Authors: Rachel Spangler
“Get ahold of whoever you leaked your press releases to,” Hal said. “Tell them to incorporate the information that we're running a prix fixe menu.”
Quinn started to open her mouth, then closed it. She'd wanted more options, and Hal likely knew that. She was being tested as much as Hal tonight. If she had any hope of salvaging her plan to set the chef at the head of her restaurant venture, she had to prove she could remain hands off in the kitchen.
“Our inspiration is the start of berry season: hip, fresh, but not light,” Hal continued. “No one leaves hungry. First course, strawberry
and steak salad, followed by shredded pork tenderloin in a mixed berry reduction sauce served over a cheddar potato parsnip mash. To finish, we have a crisp-crust, goat-cheese pizza with raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries drizzled in a swirl of chocolate and honey.”
Quinn pulled out her tablet and made a few notes, her heart beating rapidly. God, the menu sounded amazing. And Hal had intuitively grasped the feel of the situation. Their audience would be young to middle aged, single, trendy, but not clichéd. Just slightly left of center, but not too far out. She'd give them foods they knew with just enough twist to keep things fresh. Different without being odd. Best of all, Hal was ready to cook. Could this really work? “Excellent.”
“I assume you have a wait staff or servers?”
“Absolutely, they will all be here one hour before we open.”
“Get me Joey Lang from the Elmwood Coffee Shop to orchestrate them and to act as liaison between the kitchen and the customers. Pay her whatever she asks.”
Quinn pressed her lips together. She'd handpicked her servers, and she hadn't budgeted for another employee. She'd anticipated being in charge of all personnel issues outside the kitchen. Then again, now was not the time to argue. “Done.”
“What about kitchen staff?”
“Sully ran point on that. She's got a crew on standby waiting for your directions.”
Hal glanced across the kitchen. “Sous chef, you heard the menu?”
“Yes, Chef.”
“I run the meat, the marinades, and the pizza crusts,” Hal said curtly. “Get your team in place to handle the rest.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Then turning back to Quinn, she lowered her voice. “They get paid scale for this.”
“Of course.” It burned a little to think Hal felt the need to say that. “As does the wait staff.”
“You and I make nothing.”
“Sure,” Quinn agreed before the words sunk in. “Wait, what?”
“Not a penny of profit from this.” Hal's voice was laced with so
much gravel Quinn fought not to shudder. “You cover your expenses, you donate the rest to the Food Bank of Western New York.”
“Hal, the money is my domain. I've made that abundantly clear.”
“And I am making myself abundantly clear. This is a charity event, or it's off.”
Quinn watched Hal's dark irises swirl with a swarm of emotion she couldn't read. Still, she recognized an iron will when she saw one. As much as she didn't want to surrender one ounce of financial control, she preferred losing a single battle to ending the entire war before it ever began. At least they were playing ball again. She preferred fiery Hal to silent one. And the idea wasn't as bad as a walkout. The press would be favorable, and the tax write-off sizeable. Plus, childhood hunger was one of her pet issues, not that Hal would believe her if she said so now. Still, it set a bad precedent for her to roll over too easily. She needed to make Hal think about her threat for a minute.
“What makes you so sure we're even going to make money tonight?”
“You wouldn't have gone through all this trouble unless you felt sure we would.”
At least Hal had a high opinion of her business acumen if not her personal ethics. “You do know I expected the business end to be my responsibility.”
“And I expected the common courtesy of being asked before you whored out my name.”
Point taken, and rather harshly
. The color rising in her cheeks now wasn't for show. “Fine.”
“Forgive me for wanting a little more clarification, but I'd like things spelled out very clearly between us from now on.”
“The pop-up is a charity event,” Quinn said coolly. “We cover our debts and donate the rest in its entirety.”
“And the kitchen is mine?”
“All yours.”
“Then, excuse me. I have work to do.”
Hal spun on her heel without so much as another glance.
