Chapter Eight
Eight
Jamilah wasn’t lying. Well, not exactly.
She was relieved to find Blair’s replacement so quickly and not lose the catering contract.
She probably would have hired the Joker if he could crisp up a wing.
But that wasn’t all. She’d risked everything to leave corporate America and venture into the sharkish waters of the culinary world, a dream she’d held since the Food Network and Bravo TV replaced her mother’s presence and she spent afternoons imagining herself the next Top Chef.
Initially, everyone she cared about had been against her owning a restaurant—namely her ex and her conservative, take-no-chances dad.
James had quickly come around, even helped her secure a start-up loan.
At the end of the day, he just wanted his daughter to be successful doing what she loved.
Walter wasn’t as easy to convert. Having a restaurant owner wife wasn’t what he’d envisioned for his political career.
His current fiancée, Olivia, an attorney, was much more aligned with the prestigious, influential lifestyle he desired.
He’d tried to be supportive but in actuality was more a complainer and critic, questioning her decisions, causing her to second-guess what she knew for sure.
Jamilah had spent her life trying to prove herself to others.
Absent mom. Exacting dad. Judgmental ex.
This time around there was only one person whose standards she wanted to satisfy: herself. For that reason, she couldn’t fail.
On the way to the bank, she’d reached out to her cousin, Ed, and another man who occasionally helped out when needed.
Neither was available. After the bank appointment, where her short-term loan application was denied, Jamilah went to work and spent the entire eight-hour shift grappling with the conflicting emotions that thoughts about hiring Rashad produced.
Rashad was the exact type of man her father had warned her to steer clear of, to not even entertain as an acquaintance, much less an employee.
Until now, Jamilah had listened and obeyed.
From the time he became a single father when she was ten, the words of James Carver Jr. were law.
His beliefs were her beliefs. His point of view her own.
She’d dated men who would meet his approval, like those in law enforcement.
When the relationship with Walter didn’t work out, she didn’t know who was more heartbroken—her or James.
Walter was a councilman now, engaged to Olivia, the perfect politician’s wife.
Jamilah had ended the relationship because while she loved Walter, she hadn’t been in love with him.
He felt like more of an obligation than a choice.
On most days that decision still felt like the right one.
And now, here she was working side by side with a convicted criminal, a felon. She didn’t even want to think about the inevitable father–daughter conversation about her newest employee. She hoped he’d be too busy to check out Rashad on his own.
She reached her restaurant and as always felt a tinge of pride as she gave a quick walk-through before settling into the kitchen.
The subtle tans and grays accenting stark white walls were a clean backdrop to the sepia-tinted and black-and-white photos of vegetables hung throughout the space.
Stainless steel light fixtures, exposed brick and laminate flooring seamlessly mixed a modern look with the building’s eighty-year-old history.
Authentic-looking floor plants added a touch of nature while not requiring the green thumb that Jamilah didn’t possess.
“Who came up with the name Side Chic’k?” Rashad asked Jamilah, successfully distracting her inner angst.
“I did. Why?”
“No particular reason.”
“Yes there is, or you wouldn’t have asked.”
Rashad picked up a large tray and headed toward the oven. “Most women don’t want to be considered the side chick.”
“I thought about that, but the name perfectly describes my business, different types of chicken with a variety of sides. I couldn’t resist the double entendre, and the way I spell it makes it unique.”
“So she’s a chic side chick.”
“You got it.”
“I’d say that’s false advertising.”
“Why?” Jamilah was fully prepared to defend her restaurant’s name like Mayweather defended his title.
Rashad turned and with a look that would linger long into her nighttime said, “Because I can’t see you ever playing second fiddle in anybody’s band.”
Inside Jamilah preened like a peacock, realizing this was how it felt to be seen. To cover up the emotional moment, she grabbed a large block of cheese from the fridge, cut it into smaller chunks and began feeding them into a shredder.
“Why are you using that type of cheese?”
“What kind would you use?”
“Something you didn’t have to cut or shred. Already in a creamy consistency that can be poured over the pasta.”
“From a can?”
Rashad’s eyes slid in her direction, accompanied by a smile that once again made her heart skip.
This situation bordered on dangerous. He really was a nice-looking man.
