Sugar: A Novel Part 18

Stepping into the room, I corralled the arm of a pa.s.sing line cook. "Hey, what's going on?"

The kid could not have been older than twenty-one. He had a beautiful head of black curls and flawless brown skin. I had the fleeting impression I had seen him on a commercial for a men's aftershave. "Hey, Chef Garrett. Sorry about the breakup."

I tried looking dignified, which, in this case, probably meant I looked like I'd sucked on a lemon. I tried repeating my question. "Why is everyone freaking out?"

"Oh," he said, his perfect smile fading into a studied seriousness. "Killian McGuire is supposed to be dining during the first seating tonight."

"Killian McGuire the restaurant critic?" I felt the tips of my fingers tingle at the thought.

"The very one," he said. "Well, we aren't positive, of course, since he made the reservation under a pseudonym. But Chef Michaels is pretty sure it's the same alias he used at Wu Tang and at Bonne Femme, so we're a.s.suming it's McGuire."

I pushed through the crowd, eyes on Avery, who was issuing orders from the pa.s.s.

"McGuire?" I said before I'd come to a stop before him. "Are you serious?"

While it was true that any good review from a restaurant critic could double, even triple, a restaurant's exposure, Killian McGuire-feisty, opinionated, and a man with two million followers on Twitter-held unparalleled influence. A good word from him could put a restaurant on a completely different map. In fact, some chefs considered a favorable review from him to be more coveted than a Michelin star. Most twenty-five-to-thirty-five-year-olds-a big chunk of the dining demographic-couldn't care a whit about the stuffy and ancient Michelin guide, but many of them kept track of where McGuire was eating and drinking. And those same people talked incessantly to their friends, furthering his reach. A McGuire endors.e.m.e.nt was gold served up on white china.

Avery took my elbow and walked with me toward my station. He lowered his voice. "Vic said that Margot said that Tiffany Jacobs and Macintosh Rowe are good friends of McGuire and that they probably put in a good word." Avery's eyebrows were darting toward his gelled hairline, a long-time habit that marked him as supremely stressed out.

"This is big," I said, my own stress level climbing steadily upward to a jagged spike. We began a slow walk toward my station. "I need to do inventory. I hope he orders the strawberry and sweet wine gelees with candied pistachios. I read somewhere that he has an obsession with strawberries, and the berries we've been getting from Shisler Farms are perfectly-"

"Charlie." Avery stopped just inside the pastry area. No sign of Tova.

I met his gaze.

"I'm sorry about yesterday. I know you really liked Kai."

I swallowed, sorry to remember what I was trying so hard to forget. "Thanks. It just wasn't meant to be." Feeling in my pocket for my phone, I retrieved it as a recently perfected reflex. No message, no voicemail.

"He hasn't called?" Avery spoke quietly, even though the film crew was busy catching the chaos in the main kitchen.

I shook my head. "Not yet. Probably never. I don't know. I guess we don't really know each other that well when it comes down to it."

Avery nodded. "Well, he's missing out. He should at least allow you to explain yourself, right? Nothing happened. Much to my chagrin." His smile was lopsided, and I realized anew Avery was a lot like a lost puppy. A lost, very ambitious puppy.

I punched him playfully in the gut. I meant it to be playful, but I did see him grimace before he could hide it. "Time to impress Killian McGuire. Personal lives are officially dead in the water until he's full, happy, and tweeting to his heart's content. You ready?"

"Born that way." He turned and b.u.mped into Tova, who ducked past him like a lithe cat and approached me with open arms.

"Charlie," she said, burying her face into my hair. "I'm so, so sorry. I saw the whole thing on Sparkle Online."

"Thanks," I said awkwardly. My arms were pinned to my sides within her embrace.

"Go ahead and cry." She petted my hair. "Emote. Feel. Be present. This is a safe place."

"Probably not," I muttered, eyes on the distant cameras. "Listen, Tova," I said more loudly. "We have a lot to do today. Did you hear Killian McGuire is coming to Thrill tonight?"

She pulled back. Her ginormous eyes looked soulful, maybe even thoughtful. Hard to tell with the mascara. "I heard about some reviewer guy. Never heard of him. But Charlie ..." She gripped my hands. "I want you to know I'm here for you whenever you need to talk. And I totally understand heartache. I've been dumped many, many times."