Thoroughly dismissed, and all but told to get out of the kitchen,
Quinn decided to follow her example and set to work doing what she did best. The lines were clearly drawn, and while she would've preferred to be on the same side as Hal, at the end of the day all that mattered was making the pop-up successful. Her social skills and Hal's culinary genius would all but guarantee a win if they stayed focused. The ache in her chest for something more would go unheeded and unexamined until the work was done.
The night had flown by. She'd stayed clear of the kitchen until just before opening and even then only checked in to make sure Hal required nothing else from her. After receiving another curt reminder that she didn't belong in the kitchen, she retreated once more to the front.
The first trickle of curious customers arrived only minutes after five, and Quinn found her footing quickly. The initial visitors were mostly local to the neighborhood and eager to see who'd taken over the empty space. She chatted with them easily, explaining the concept of a pop-up and gushing about the menu prepared by their illustrious chef. Five minutes in, she had no doubt they would've gladly eaten their dinner out of the palm of her hand. By the end of the first seating, they had a twenty-minute wait for tables. She had to turn her phone off vibrate because it kept rattling on the hostess stand due to the alerts she got every time someone tagged the pop-up in a tweet. Social media in Buffalo blazed with photos of their restaurant and, more frequently, their food.
Hal's food.
The novelty of something new in Buffalo always sent the rumor mill spinning, but Quinn harbored no illusions about what brought in the most people. The famous food-truck chef gone official was too intriguing to pass up. Soon groups began to roll in from the Southtownsâbored young suburban couples and hipster newlyweds, followed by yuppies who had been lured away from Canalside and downtown. All of them came looking for Hal, and none of them left disappointed.
As the evening wore on, the excitement never wavered. Even after
nine o'clock, cameras still clicked and phone screens flashed, signifying another rave review sent off into cyberspace. By now, the crowd consisted of mostly students from UB and Buff State. They'd been the last to arrive but brought with them the largest numbers. Everywhere, tables had been pushed together into long rows, and food passed freely from one person to the next. Pizza with salad, more of the shredded pork after dessert. It looked more like a banquet hall or a large family gathering than a restaurant. Connected, vibrant, communal, the feel appealed to Quinn as much as it did to the students, and as two middle-aged couples walked in, she made a snap decision not to change a thing.
“Welcome to our little experiment,” she said brightly.
“We just left the movies and heard some people talking about your new place. We had to come see what all the fuss was about,” one of the women said, her arm looped loosely through her husband's.
His barrel chest puffed out. “We usually go to the Olive Garden.” He sounded less enthusiastic as he surveyed the clutter of younger bodies.
“We appreciate you giving us a try,” Quinn said. “We're bringing something new to the table, both the food and the way it's served. We are open only tonight, and we've got a three-course preset menu.”
“You don't get any choices?” the other man asked. He was taller, wiry. He looked like a professor in his corduroy blazer, though it lacked the stereotypical elbow patches.
“Our chef selected the finest courses to celebrate the start of berry season in Western New York,” Quinn explained with the same level of enthusiasm she'd started the evening with.
“How exciting,” the first woman said to her female friend. “It's like those fancy restaurants you hear about in New York or LA.”
Neither of the men looked as thrilled about that prospect. One of them finally voiced his concern. “Fruit for dinner?”
“Every course contains fruit, but let me assure you, this isn't bird food. Our chef, Hal Orion, is known for running a food truck, and she hasn't forgotten her blue-collar roots just because I wrangled her inside for one night.”
The guys still didn't look convinced. They weren't really her target market anyway. None of her business plans involved going after the Olive Garden crowd, and it'd be no big loss if they walked. The evening was already an astounding success. She felt no need to lay on the hard sell. And yet, she didn't like to lose, not when she'd already done the hard part of getting them through the door. It was one thing to let go of a possibility in the hypothetical, but now she'd seen them, met them, looked them in the eye. They were real, and they were close, and she wouldn't give up on them without a fight.
“Would you like to meet the chef, maybe see what she's working on? I'm sure that would put your mind at ease.”
“Oh, Darrell,” the quieter of the two women exclaimed, “I've never met a chef before.”
