Chapter 18 Spiced Honey
Spiced Honey
Poppy
A few weeks into my tenure in Diamond Bay, I nudge open the door to Fable with my hip, balancing a tray of coffees. A latte
for me, and plain, boring black for Jack and Herman. I give Herman his coffee first; he’s in the dining room, making progress
on the built-in booths we’re adding along one wall to give the restaurant a more intimate atmosphere. Jack, judging by the
muffled rock music in the background, is in the kitchen.
Herman rises to his feet with a groan, taking the coffee from my outstretched hand. “Thanks, Poppy.” He sips it. “What do
you think?”
Even half-finished, it’s easy to see that these seats are going to be some of the best in the house. “They look awesome. I
still can’t believe you’re just building them from scratch.”
He shrugs. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, you pick up a few things.”
“Oh, that upholsterer emailed me back.” I start to reach for my phone, tucked into my back pocket, then think better of it
when my latte nearly spills. “She can do custom cushions for the booths at a great discount, as long as we tag her when we
post pictures.”
The weeks since the grilled cheese moment have been even busier than I anticipated. The post made the rounds, well, everywhere, and my email and DMs have been full nonstop. Exactly the hard launch I’d been hoping for.
At first, Jack was wary of connecting with brands, but after Made In offered to send us new cookware to use in exchange for
some shoutouts on socials, he warmed up to the idea. Fable’s accounts have been growing by the day, thanks to my behind-the-scenes
teasers and reels of Jack teaching me how to cook. He scowls whenever I whip out my phone and tripod, but he can’t deny it’s
helping with buzz. A video of me trying and failing to make poached eggs went viral last week, thanks to Jack’s exasperated
reaction.
I did eventually nail them. It just took an entire carton of eggs and a mild breakdown.
“Fantastic,” Herman says. “You’re putting together a pretty nice place, Pops.”
I beam. “You going to let me put you on camera anytime soon?”
Herman waves me in the direction of the kitchen. “Go ask Chef.”
When I enter the kitchen, the music cuts off. Jack looks up from a large crate, clipboard in hand, a pen behind his ear. He
takes the coffee I offer him. “Thanks.”
I blink. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
“I wear contacts.” He scratches something off the sheet on his clipboard. “Only today—”
“You decided to let down your guard and let me see the real you? I’m flattered. I had no idea we were there yet.”
I can’t help teasing. The glasses might look just like the bifocals I’ve seen on old men playing chess in Central Park, but
they make him look adorable. Softer, somehow, combined with the way his hair brushes his forehead. He’s in his typical uniform;
jeans and a T-shirt with an apron, rag hanging from his belt. He looks . . . biteable. Tattooed biceps especially.
I definitely need to film some content of him today.
His eyes nearly roll out of his skull at my words. “I ran out of contact solution.”
“Uh-huh.” I lean against the prep sink, latte in hand. “I hope you know those are total grandpa glasses. Just how bad is your
vision?”
“Thanks,” he says dryly.
“They do suit you,” I add, tilting my head to the side to take him in from another angle. He scowls, pressing the glasses up the bridge of his nose. “They’re cute.”
“Please stop talking.”
I sip my latte, peering into the crate. It’s full of groceries. On the top, I spot cheese, honey, and jam. “What’s all of
this?”
“Sample provisions.”
“Are we going to taste them?”
“Yeah. One of the purveyors I’m talking with sent them as samples.” He gestures for me to wash my hands and take a seat at
the prep table.
As I drink my latte, he sets the food on a cutting board with all the care of a new parent. A wheel of soft, moon-white cheese.
Spiced honey in a fancy jar. Lingonberry jam, whatever that is, and pistachios, still in their shells. Some kind of cured
meat, which he slices so thin, each piece could be paper. At the last moment, he brings out a warm loaf of bread from the
oven. I stare at it like a malnourished stray. My stomach proudly announces its hunger to the room.
“Did you make that?”
“Yep.”
“When? Just now?”
“Before you came in. It’s the extent of my baking abilities.” He breaks off a piece, chewing slowly. He nods; it must meet
his approval. “At one of the places I worked—”
“Wait,” I interrupt, bringing out my phone. “Can I film this?”
“No.”
“But the story time videos do so well.”
