The Lost Recipe for Happiness Part 15

"I don't think it's bad, necessarily-people won't listen to it that closely, and it gives a pleasant mood-but you might want to lace in some other things, too. Some upbeat instrumentals, not too over the top, but some Segovia, maybe, some flamenco. Matt Skellenger?"

"I don't know who that is."

"I have a CD. I'll loan it to you. I played it the night you came to dinner at my house."

Julian sipped his wine, smiled slightly. She leaned on the counter, wrists facing him so he could see the delicate skin there, the tracing of blood. He raised the gla.s.s. "Excellent suggestions," he said. "I'm not sure I've ever agreed with anyone who criticized my soundtracks before."

Her lips quirked. "Music got me in trouble today."

"What's going on?"

She settled on a stool, her arms crossed in front of her. "Ivan challenged me. It started with the photo, but it's been coming for a while. After I got back from the ma.s.seuse, he was playing some rap that was just obnoxious, and it was deliberate." She took a breath. "So I challenged him to a poker game."

Julian frowned. "Poker?"

"It's a man's game, and that's a very male kitchen. They all are, really, but because of the nature of the work pool in Aspen, I've got a lot of guys from places where women are not the boss."

He started to express concern, but she seemed to recognize that, and held up a hand. "It's not actually going to be poker. Ivan wanted a cooking contest, which is better anyway." She narrowed her eyes. "Maybe. He's one h.e.l.l of a cook."

"So are you."

"I know," she said without conceit. "It'll be close." The timer dinged, and Elena took the tray out of the oven, piled four or five small enchiladas onto a plate and smothered it with chile and cheese, and pushed it over to Julian, then made herself a plate, too. "Will your daughter eat?"

He rolled his eyes. "Not this. Maybe a lettuce leaf." When Elena sat down across from him and dug into a truly enormous plate, he said, "You're not eating all that, are you?"

"Oh, yes." She grinned. "I'm preparing for battle."

"Battle?"

"Yes. I have three things on my side with this kitchen." She ticked them off on her fingers. "One, I speak fluent Spanish, so they can't talk about my a.s.s or my t.i.ts right in front of me, laughing at the fact that I don't know that's what they're saying.

"Two, I really am a very good cook, with my own voice and style. And three..." She took a bite, and chewed. "...I can drink almost anyone under the table with tequila."

She looked so small and pleased with herself that Julian laughed. "Now there's an odd talent. There must be a story to it."

"I was a teenager in a town where there wasn't much to do. We drank. The boys all thought they were so much better than we were that my sister Isobel and I practiced, like a science experiment-what should we eat ahead of time, how fast could we drink shots, was there a better brand?"

"Ah-the scientific method. I a.s.sume," he said, gesturing at the food, "that this is part of it."

"Lots of food to start, and plenty as the evening goes by. Fat and fiber-so beans and tortillas and cheese are very good, but I've learned over the years to add a lot of protein, too, because it slows it all down, keeps lots of food in your stomach."

"And the timing?"

"No more than a couple of shots per hour."

"How do you get around that if there's a round in between?"

"I drink water. Tons of it, and if necessary, I pretend to drink the shot, and then spit it out. Once people start getting drunk, they don't really notice if you swallow. And there's no difference between most brands, but some of the cheaper ones will make you feel like you died the next day."

"You don't anyway?" He shuddered at the idea of drinking shots of tequila all night long.

"Oh, it won't be pleasant, particularly, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do." She dabbed her mouth, and put her hands on her thighs, elbows akimbo, as if giving herself a breather. There was a lot of food left on that plate.

He looked at her mouth. The mouth, pillowy soft and succulent, that he'd kissed.

"How are you getting home?"

"I'll take a cab."

Julian scowled. "Just call me."

"Oh, no. I don't think I need my boss to see me three sheets to the wind."

Her boss. Boss. She kept calling him that. Putting him in his place. "I might like to see this contest. Who's judging?"

"They're bringing in people from the restaurant community. Chefs, servers, bartenders from other restaurants." She picked up her fork, took another bite. "Sorry, but you can't be there."

"Oh, come on. I'll be a mouse."

