Chapter 10 Catch of the Day
Catch of the Day
Jack
It’s days like this that I wish I didn’t quit smoking.
I take a sip of coffee instead, surveying the kitchen in the glow of the weak, yellowy lights hanging over the pass. After
Poppy left yesterday, I tracked down Herman, who agreed, after some cajoling, to stop by and chat today. The replacement part
for the flat top should be arriving any day now. I’ve made a few preliminary inquiries about permits, even though that kind
of red tape bullshit makes my eyes roll back in my skull. My cockroach traps have finally started kicking in, and the alley
cat must be filling up on mice in addition to lizards, because I haven’t seen any around. The entire space needs another deep
clean, but it’s much closer to being ready for cooking.
Compared to the gleaming kitchen of Pastiche, this is a wasteland. Sal clearly never felt the need to upgrade the equipment.
Not that that matters, really. It’s here, it works, and that’s good enough. I didn’t start out in kitchens with gleaming induction
ranges and more toys than I know what to do with. It’s nice to have, but it’s not what makes the food great.
I’ve seen the inside of Poppy’s parents’ kitchen in Rye.
She does have all of that, because a man like Douglas Winfield wouldn’t let his home be upstaged by his investment properties.
I had my formal interview for sous chef at Pastiche in that room, cooking in a quiet whirlwind while Douglas watched.
I decided on fish: red snapper, to be precise, pan roasted and finished with lime-guava vinaigrette and micro greens.
Bright snap peas accented the plate, along with fondant potatoes, perfectly crispy on the edges and creamy on the inside.
I remember holding my hands behind my back after I presented it so he wouldn’t see them shaking.
Fish is difficult. It requires precision and demands respect. It’s my favorite; always has been.
I knew I had the job when he took a second bite.
I wonder if Poppy was in the house that day.
I check my watch. She’s three minutes and thirty seconds late.
Maybe she’s not coming at all.
The thought should give me relief, but it doesn’t.
The front door creaks open. I stride out of the kitchen, but instead of Poppy, it’s Herman, hours earlier than I expected.
I drain the rest of my coffee and try for a smile. “Herm.”
His wrinkled, permanently tanned face breaks into a smile. “Jackie boy. It’s good to see you here again.”
“Thanks for stopping by.” I shake his hand. He’s big and broad, a native Floridian if I ever met one. He’d tell stories on
the line about trips to the Everglades to hunt pythons and wild bar fights in Key West.
He looks around the dusty dining room, whistling. “We shut down about six months ago. Honestly, I was expecting it to look
worse. The kitchen equipment still here?”
“Shockingly, yes.” When I first walked in, part of me expected the restaurant to be stripped, equipment stolen to be sold
secondhand to other establishments.
“Sal commanded a lot of respect in this town.” He pauses, giving me a deliberate once-over. “Is this for real? You’re reopening?”
“Something like that.” I keep watching the door. Poppy is five minutes late now. In a real kitchen, she’d be fired. Jimmy
hated doing the firing at Pastiche, so he left that job to me. I had too many charged conversations to count. Too many screw-ups
begging for a second chance.
Ironic that I’m the screw up, now.
“We missed you at the funeral, kid.”
His words hit me right in the chest. I flinch. “Is any of the old guard still around? Jazz? Batista?”
“You could’ve at least been there for Ki.”
I scrape my hand down my jaw. I know that and it kills me, especially since I’ve seen her since and she’s been kinder to me
than I deserve. But like hell am I about to share that with Herman. “You going to help me, or not?”
“Depends.” He takes a few leisurely steps around the dining room. He smells like cigarettes and strong aftershave. A gold
chain glints at his throat. “You know what you’re doing?”
“I’m a chef now.”
God, I really wish I had a fucking cigarette. Still no Poppy.
“Oh, I know. Fancy CIA degree and everything.” He leans against the bar with a sniff. “You couldn’t wait to hitch out of town.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“No?”
“If you just came by to insult me—”
The front door bursts open. Poppy practically tumbles into the room, in the middle of braiding her hair. She’s dressed in
sneakers, leggings, and a Taylor Swift tour T-shirt, a far cry from yesterday. Her cheeks are flaming red. I wonder if she
ran here; I didn’t notice a car yesterday in the parking lot.
“You’re late.”
She skids to a stop. “Only a little.”
“I told you four in the morning. It’s four fifteen.”
“So?” She ties off her braid, hip cocked. “Looks like you haven’t started either.”
“First lesson: Get here on time. Always. Unless you’re bleeding out in an alleyway, you’re here ten minutes before I say.”
I ignore the blatantly curious look Herman’s giving the two of us as I go toe-to-toe with her. Some devilish part of me wants
to wrap her braid around my hand. “And if you do happen to be bleeding out in an alleyway, call me so I know you’re coming
in late.”
Her pouty mouth drops open, but she doesn’t say a word. Good.
Herman roars with throaty laughter. “Oh, kid. I missed that temper of yours.” He turns to Poppy, giving her a much warmer
smile than he did me. “And who is this lovely lady?”
Poppy holds out her hand for a shake. “Poppy Winfield. His business partner.”
“Herman Wells.” He looks at me over Poppy’s head. “Partner, eh?”
I shut my eyes briefly. “She’s going to redesign the place. Work on giving it a social media presence.”
Herman snaps his fingers. “On the Instatok and everything?”
“It’s called—”
“Yep,” Poppy interrupts, eyes sparkling. “Instatok. Exactly. Were you a friend of Sal’s?”
“Old, old friend. I worked here from day one, back in the late eighties.” He rubs his neck, turning his attention back to
me. “So, Jackie, I guess you are serious about this. Got yourself a partner and everything.”