I pursed my lips. "It's a harsh word, dumped."

She clapped her hands and reached for her ap.r.o.n. "I know you, Charlie Garrett, and I know you are a worker bee. Work can be a great distraction against feeling like yesterday's trash, so let's get to it. What do I do first, Captain?" She threw off a mock salute.

Trying to focus on Tova and not the all-star pastry team I wished I had for a visit from McGuire, I pointed to a crate of strawberries. "Wash those thoroughly. I'm pretty sure he'll order the gelee, and I want to be ready."

We set to work and literally kept our heads down for the next six hours. Tova was not going to win any awards for her technique, but she did seem to genuinely want to please me and help me do well. Perhaps pity was driving her to work harder than I'd seen her work before. She did offer several times to "hug it out" with me, a concept I found both frightening and inefficient. The third time she brought it up, I told her just that.

"Say what you want," she said, unaffected by my blunt refusal. "But I know that deep underneath that heart of ice, you do have feelings, and those feelings are hurt. When you are ready to face the hurt, Charlie, I'm here. You know," she said as she returned to cutting b.u.t.ter into cubes, "I've taught hot yoga for, like, three years. I know tension and pain when I see it."

I snorted my cynicism and she shrugged. But by the time I'd prepped for two services, torn into a BLT during a hasty family dinner, and scrubbed down my station for the fifteenth time, I was certainly tense and certainly in pain. My fingers were kneading one particularly large lump in my neck when Avery flew around the corner.

"He's here." A fine bead of sweat lay along the edge of his chef's cap.

Tova squealed. "I'm so excited! Is he gorgeous?"

Avery glanced at her as if she was some sort of noise pollution he had just then noticed. He zeroed in on my face again, and I saw his eyebrows shake. "We can do this. Right?"

I nodded. "We can and we will. Tell me as soon as you can what he has ordered for first and second courses so I can be ready."

The rest of the restaurant filled up quickly, and those people wanted food, too. I charged through the orders that Chet hollered from the main kitchen.

"Fire two creme brlees, one gelee!"

"Yes, Chef!"

"Fire one flourless chocolate, one gelee, and one nut tart!"

"Yes, Chef!"

Chet barked, we answered and cranked out dessert after dessert. I kept my eye on the gelees, pleased to see them selling so well but beginning to worry we would sell out before Killian McGuire had a chance to order.

"How many people are in McGuire's party?" I asked Tova, knowing she would not hesitate to gather intel. A few moments later, she returned from her errand.

"Mike the camera guy says Mr. McGuire is dining with three other people." She became very serious and lowered her voice. "I want you to know that Mike is trustworthy. I know this because I'm unofficially dating him. Today's our three-day anniversary. Don't tell Margot."

My laugh was sharp. "Your secret is safe with me. Believe me, you don't want Margot involved in your dating relationships. Gets very crowded very fast."

She turned toward the ice cream maker. "I can't see us lasting anyway," she said above the noise of the machine. "He's already seeming like the jealous type. But he does look really cute in a headset."

I joined her at the machine, making sure the speed of the paddles remained at what I'd recommended. I'd mixed the custard four hours prior, using my time-tested recipe with heavy cream, whole milk, sugar, vanilla beans, egg yolks, and just a pinch of kosher salt. Tova and I stood together, watching it come together in the chilled bowl. I looked at my watch.

"Should be done soon."

"We have some of this in the freezer, you know." Tova pointed to the walk-in. "You made it yesterday, so isn't it still fresh?"

I tossed a sheet pan of pistachios with a drizzle of maple syrup, readying them to toast for the next round of gelees. "It's fresh, yes, but I want freshest for tonight. Plus," I reasoned, "it won't matter anyway. He's not going to want the ice cream."

Avery delivered McGuire's order himself. He gripped the metal shelving next to the threshold. "He wants the ice cream sandwich."

