truth.
It’s the best guess I have, and all I can do is hope that I can guide him toward a kinder version of himself.