She was clearly on the hook, and now even her husband seemed vaguely interested. No doubt the idea of something exclusive appealed to him. Finally Mr. Barrel Chest nodded. “Why not?”
Quinn motioned for them to follow her between a row of tables. Why not indeed, except, of course, the little matter of Hal's rule that she keep out of the kitchen.
Suddenly her palms pricked with sweat. Was she crossing a line? Breaking the promise to leave that space entirely to Hal? No, surely giving a quick tour didn't rank on the same level as making a decision without her input. And yet, it certainly didn't err on the side of caution either.
She caught Joey Lang's blue eyes as they neared the heavy swinging door. Maybe she should pass the customers off to her. Bringing her in had certainly been a good move on Hal's part. She was young and attractive, soft-spoken, with a confidence that came from doing her job well. She's handled the wait staff calmly and efficiently, and given the ease with which she moved between the dining room and the kitchen, she was equally well received in both places.
Quinn tried not to let any of that bother her. Maybe at one point she'd hoped to play that role herself, maybe she'd even looked forward to popping into the kitchen for a bit of the fast-paced banter Hal always dished up, but she'd served a more important purpose up
front. And part of that purpose involved reeling in customers, which was exactly what she planned to do with the group following her now.
Squaring her shoulders, she breezed as casually as possible past Joey and pushed through the door, holding it open for the others to follow. Immediately they were assaulted by a whirl of activity. Skillets sizzled and steamed on the stove, Ian grabbed a handful of gorgonzola cheese and crumbled it in his big hand over several bowls of salad. Sully shouted for one of the line cooks to ready a space for the pizza she'd levered out of the oven on a large wooden peel. They all worked diligently, paying the newcomers not a second's notice, and Quinn gave them little more in return. Instinctively, her eyes sought out the dark ones she'd last seen churning with emotion.
Hal froze, a large roasting pan of pork in her heat-resistant gloved hands, just steps from the upright open. Her lips pressed into a tight line as she registered first Quinn's presence, then the people behind her.
“Chef Orion,” she greeted warmly. “We won't get in your way, but these lovely people just came from the movie theater, and they wanted to see what you'd worked up for their dinners tonight.”
Hal raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Her expression gave no sign of anger or annoyance, nor did it convey joy or amusement. Honestly, other than the eyebrows she remained impassive, emotionless, leaving Quinn unsure how to proceed. She couldn't read a blank page, so she turned back to the customers.
“I think you gentlemen expressed concerns about us trying to feed you seeds and greens.”
“We're not fans of rabbit food,” Barrel Chest cut in.
One corner of Hal's mouth quirked up. “You'll find none of that here. Unless, of course, it's covered in steak.”
“Steak?”
“Yes, sir,” Hal said, turning to set the roasting pan on the prep table. “Right in the first course.”
The men gave her a grudging nod of respect.
“Then you're going to move into a big pile of shredded meat atop a mash that's mostly potatoes and cheese.”
Quinn marveled at the way Hal sparked to life. She'd quickly transitioned
from totally focused to shooting the shit amicably, and she knew her audience, too. When she'd laid out the menu for Quinn, she'd described that same dish in a very different way. She hadn't changed what she was serving. She simply changed the way she sold it so her customers were convinced it was exactly what they wanted all along. It was a skill Quinn could appreciate.
“And dessert is included with the meal.”
“Dessert?” the women asked in stereo.
Hal shifted her attention to them with a twinkle in her eye and a broadening smile. Quinn felt them begin to melt, and damned if she could blame them. Sometime since she'd left, Hal had traded her Henley for her standard chef's coat with the sleeves ripped out. Her biceps shone from either sweat or steam, and her one rakish tuft of hair stuck to her forehead just over her right eye. She looked part chef, part biker, and part pirate. The Orion appeal Quinn had heard so much about, first on the grapevine and then in the
Spree
article, practically oozed out of her. Her first instinct was relief, cresting fast through her chest at the sight of Hal's former exuberance superseding her anger. However, that wave was followed quickly by a wash of jealousy at the realization that Hal hadn't gone emotionally void with anyone but her. If anything, her voice held more feeling than it had in weeks as she said, “Ladies, leave your husbands to hover over the roast pork a moment, and run away with me to the other side of the kitchen.”
