Chapter 49 Maillard Reaction
Maillard Reaction
Jack
Fable is officially two weeks old, and I’ve barely been able to keep up with demand.
Despite all my complaining about Poppy’s social media strategy, it worked. She launched the restaurant into the public eye
perfectly. With Season creeping into full form, thanks to the approach of the holidays, we’ve been booked out every day of
the week. I had to close the books heading into this weekend, a problem most restaurant owners would love to have. Bret reviewed
the restaurant highly, with a dry comment about the dinner theatrics that are apparently part of my brand now, and every night,
it seems like a party comes in with a professional camera to photograph themselves with the food.
With the sale pending, I haven’t wanted to bring on new staff, so it’s been me, Owen, Hazel, and Herman in the kitchen, with
Chester helping up front, and Kiara when she doesn’t have late clinic hours. I don’t take any of the profit, giving everything
back to the crew after the bills are paid, and I let my meager savings dwindle in hotel fees; I nearly smashed one of the
houseboat’s windows the first morning I woke up in it alone.
We’ve kept it simple: just dinner, no substitutions, no changes.
The menu fits like a glove now, easy to execute even on a crowded night.
Under other circumstances, I’d expand to lunch, start thinking of specials, but time is counting down on this place, not up.
We stick to dinner, and I spend the entire day on my feet prepping.
If I play loud enough music and get into the zone, I can push all the guilt and pain out of my head.
For a little while, at least. It always comes back, sometimes for the most innocuous of reasons: assembling Poppy’s trifle,
easily the most popular dessert on the menu, or noticing a diner with blonde hair and a shadow of her smile. I accidentally
locked myself in the walk-in for a few minutes the other day, and instead of banging until someone let me out, I closed my
eyes and remembered the times I tugged Poppy inside for a kiss.
She always complained about the chill, but she kissed me back just as enthusiastically.
It’s slow in the kitchen this morning. Chester’s puttering around, going through the liquor inventory, but otherwise, I’m
alone. My scrawled to-do list covers every inch of the white board. There are fresh provisions to unpack, and bills to settle,
and prep to work on. We need to make fresh stock and demi-glace, for one, and break down the extra-large weekend order of
meat, and figure out why the hell the sink is leaking again.
All in all, normal kitchen shit. Things I’ve done hundreds, if not thousands, of times. It’s enough to keep my hands busy.
Drowning out my thoughts is another story. I don’t feel like music this early, and my head is aching from a late night spent
putting the kitchen back to order. I’ve slept for approximately three hours, so coffee is the only thing keeping me upright.
I take a look at the list, sorting it out by time in my mind, and grab the first set of crates. It’s all dairy, fresh eggs
and cream and butter. I unlock the walk-in.
It seems odd that the version of me that existed here with Poppy is the same as the one moving through this kitchen now.
It feels like everything has changed on a molecular level. A Maillard reaction, not of a piece of meat or fish, but of myself.
I unpack the eggs, checking to make sure none of them are cracked. A tiny, flickering part of me wants to smile. Poppy liked
hearing about the science behind food.
“Explain it again,” she’d said to me one afternoon ages ago, sitting on the counter in jeans, rolled to mid-calf, and an oversize T-shirt advertising Newport Beach. “Why is it called a Maillard reaction?”
“Because a guy named Louis-Camille Maillard discovered it.”
“And it’s about browning?”
“It’s when, say, the protein compounds in a piece of steak react with reducing sugars, like glucose, during high heat.” I’d
poked her with the end of my tongs. “Color is flavor, and that’s why.”
“So it’s alchemy, basically. You’re a wizard.”
I remember the way she grinned, sure that comment would get me fired up. And it did. I’d lectured her some more, and then
practiced that technique with her until she wasn’t afraid to let the heat do its work, which led to a precarious moment where
I molded my body to hers, showing her how to properly sear red meat. I’d wanted to kiss her then, all over, from the curves
of her ears to her slender ankles. But we weren’t there yet.
You can cook something more, but not less. Add more flavor, more color, but rarely succeed in reversing it. What Poppy and
I shared wasn’t finished growing—cooking, moment by moment—and now, it never will be.
“You good back here?” Chester asks, poking his head into the walk-in. Herman follows him, clocking in for the day.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” I scramble to my feet. “Help me sort the rest of the provisions?”
“I heard that this place might be knocked down entirely,” Herman says, his gaze settling on me, fishing for a reaction. My
mouth tightens, but otherwise, I just keep picking through the vegetables, weighing portions and weeding out anything that
looks off. “Bunch of guys at Salty Joe’s were talking about it becoming condos. Like we don’t have enough of those on Hutchinson.”
“There are lots of other restaurants.”
“There are lots of other places to build condos.”
I tuck my pencil behind my ear. “Just make your point, Herm.”
“You already know my point.”
“You think I shouldn’t sell.”
Herman and Chester share a look. “What are you going to do at some other restaurant that you can’t do here?” Chester asks.
“That’s what I’ve been wondering,” Kiara says, coming in through the back door.
I squeeze my eyes shut briefly. “Please tell me you didn’t plan this.”