I was already halfway to the refrigerator to retrieve the gelees. I turned on my heel. "What? What do you mean he wants the ice cream sandwich? After the asparagus soup, the peach salad, and the snapper, he wants two chocolate cookies with cherry-bourbon ice cream in between?" My hands were starting to shake at the wrongness of it all. "That's too rich! It will ruin what's left of the meal on his palate."

Avery shook his head. "We can't tell him what to do, Charlie. The man knows palates and he knows food and he wants the sandwich. And no one else at his table even ordered dessert." He was already walking away.

I stared at the beautiful gelee in my hand, bursting with fresh strawberries and sweet wine and ready to be christened with maple-syrup-kissed pistachios.

Tova tsked when I moaned. "Charlie, the Jell-O is good, but that ice cream sandwich is wicked." The timer on the ice cream maker beeped. "Done!" Tova said and handed me a scoop.

I sighed. "Not yet. We'll bake the cookies and make the cherry bourbon mixture, then scoop." My nose at counter-top level, I sliced a half-dozen thin cookies from the log I'd chilled in the walk-in and put them in the oven to bake. Four extras, in case of breakage. I could feel Tova watching me as I gently stirred the pitted cherries into a saucepan of sugar and water.

"A splash of bourbon when this is done," I said, though she knew I wasn't asking her to do the splashing. Tonight was all on me, and we felt the division of labor as strongly as though there were a rope dividing her half of the kitchen from mine.

I watched the oven timer while doing my best to keep us out of the weeds as other orders kept piling in. Avery popped his head into our s.p.a.ce four times in the s.p.a.ce of fifteen minutes.

"I'm going as fast as I can!" I finally snapped, shaking a dusting of confectioner's sugar over a tart. "Back off, Malachowski."

He grunted and walked away.

"What did you call him?" Tova asked, but I ignored her, too. The cookies were out and cooled enough to handle. Carefully folding in the cherry mixture, I formed the ice cream into a precise square and gently settled it between two cookies. A garnish of mint and a thin line of chocolate on the side of the plate and I stepped back. Avery came out from his lurking position and whisked the plate away from me.

"Looks perfect." He was out the door before I let out the breath I'd been holding.

"Nice work," Tova said, her eyes admiring. "You really know how to work under pressure, even when you've been discarded by the man you love only a day before."

The thought of Kai, even a fleeting one, made me want to emotionally eat, and I reached for a spoon. The extra ice cream from McGuire's sandwich beckoned me in ragged stripes left on the chilled bowl. I handed another spoon to Tova.

"To us." I pulled a generous tablespoon's worth off the edge and put it in my mouth. After the initial coldness softened, I felt my eyes grow big. I spit the ice cream out of my mouth, some of it landing just below Tova's chin.

"No!" I ran out of the pastry kitchen, past a line of cooks and hot stoves and out the swinging door to the dining room. I heard Mike the cameraman hustling behind me.

After a quick sweep of the restaurant, I spotted him. I jogged through the packed tables to a cozy four-top in the back corner. Keeping my gaze trained on McGuire as I ran, I watched him laugh with one of his dining partners and then lift a heaping spoonful of ice cream sandwich to his lips. Just as he opened his mouth, ready to gather cookie, ice cream, cherries, and bourbon into his mouth, I lunged for the table and swatted the spoon out of his hand. A perfect little scoop of ice cream rocketed away and, by the mercy of a loving G.o.d, did not hit anyone before landing on the wood floor with an unceremonious splat.

McGuire, his spoon mid-air, stared at me. I thrust my hand into the s.p.a.ce between us.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. McGuire. I'm Charlie Garrett. Pastry chef here at Thrill."

He looked over a pair of reading gla.s.ses with bright red frames. Slowly, he lowered his spoon to the table but did not offer his hand. His voice, when he finally used it, was higher pitched than I'd imagined, particularly coming from a man of his girth. "Chef Garrett, you are a lovely woman. I've seen the press photos, but I dare say you are more attractive in person."

I pulled my neglected hand out of the air. "Thank you," I said. I could feel the Splotch gathering steam.

"Nevertheless," he said, "I am here to investigate your work as a chef, not to critique your physical appearance. Would you care to explain why you just attacked me?"