Suit and tie, close-cropped, and clean-shaven were more her type, but his locs were well-coiffed and highlighted a prominent nose and strong jawline, especially when pulled back and tied, as they were now.
“You have a problem with canned goods?”
“No. The box you carried into the pantry was full of them, so obviously they’re okay sometimes.”
His questions shouldn’t have gotten under her skin. Chefs tended to be opinionated, with their own way of wanting to do things. Fortunately for Jamilah, she and Blair were on the same page, for the most part. For her and Rashad? If this convo were any indication, not at all.
A point further proven as she watched him carefully drop wings into the fryer. “Doesn’t sound like that oil is hot enough.”
“Don’t worry.” When Jamilah’s skeptical expression remained, he added, “This is the first fry.”
Jamilah walked over to the bible on the counter, the one opened to Blair’s fried chicken recipe.
“That’s not how wings are done here.”
“Okay.”
After a minute or so, he removed the wings from the fryer, then walked over and scanned the pages of Blair’s book.
“Any questions?”
“None.”
Said in such a way that instead of questions, he probably had comments that she didn’t want to hear. She switched back to a safer topic, one that would familiarize Rashad a bit more with his workplace.
“FYI, the chic in Side Chic’k, is wordplay for the restaurant’s decor.”
Rashad looked around. “So I heard.”
“Where?”
“You told me at Monique’s party.” A pause and then, “You think this decor is chic?”
She looked out at the blond wood she felt gave the room a quiet sophistication, the muted tan, black, gray, and white color scheme, the pictures on the wall and the stainless steel that tied it all together.
“What do you think?”
“I think…” he shrugged again “…to each his own.”
So much for safe topics. Would she and this guy ever agree on anything?
Once again, Jamilah worked to tamp down her frustration.
What did she care about his random opinion?
Rashad’s background was cooking, not interior design.
Good taste was subjective. The last person she needed to listen to for advice on style was a man who’d spent the last three years surrounded by concrete.
For the next several moments, the sounds of prepping and cooking filled the air, punctuated by a question here or comment there as Rashad settled into the routine.
Jamilah finished shredding the blocks of cheese and assembled their second-most popular side dish.
From the corner of her eye, she watched Rashad’s knife skills as he cut up the remaining chicken pieces and began to fry them, before separating the drumsticks and thighs.
She finished the mac ’n’ cheese and potato salad, then focused on the remaining offerings for today’s menu—candied yams, green bean casserole, a steamed broccoli/carrot/cauliflower combo and a standard garden salad.
When she returned to the kitchen from filling the warmers, Rashad was waiting.
“Taste.”
“I know what fried chicken tastes like.”
“Not the way I fry it.”
“Yours?” Jamilah looked at her watch. Thirty minutes until the doors opened, ten before her lone server arrived. She didn’t have time to argue with Rashad.
“You didn’t follow Blair’s recipe?” she quipped. “The one right here?”
She picked up Blair’s kitchen bible, her anger rising as she flipped the pages.
“Heat oil to three hundred and fifty-five degrees. Drop each piece of chicken individually into the fryer, ensuring that pieces don’t stick together and that oil keeps circulating as the pieces cook.
These instructions are simple. Why didn’t you follow them as I asked? ”
“I did as you requested, then finished frying the wings I’d started earlier.”
His calm demeanor made her behavior seem slightly unhinged, though Jamilah felt being chagrinned was her right. He placed the wing on a saucer and returned his attention to the frying baskets.
“People love two things about chicken—tender, juicy, properly spiced meat and crispy skin.”
He stirred the legs cooking in the first basket before dropping a batch of wings into the second.
“When you do a quick cook at a lower temperature, then fry the meat a second time in higher heat, it gives the skin that crispy texture that chicken lovers enjoy.”
“You’re right, and that’s exactly what they get with Blair’s recipe.” Before he could interrupt, she held up her hands. “Look, I’m not questioning your cooking skills. I know you can cook. That’s why you got hired.”
He returned to the wing, brought it back over. “Jamilah, just taste it.”
Jamilah raised a brow.
“My apologies. This is your business. But as a cook who knows chicken, I couldn’t resist. I wanted you to have the comparison.”