“No.” She kisses Chester, who rests his forehead against hers for a moment. I swallow the spike of jealousy, the overwhelming
desire to do that again with Poppy. “I came to give you something.”
“What is it?” I ask warily.
“Why don’t you think you can run this place?” she counters.
I sit back on my heels. Kiara isn’t in a rush to hand over whatever she has to give me, apparently, because she joins us on
the floor. She opens the next box of provisions. I’m quiet, watching as she digs through a crate of mangos. She holds up a
ripe one, pressing her nose against it to inhale the sweet scent.
“You saw how hard it was for Sal to run the restaurant,” I say eventually. “I can fake it for a few months, sure, but it’s
not like it’s a game.”
“You like challenges.”
“I like cooking.”
“You’ve been doing both so far, and without a full staff.”
“It’s not elevated enough.”
She snorts. “Are you kidding? Your plates are works of art.” The tip of her shoe nudges against mine. “Or are we not good
enough in Diamond Bay for the fancy stuff?”
“Yeah, man,” Chester echoes.
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Do I?”
“Herm,” I say without looking at him. “Give us a few minutes?”
When he’s gone, I take the mango out of Kiara’s hands. I cut into it, easing out the pit, and hand half to Kiara. I bite into
my half, feeling weary even though we’ve barely started this conversation. It’s been circling; I’ve been expecting it. Never
mind that Ki will make millions in the sale.
“Chester told me that Poppy’s dad offered to bring you to the airport with him.”
I sigh, looking at Chester, who just shrugs, taking a bite of the mango Kiara holds out to him. “I could have gone on my own
if I wanted.”
“Oh, sure.” She nibbles the edge of the mango, catching a drip of juice with her thumb. “That was the issue. You didn’t want to.”
“I’m too busy for this,” I say shortly, standing. “I have to check on the stocks.”
“You can’t keep running from this. From everything.”
“Why not?” I give the stock pot an aggressive stir. The smell of vegetables wafts through the air, buoyed by the rich depth
of animal fat. The mango tastes sour in the back of my throat. “It’s working out well so far.”
“Why can’t you let yourself be happy for once?”
“I am happy. And I don’t know why you’re fighting me on this so fucking hard.” It’s a struggle to moderate my voice, but Kiara
is trapping me in a corner, the same corner Poppy put me in, and I’m sick of the ultimatums. As if happiness is a right, and
I’m the only fool not taking advantage. Of course I want the restaurant; when I’m honest with myself, it’s all I want, but
I can’t take it over after how badly I broke my relationship with Sal. I can’t pretend that I didn’t reject him, and this
life, in the first place.
“You’re going to make a ton of money from the sale,” I add, unable to keep from clinging to that possibility. “You’ll be free
and clear to do whatever you want with your life. And I’ll find another kitchen. Poppy’s gone—”
“She’s gone because you pushed her away!” Kiara’s eyes are glittering. Her voice takes on a jagged quality. “And how could
you still think I’d care about a bunch of money more than you? I want you in my life. Stop shutting all of us out and listen
for a change.”
She pulls something out of her pocket. An envelope. She worries it between her fingers.
“When are you going to get it through your thick skull that I just want you home?” She angrily rubs away a tear. “I have my
own career. I know where I stood with Dad when he died. I don’t need the money, I don’t want it. I just want my brother to
stay in my life.”
“I can do that without being shackled to this place.” My voice cracks; I’m dangerously close to breaking down. “Don’t you
get it? If I come back, then leaving in the first place would’ve made no difference. The fight Sal and I had would’ve been
for nothing.”
My voice rises by the end, full of pain and guilt. Kiara and Chester share a look, both of them silent.
“Oh, Jack,” Kiara whispers eventually. “It’s not like that.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Maybe it is.”
“No. Look at me.” She reaches out, takes my hand. I open my eyes. “Coming back now would be different.” She holds out the
envelope. I can’t quite read the handwriting on the front, but my stomach sinks at the sight of it.
“What is that?”
“I didn’t want to give it to you until I was sure you’d actually read it.”
“It’s from Sal?”
“It’s a letter he wrote to you.” Kiara clears her throat. “I haven’t opened it. I don’t know what it says, but . . .”
I take it carefully, as if it’s some delicate glass object, not paper. My heart thumps extra hard as I tuck it into the pocket
of my apron. I know what she’s hoping: that it’ll absolve me somehow. Ease the guilt dragging me down with each painful breath.
“I saw the picture in the office, by the way.” I drag my teeth over my lip, fighting the urge to open the envelope. Not now.
Not like this. “Seems like we were having a good day there.”
“I can’t remember when it’s from.”
“Neither can I.”
“That’s a good thing,” says Chester.
Kiara looks at him, startled. “Why?”
“So many good memories, they start to blend together. What?” he adds, at our stares. “It’s true. I’m a sentimental man.”
“Course you are, babe.” Kiara leans over, kissing my cheek. “The photograph was Poppy’s idea. She wanted to put it in the
entryway, so everyone would see it when they came in.”
“An opening night present?”
“Something like that.”