The women didn't even wait until the end of the sentence before they followed Hal as if she'd just invited them to Paris. “I handmade this crust, and it's been rising for an hour, just waiting for you to come along and order it. As soon as you do, I'm going to bake it until it gets crisp on the bottom but soft on the top. Then I'm going to slather the whole thing in a rich chévre, sprinkle it with fresh, ripe berries, then drizzle it with a swirl of dark chocolate and sweet honey, just for you.”
Quinn rolled her eyes and stifled the urge to offer the women a handkerchief to wipe the drool from their chins. She couldn't take any more of the intimacy in that low, rich voice, at least not as long as it was directed at someone else.
She cleared her throat. “So, has Chef Orion sold you on our menu yet?”
Hal glanced up at the sharp rap of Quinn's business voice ringing across the metal and tile of the kitchen. She allowed herself to really look at her for the first time since they'd staked their battleground earlier in the evening. Her eyes were still bright and her cheeks rosy, but her smile had grown tight, tense. She held a menu clasped in front of her with both hands as she gently worried the paper edge dull. To an outsider the little tick would likely go unnoticed, but Hal wondered if it signified nerves. Surely she wasn't afraid of failure at this point in the night. They'd seen a steady stream of orders for more than four hours.
“I'm sold,” one of the women said.
The men weren't as exuberant, but they didn't seem to have any complaints either.
“Good then, let's find you a seat and leave the chef to her domain,” Quinn said, backing toward the door. The others followed, and just before they disappeared, she said loudly enough to be heard over the clamor of cooking instruments, “We won't interrupt her again.”
Ah, so there's the rub. Her nerves stemmed from her intrusion into Hal's space. In that caseâgood. Quinn should feel the need to tread lightly here. The rush of work and the pulse of adrenaline through her veins had helped her push her anger aside, but they hadn't squelched it. Every time she'd felt a rush of exhilaration or the thrill of accomplishment, hell even in her most basic moments of unadulterated joy in cooking, she could never completely lose the twinge of betrayal. At times like this when she let herself dwell on the situation for more than a few seconds, the darkness threatened to consume her. The refrain of “how could they?” constantly echoed through her mind, occasionally raging so loudly she had to clench her fists to keep from screaming.
“Chef?”
She blinked a few times to clear the haze of red from her vision to see Ian standing in front of her.
“What?”
“We're almost out of spinach. We have enough for only ten, maybe fifteen more salads.”
“Okay.” She checked her watch. That would likely get them until after ten o'clock if the pace continued to slow. Most restaurants in this area closed their doors by eleven, so cutting off new orders by ten would put them close to that mark. Not bad for a first run. Next time, though, they'dâ
A cold sweat rose across the back of her neck.
That thought, the one she'd barely caught, was the reason this whole situation hurt most. There would be no next time. She couldn't count on that. She couldn't even let herself wish for it. That was the real danger in women like Quinn, and the reason why she couldn't forget even for a minute that she had to put a stop to all of this.
That resolve carried her out of the kitchen and between tables as she strode blindly toward the sound of Quinn's voice near the front door. She finally spotted her saying goodnight to a group of male students in Buff State T-shirts.
She stood back long enough to watch her interact with them. Something she'd just said made one of the boys blush and another laugh. She laughed with them, tilting her head back as the soft sound rolled out of her. Hal's breath caught in her chest. Quinn looked so natural, so relaxed, so decidedly different from everything she'd proven herself to be, but even now, knowing what she knew about her, Hal had to fight not to get swept up in her.
“Hal,” she said, her smile fading to a duller, more polite version. “I mean, Chef Orion.”
“Oh hey, it's the fryboi,” one of the guys shouted, and people all around them turned to see her.
“Hey, Fryboi, can I get a selfie?” one of the others asked, jumping forward with his phone already in his outstretched arm.
“Uh, yeah, sure.”