"No, it has to be me by myself." She gave him a serious look. "This is a key maneuver, Julian. I need to be the general in this kitchen, and I have to establish my authority on their terms. If you show up, I'm just another f.u.c.k."

Her language startled him, and at the same time, he felt a deepening respect for her. The unwashed hair in a ponytail, the lack of makeup, the simple gray T-shirt that hid her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the slightly baggy jeans that did nothing to enhance her curvy bottom-all of that was part of the game, too.

She was far brighter than he'd realized. But a woman didn't rise through the ranks of high-end restaurant kitchens without a lot of guts and intelligence. Period.

Maybe he'd he'd just been thinking of her as another f.u.c.k. Or something. A line of heat worked its way down from his ears to his jaw, p.r.i.c.kling. "I get it." just been thinking of her as another f.u.c.k. Or something. A line of heat worked its way down from his ears to his jaw, p.r.i.c.kling. "I get it."

She picked up her fork. "Thanks."

"Well, will you call me when you're home, anyway? I'll worry."

Her luscious, crooked smile reached her eyes. "Yes, boss. That I can do."

And for one long second, he saw her beneath him, both of them naked, her round white shoulder beneath his lips, his hands in her hair, a flash so hot and vivid that he had no idea where it was coming from. Jesus. Jesus.

He picked up his fork, dug with great attention into the food. "Thank you."

Elena pushed into the restaurant at 7. Her hip and leg were starting to ache again, but she couldn't afford to take anything for the pain. She made her rounds through the front of the house, checking to make sure it would look its best that evening, and she was once again pleased by the elegant sense of tropical joy Patrick had brought to the rooms.

Juan and his family sat at a table near the kitchen, and she stopped to say h.e.l.lo to them. His wife was a shy pretty girl, not much more than twenty-five, and she was quite pregnant with her third child. Their two boys, about two and four, ran trucks around their plates, taking bites of plain enchiladas every so often. Their parents conversed quietly. Spying Elena, Juan stood. "Please, Jefa, Jefa, join us." join us."

She nodded at his wife. "Hola, "Hola, Penny, how are you feeling?" Penny, how are you feeling?"

"Good." They all spoke in Spanish. "The boys are learning their numbers. We might even have a new house!"

"Fantastic."

"I told Penny we had to work tonight, so she brought the children to have supper with me."

"I'm glad you'll be here, Juan. Thank you."

His gentle dark eyes rested on her face. "You need a day off. Soon."

"You know better."

"I can take care of things for a day or two. Me and Ivan."

"I know you can, and I appreciate the offer. Once things are up and running, I'll be happier."

He nodded, raised one finger. "I asked my brother to send me something for you," he said, and pulled a small bottle out of his pocket. It was a holy water bottle, with a carved plastic rose on the cap, and a picture on the front of Juan Diego and the Virgin of Guadalupe. "It's water from the church in Mexico City. And a rosary. He had them blessed for you."

Elena stared hard at the bottle and beads, trying to rein in her emotions. "That was very kind of you," she said, and her voice betrayed her. A tear escaped into her lashes and she picked up the gifts. "Thank you." She kissed his cheek.

He nodded. "Cook with the saints tonight, eh?"

Elena laughed, draping the rosary around her neck, where it fell, cool and rea.s.suring, against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "I will."

A half hour later, a small knot of employees had gathered, Ivan among them. He was dressed in surprisingly elegant street clothes, a silk and wool sweater in vivid turquoise, with a loop of black scarf around his neck. In his ears were silver rings. He looked like a well-to-do pirate. His jaw was freshly shaved, and he smelled faintly of some exotic aftershave.

"Hey, Jefa," Jefa," he drawled, eyes glittering beneath heavy lids as he looked behind her. "Where's Patrick?" he drawled, eyes glittering beneath heavy lids as he looked behind her. "Where's Patrick?"

No wonder he was all dressed up. "He's still in Denver. Not sure when he'll be here."

A slight shrug. "Too bad."

In the kitchen, a festive mood reigned. The radio played an oldies station, and bags of groceries sat on the stainless steel worktable. Juan stood guard over the bags, and behind him were the troops-two dishwashers, the three ski boys and three Mexicans who made up the line, and Alan, from the front of the house. Ivan ambled in right behind Elena. They retreated to the locker room to put on their chef's whites and clogs.