Jackie, Poppy mouths with delight. God help me. The last thing I need is the two of them ganging up on me.
“Why the hell wouldn’t I be?” I snap.
“Sorry about him,” Poppy says, throwing Herman a conspiratorial wink. “We’re fifteen minutes behind schedule, which means
the sky is falling.”
Herman whistles. “I like you, girl.”
“Seventeen minutes,” I grumble with another quick glance at my watch. “Herm, if you’re going to stick around, look at the
water heater. Can’t pay you anything yet, though.”
Herman considers me for another moment. Then he waves his hand. “Just put me on the line when you open, and I’ll do anything
you need. Deal?”
“Deal,” Poppy says brightly.
“Give us a few minutes.” I grab her by the elbow and drag her into the kitchen, ignoring her disgruntled yelp.
She wriggles like a fish on a line to free herself. “What’s your problem?”
I lean against the wall next to the grill. “My problem?”
“You practically dragged me in here!”
“Let’s get one thing straight. We’re not partners. You’re working for me. I make the decisions on personnel. Especially in
the kitchen.”
“But—”
“It’s not up for discussion.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What gave you the impression that anything about this arrangement would be fair?”
She leans in, her smooth, lightly freckled arms crossed over her chest. The blue of her eyes looks dark. Storm clouds, not
clear skies. “I have ideas too. Good ones. Don’t act like you’re king of the universe just because you know how to flambé.
And anyway, you can’t run the kitchen by yourself. We’ll need staff eventually.”
“A professional kitchen is a delicate ecosystem that—”
“Kids,” Herman calls, “it’s getting loud back there.”
I shove open the kitchen door. Herman is hovering just outside, not even pretending that he wasn’t eavesdropping. “Just get
started on the goddamn water heater.”
To my chagrin, he looks to Poppy.
“That would be great,” she confirms. “You’re going to be such a huge help, Herman.”
“Anything for someone as gorgeous as you.” He steps past us, heading for the utility closet.
I resist the urge to clench my fists. Or put my hands around his neck and squeeze. Being thrown off schedule was bad enough.
Watching Herman flirt with Poppy, however harmless, is a bridge too far.
“He’s so nice,” she gushes. “It’s great that he can help us out.”
I snort. “He just thinks you’re attractive.”
“Or he realizes I’m going to be useful around here.”
“Don’t give him too much credit.”
She makes a frustrated noise. “Okay, maybe it’s both. So what? He’s way more polite than most men. And I know you might find
me repugnant, but you have to realize you’re the weird one here.”
“Not weird. Just not a pushover for pretty blue eyes.”
She pounces on my misstep. “So my eyes are pretty?”
I scowl. “I didn’t say that.”
“I think you did.” She gives me a self-satisfied smile. “I can’t wait to write it in my diary later. Dog-ear the page so I
know to go back to it.”
“We’re wasting time.” I check my watch again, rubbing the knot of stress in my chest. Maybe it’s heartburn.
I wonder if there’s a bottle of Tums in the office; I haven’t brought myself to look through it too closely yet.
“Twenty-two minutes, to be precise. If we had service later today, we’d be fucked already. ”
“What are we starting with? Decor plans? Menu brainstorming?” Her eyes look bright again. She leans over the stainless-steel
pass, braid falling over her shoulder. “Ooh, can you show me how to work with a knife?”
“We already started.” I walk to the storage closet and unlock it, rummaging around for the cleaning supplies I’ve been working
with. “Timing is everything in cooking.”
“I know, I won’t be late again. I’ll set a dozen more alarms.”
I set a bucket on top of the pass, then a box of gloves. I hide a smirk when I slap down the hairnets, too. “It’s more than
that. Timing is the difference between perfect food and inedible shit. It’s easy to learn how to make one thing, but something
else entirely to bring elements together, at the right time, to create a dish.” I hand her a hairnet.
She tucks her braid in without a fuss. “Are you going to wear one?”
“No.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Too bad.” I shrug. “Next time, when I tell you to do something, you reply with ‘heard.’”
“Heard?”
“It lets me know you understand the command and are going to do as I say.” I lean over, tucking an errant lock of golden hair
underneath the net. “Try it.”
Her skin feels warm against my fingertips. She blinks up at me, lips slightly parted. I tear my hand away.
Millions of people have unremarkable blue eyes. Just like her.
“Heard,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re missing something.”
She swallows. “Heard, Chef.” She eyes the bucket. “Are you going to call me chef too?”
“If you earn it.” Which will be never. The culinary world doesn’t have room for someone like Poppy in it, and sooner or later, she’ll tire of this experiment. Maybe she’s right, it’s unfair of me, but I’m going to hit the ground running. She’ll keep up or cut and run. I’m betting on the latter.
She straightens, throwing back her shoulders. “I will.”
“I doubt it.”
“You’re being an ass.”
I just stare.
“Oh, right.” She crosses her arms, matching my posture. “You’re being an ass, Chef. Just tell me what we’re doing today.”
“Another lesson: You can’t cook in filth.” I gesture around the disgusting excuse of a kitchen. “We’re cleaning.”
Horror passes over her face. She gulps. “Cleaning?”
“Yes, Princess.” I relish my grin. I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, but I can’t help myself. She’s the one who begged
me for a job, after all. I’m not holding her hostage. If the fact I’m bossing around Douglas Winfield’s daughter feels a little
good, that’s not the end of the world. “I’m sure you’ve heard about it, even if you’ve never experienced it. You can start
with the ovens. Inside, not just outside. Enjoy the rat droppings.”
“You’re hilarious,” she says flatly.
I meet her charged gaze. “Door’s over there if you want to go.”
She takes the bucket instead.