It’s true. Whenever I get Jack talking on camera, be it about cooking technique or places he worked in the past, our engagement
is sky-high. I know it exasperates him, but comment after comment asks when Fable will open, if we’re taking reservations
yet, if Jack is taken . . . I usually answer the last with a random food emoji, just to annoy him.
He glowers. I beam. Unfortunately for me, he wins our stare-off.
“Fine,” I sigh. “What were you going to say?”
“We had a baker. Raymond, but everyone called him Big Ray.” He cuts the cheese, spreading a dollop on another piece of bread, then drizzles it with honey.
He passes it to me. I suppress a shiver as his fingertips brush mine.
He’s kept his distance since the night he made me grilled cheese; always to the side of the stove, the other end of the prep table.
I know better, but that night, I could have sworn he kept looking at my lips.
“He did the pastry, all of that, but also bread.”
“And he taught you how to bake it?” I’ve barely swallowed before I’m reaching across the table for another piece. It tastes
like absolute heaven.
“No.” There’s a faint thread of amusement in his voice. He fixes me another slice, this time with the jam, which bursts across
my tongue with unexpected tartness. I love it. I finish my bread and attack the jar with a spoon. “He was a drunk. He’d be
fine for days at a time, then go on a bender. Chef—this guy named Cole, he was a fucking hardass—somehow got it in his head
that it was my job to keep Big Ray in line. When he didn’t show up on time to his shift, I’d have to go find him. Eventually
I got tired of that, so I just started making the bread myself.”
“Sounds like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just, you’re very take charge.” I pick at another piece of bread, breathing in the warm, pleasant scent of
sourdough. “This is amazing, seriously. We’re going to have it at Fable, right?”
He raises an eyebrow. “What, you think you have a say in the menu?”
“Hey, no one would know about your menu if it wasn’t for me.” I swing my feet underneath the table. “By the way, we have an
upholsterer onboard for the booths. She’s local, too.”
“For free?”
“As long as we promote her.”
He scratches his beard. “Thanks.”
“No problem. The booths were an awesome idea.” I point at the cured meat. “What’s this?”
“Ibérico ham. It’s Spanish.” He holds out a piece on the end of his knife. “Try it.”
The meat practically dissolves on my tongue, rich and perfectly salty. “Oh, wow. And what’s the cheese?”
“Brie. Triple cream, which amps up the buttery notes.”
“I could eat this for a whole meal. Maybe the restaurant should just be different kinds of charcuterie. That’s the concept.”
“Absolutely not.” He looks scandalized.
I grin. “Are we cooking today?”
He nods. “With an actual protein this time. Chicken.”
I make a face. I’ve been shying away from any lessons that involve meat. I just know that someone like Jack won’t buy pre-packaged
chicken breasts. “Fine. But can I film it?”
“Ready your workstation, Winfield.”
Great. We’re back to Winfield. That seems to be his default, followed by Princess when he’s annoyed. If I get a Poppy, that
means I’ve surprised him.
“Please? It’s been a few days.” I bat my eyelashes. “You can pretend to be charming for a few minutes. I have faith in you.”
“I thought I had on grandpa glasses.”
“That’s what makes it perfect! You look so approachable.” I amend myself. “Well, sort of approachable. More than usual. Maybe
you can tell me what some of your tattoos mean while we cook? I promise people will eat it up.”
“They’re tattoos. I wanted ink, so I got them. The end.” He gestures to the other end of the table. “Go. Now.”
I frown. “Is everything okay? Did something happen with the permits? The liquor license?”
He pinches his nose, eyes sliding shut. “No. It’s all fine.”
“Because I can talk to people instead, or you can ask Herman. You nearly made that one lady cry the other day, remember?”
“It’s fine.” He stalks to my side of the table, watching as I take out what he calls mise en place. Butter. Oil. Salt. Pepper.
Bowls for herbs and spices. A fresh stack of hand towels. Spoons, plus a jug of water for rinsing. When he uses it, it’s an
extension of his arm; he doesn’t even need to look to know where everything is. I have to admit, it’s impressive.
He doesn’t say anything about my placement, but I assume it’s to his satisfaction, because after inching my bottle of oil
to the right, he brings out a cutting board and slaps a whole chicken on top.
I gulp. “Please tell me you don’t have another for me.”
“Oh, I do.” He’s got a smug gleam in his eyes, as if he wrote “gross Poppy out” on his to-do list for this morning and is happy to get it out of the way.
I try for a neutral look, even though I want to take a step back.