"The rules of this compet.i.tion are simple," Juan said. "You will each make three dishes-an appetizer, an entree, and a dessert. You need to make enough to serve twenty-all of us and the judges we have coming from other restaurants. We'll vote and decide who is the winner."

Ivan smiled, very slowly, and bowed toward Elena.

"Be ready to serve at eleven sharp, and you can use anything in the kitchen, but you also have to use these ingredients." He smiled, Pancho Villa in his younger years, and gestured to the bags. "Boys, show them what they have to work with."

"I'm 'P' for Peter, and I chose..." He paused for effect. "...pomegranates."

Ivan laughed, low and happily. Elena nodded.

"Buckwheat honey," said Brent.

"Huevos," said Hector, grinning at the double entendre, a slang word for t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, as he put two dozen eggs on the table. The others laughed. said Hector, grinning at the double entendre, a slang word for t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, as he put two dozen eggs on the table. The others laughed.

"Rose petals," said Roberto, revealing a bouquet of fresh pink roses, just barely opening. The room roared with approval. He blushed deep red, looking pleased.

"Corn," said Cody, smirking.

"My man," Ivan crowed.

Elena groaned. "I should have seen that coming."

"Achiote," said Alan, and Elena nodded, a dozen ideas arriving at once.

Juan went last. He grinned, his liquid black eyes twinkling, and brought out several bottles of tamarind-flavored Mexican soda. "Jarritos," he said.

"That's cheating," Cody said. "That's a brand name, not an ingredient."

"So?" He shrugged.

"I'm cool with it," Elena said. "Rasputin?"

"It's all good."

Juan looked at his watch. "Ready?"

"Ready," Elena said.

"Ready," Ivan agreed.

"Go!" He brought down his hand. Ivan raced for the walk-in. Elena went to the table and looked at the ingredients, letting her left brain go blank while the colors and scents and textures of the food mingled, swirled. She opened the honey and smelled an English summer afternoon. The buzz of bees, heavy and lazy and deep, the delicacy of rose petals and hearty shortbread and Earl Grey tea. She opened a bottle of Mexican soda and took a sip, delicately rolling it through her mouth like wine, picking up traces of mango and lime, which would pair with the pomegranate and-she narrowed her eyes-pork. Pork sausage? Yes, pork sausage grilled with onions and then stewed in the soda and pomegranates. Baked into a rustic crust, English-style. And shortbread cookies with candied rose petals and rose water. A very light appetizer, then. How to work in the corn?

Ugh. She'd think about it while she got the pie going.

At the back of the house in Espanola had been a one-car garage, converted in the late sixties to a poker room. A big round table sat in the middle of it, and cast-off kitchen chairs made of chrome and vinyl lined the sides. The smell of a million cigarettes and ten thousand cigars clung to the unfinished walls.

Serious poker was played in that room. With beer and tequila, Jack Daniels if somebody was feeling flush. Men played, not women. Never a woman, though sometimes there were women sitting on the sidelines, dressed up for the evening, cleavage showing, eyes lined thickly in black.

But as with everything, Isobel had been driven to be as good as a boy, and she wanted to learn to play poker like the men. She badgered Edwin to teach them. On long summer afternoons, they learned to play, finding relief in the thick shade cast by an ancient cottonwood whose leaves clattered softly overhead in the odd breeze. The Rio Grande lazed by, coppery and clear.

Isobel was too impatient to be a good poker player, in the end, but Elena, who had spent so much time observing the behavior of others, keeping track of what a roomful of possibly dangerous strangers might be thinking, proved to be very, very good. Edwin took such pride in her that he let her tag along to his games sometimes, and even play with the guys once in a while.

Of all the things she'd learned, those poker games had been the training that stood by her best as she struggled to survive as a woman in kitchens. Poker had lent her steely nerves and an ability to bluff, and an ability to hold her liquor. Tonight, in the kitchen, she played her ace. She slid her pies in the oven and glanced toward Ivan's side of the kitchen. He was dancing to his own music, chopping and bouncing and humming under his breath. As he felt her gaze, he looked up and winked.

"Juan," she said, "we need some tequila, and two shot gla.s.ses."

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asked in Spanish.