Clearing my throat, I waited for an ingenious lie to emerge, something that would absolve me of my guilt and put all aright. Nothing came. Not a dangerous, dark lie, not a white lie, not even a fib. All I could think about was the taste of the ice cream in my mouth. Margot shifted slightly from her position behind a camera. I tried matching the determination I saw in her face with the certainty in my voice.

"Sir, I needed you not to eat that particular serving of ice cream."

A waifish woman next to him hmphed her disapproval, but he kept his focus on me. "And why is that?"

I swallowed. The room was absolutely silent but for the quiet strains of an indie duet on the speakers and the raucous thumping of my heart in my ears. "I must have used salt instead of sugar. I've been distracted and-" I stopped myself, hating the direction I was headed. "It doesn't matter. I made a very big mistake, and the dessert is inedible. I'm sorry."

McGuire put his nose close to the plate and inhaled. After a moment, he resumed a straight back. "I have some extra time this evening, Chef Garrett. While it is unorthodox to accept a second attempt, I do admire your fort.i.tude and your chutzpah." His mouth twitched. "Not to mention your backhand."

"Thank you, Mr. McGuire." I bowed slightly, feeling every bit the serf to his ruling cla.s.s, and I turned back toward the kitchen. Walking with my nose upturned as a counterpoint to my humiliation, I reached the kitchen door and nearly collapsed when it shut behind me.

"Brilliant!" Avery was slapping me on the back hard enough to cut through my fog. "You were amazing! Best episode ever!"

I leaned into the tile wall for support. "Best episodes seem to come at my expense, Avery," I said. He didn't hear me because the kitchen was cheering.

Gathering my reserves and still shaking with adrenaline, I made my way through the kitchen, the thumbs up, the backslapping, and the high-fiving. When I reached Tova, I pointed to the walk-in.

"Yesterday's ice cream, please. The one that tastes like ice cream."

"Got it," she beamed. "Heard you rocked it out there, Charlie. I can't wait to see it on screen."

I shook my head and willed my hands to stop shaking long enough to refresh the bourbon sauce. Second chances didn't come along often in my line of work, and as I lined up a series of tasting spoons, I tried not to think about what this one had cost.

25.

MANDA pushed the iPad across her kitchen table and grinned. "Nice recovery," she said. "My favorite part was how they used slow motion for your facial expressions as you raised your hand to bat the spoon out of the guy's fingers. That was gripping."

I rummaged in my bag for the microfiber cloth I used to clean my phone. "At least McGuire loved the second try. That's my only consolation." I wiped at the iPad screen. "How did you even see the video on this screen? Have you ever cleaned this thing?"

Manda looked as though she were disappointed in my inability to grasp even the most basic of ideas. "That iPad has been used by six very young, very s...o...b..ry hands within the last twenty-four hours. When I need to choose between a clean screen and a technology-induced coma for my children while waiting in the doctor's office, I choose the coma."

I rubbed at a dried chunk of something oatmeal-ish in color and consistency. "Are you sure he's not there?"

Manda leaned the top half of her body toward the window in her front room. Polly was on her lap so she leaned, too, and giggled. "Still no. And you're getting paranoid and weird."

"I am not," I protested, setting the tablet on the coffee table. "I'm just not ready to see Kai yet. It's too fresh."

"Moooommmm!" Zara called from upstairs. "Dane is eating crayons!"

Manda tipped her chin toward the stairs. "Dane, honey, don't eat crayons," she called.

I stood. "Should we go up there? Aren't crayons toxic?"

She shrugged and pried a lock of her hair out of Polly's dimpled fingers. "Nah. Crayola would be out of business by now. Plus Zara will ruin his fun faster than I can get to the second floor. She's a total killjoy. Typical firstborn."

I cradled the cup of coffee Manda had brewed upon my arrival. "Thanks for this. I'm sorry it's so early, but I needed to just hang out with you and remember what normal feels like."

After a long pull of her green tea, she stretched to set it on a shelf out of Polly's reach. "First, this is not early. We've been up since the crack. Zara is already on her fourth costume change." She set Polly on the floor and nudged over a few brightly colored toys with her toe. "Second, let's just be honest that the early hour is so you can avoid seeing Kai."

"Is he there?" I asked again, feeling my heart stutter at the thought.