At least this one is already prepped for butchering.
Knowing him, he’d gut a live chicken without a second thought. “Watch me first. Take notes.”
“For the record, I think it’s possible for me to promote the restaurant without personally demolishing a chicken.”
“Noted and rejected.”
“I could be working on updating the website, or pitching to media outlets, or answering partnership inquires,” I continue,
rattling off less than half of the things on my to-do list. “You won’t let me touch the menu anyway, so what’s the point?”
“This was the deal.” The look in his eyes, a particularly verdant shade of green behind his glasses, brooks no argument. “And
maybe if you showed more enthusiasm for the back of house, I’d let you pitch ideas for the menu.”
“That’s so unfair.”
“Life is unfair. It’s not my fault you never learned that.”
I swallow my protests at his very pointed jab. “Fine.” I grab the newest addition to my mise en place, a lavender notebook
with a pink pen, and open to a fresh page. Jack insisted on going analog to cut down on distractions. “Go on, Chef.”
He might be absolutely infuriating sometimes, but he’s a good teacher. A really good teacher. He’s treated every ingredient
we’ve worked with like something special, but I notice, from the moment he makes the first cut into the firm flesh of the
chicken, that he’s being extra careful. He shows me where the joints are. How to section off the pieces of meat. He explains
how to remove the spine and break the breastbone to flatten it, and how to use the bones and castaway pieces to make stock.
In a few minutes, the chicken transforms from a whole object into neatly separated pieces, ready for cooking, and my hand
is cramping from trying to scribble down his running monologue.
“There, see?” He washes his hands and the cleaver he used to cut through bone and sinew. He raises an eyebrow at my expression; I must look nervous. “It’s not that bad, you can handle it. I won’t let the cleaver chop off your fingers.”
“It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
“It’s different.” I struggle to find the right words to explain the squirming sensation in my stomach. I think I understand
why he wanted me to experience this. “It was alive.”
“Yes, it was.” He angles the cleaver in my direction. “Alive in a way plants aren’t. It deserves a particular kind of respect.”
“Have you ever killed a chicken?”
He nods.
“And you didn’t feel bad?”
“No.” He studies me. How he can look so intense while wearing bifocals, I have no idea. “If you’re going to throw up, do it
outside.”
“I’m not going to throw up. I’m not grossed out, I’m just . . .”
“Realizing for the first time that a lot of the food you eat used to be alive? Running around and breathing?”
“No,” I snap. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”
“Sorry,” he says, and he seems to mean it. “What is it, then?”
“You acted different than I thought you would. Gentler, almost.” I bite my lip, belly doing a somersault. “Like you cared
about it.”
“It’s part of back of house. Part of being a chef.”
“How so?”
“We respect the ingredients we’re using. We respect the process. We respect the patron, even when they’re annoying and demanding.”
That last part sounds pointed, but I don’t say anything. He sets the pieces of chicken on a plate and pulls out another from
the cold storage underneath the table. “It’s a craft, and I care about doing it right. Try it.”
I hold up the cleaver. My grip is so tight, my fingertips are going bloodless. It reflects my face back to me. Jack steps
around the table and stands behind me. He curls his hand around mine, adjusting my grip.
It’s the closest we’ve been to each other since he taught me how to caramelize onions. I suck in a breath as his body heat seeps into mine. He smells pleasant, like flour and salt. If I turned my head to the side, and our lips brushed, would he taste like honey and jam?
I was tipsy that night. Hurt by how fast Ryan moved on from me, even though I kept denying it. I’d have kissed Jack even before
I got a taste of his grilled cheese, if my inhibitions were just a little lower.
“Start here.” His breath disturbs the little hairs on my nape. I shiver. His hands look impossibly large like this, scarred
and ink drawn. “Come down with full force so you get through the bone.”
He doesn’t pull away, instead guiding my arm up and down while he takes over most of the effort. The cleaver cuts through
smoothly. I gasp. His free hand clutches the edge of the table, caging me in against his broad body. If I leaned back half
an inch, I’d meet a wall of muscle.
“What are you doing?” I manage to squeak out. I’m trapped between him and the table, struggling to find my breath. Imaginary
butterflies tickle my ribs.
“Making sure you don’t cut off your fingers.” His voice sounds strained. Raw. An echo of that night, although it’s possible
I’m imagining it. “Tell me which part we cut next.”