It was time to prep for dinner. Neil walked into the kitchen and got to work organizing all the ingredients he’d need for his new seafood-heavy menu. He smiled.
The days since Larry’s departure had passed pretty well, all things considered. Gary and Neil had already found a kind of rhythm in the kitchen. Neil concentrated on the meat and vegetarian dishes, and let Gary go crazy with the fish. Gary wasn’t the most inventive of chefs—Neil had already cornered the market on that title, of course. But when it came to the basics – steaming, smoking, grilling, poaching—Gary was a pro. The twins were happy as well, now that the tips were starting to climb back to pre-Crusader’s curse levels.
They’d even initiated Gary into the “make fun of Neil” kitchen banter. On Gary’s second night in the kitchen, Neil got mad at Zoe for leaving a dish of steamed mussels on the kitchen counter for five seconds too long.
“Did you ever notice that ‘Zoe’ and ‘ZONED OUT’ start with the same letter?” Neil had barked.
Zoe feigned a look of shocked surprise. “Wow, Neil. Did you figure that out all by yourself?”
Then Amber walked through the doors to grab her plates of risotto, adding, “Hey, that’s just like ‘Neil’ and ‘Noodlehead.’” The twins proceeded to add a new word to the list every time they entered or left the kitchen.
“Nimrod!”
“Nincompoop!”
“Needlenose.”
“Nerdlinger.”
Finally Gary added, almost under his breath, “Hey, dudettes, don’t forget ‘nitwit.’” Then he showed amazing physical agility by dodging the whisk Neil flung at him.
The twins immediately raised Gary on their shoulders, shouting “Go, Gary, Go!” “He’s officially a Team Flambé member!” “There’s no getting rid of him now!”, along with a few hip-hip-hoorays and pats on the back.
“Get back to work!” Neil had yelled, but he had to admit that Gary wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
Neil looked up at the clock. Gary would be by in an hour or so. He was still doing side work as a bike courier and said he had a few deliveries to make first.
Neil was not normally in favor of part-time work. He worked more than full-time. But he owed Gary. Just the night before, Gary had saved Neil’s bacon, so to speak.
Near the end of the evening, a table of latecomers had ordered three salmon dinners—the reputation of Chez Flambé as a fish lover’s destination was growing—and Neil had only one salmon fillet left.
Neil had peeked into the dining room and noticed that the three people who’d asked for the salmon were not just any regulars—they were food critics. Why do they always show up at the worst time? he thought. Giving only one of them a salmon dinner and offering steak to the others was not going to be good enough. What was Neil going to do? Cut the salmon filet into thirds? He could just imagine the headline in the paper: “CHEZ FLAMBÉ CUTS CORNERS, CHEATS CUSTOMERS.
He turned back to the kitchen, scrambling for a plan. Gary was gone. Neil ran over to the back door, which was still creaking on its rusty hinges.
“AWOL!” Neil had shouted, scaring two of the more agile cats that had gathered outside his restaurant. They retreated behind the Dumpster and meowed huffily. Neil could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. What was he going to do?
Neil stalled the critics with a series of scallop and whitefish appetizers, when Gary reappeared suddenly, breathing hard and holding a very fresh, beautiful, and dripping-wet salmon.
“It’s straight from the dock,” he said, handing Neil the fish. The smell was amazing. Neil had paid top dollar to the best fish mongers in the city, but he’d never had a salmon this good in his kitchen before.
“Where is this dock exactly?”
“Sorry, boss, that’s a secret. But it’s a bit of a ways away. . . . Let’s leave it at that.”
“How did you get there and back so fast?”
“Hey, man, I’m a bike courier. . . . You don’t really want to know.”
Neil just nodded, and began to expertly clean the wonderful salmon. The critics had been wowed and the reviews were certainly going to be as wonderful as the fish. If they kept this up, the restaurant might actually start making money.
Neil gave a sigh as he chopped some shallots.
Neil’s parents were constantly asking him when he was going to start turning a profit. They were both very successful businesspeople. Neil tried to explain that the restaurant business was tough and he needed to constantly reinvest any money he made in better stoves, ingredients, chairs . . . the list never ended. He tried not to tell them about all the destruction that had been caused by the recent spate of duels he’d fought against crazed Crusaders, computers, Aztecs, and rival chefs.
Luckily, Neil was getting a bit of a breather from his parents, who had joined Larry’s parents on a vacation in Spain. (Technically it was a business trip for a new antibacterial cream they were hoping to develop, although the sales conference was near a beach.) But the important part was that Neil’s parents had let him stay home on his own, on the condition that Neil checked in with Angel regularly. Angel Jícama was Neil’s mentor, hero, and friend. A great chef, who was constantly warning Neil about the dangers of the life of haute cuisine. Neil rarely listened.
Even school didn’t stink. Neil had handed in two math worksheets in a row. It didn’t hurt that the questions had all been about heat conduction and how long to cook a proper soufflé. It looked like he might actually pass his least favorite subject. Plus, Billy Berger had finally transferred schools, so that was one fewer archenemy to worry about.
Neil’s sideline as a human bloodhound was also good. He and Sean Nakamura had solved a minor food crime—smelling out a shipload of illegal chocolate bars. He’d left Gary in charge of dinner prep while they’d run out to gather evidence, and Neil had returned to a counter full of nearly perfect diced onions and chopped herbs.
And his red hair was starting to reemerge from his recent blond dye job.
Yes, Neil Flambé’s life was going well.
Neil had even found time to steal a few glances at the ongoing adventures of The Chef. Vegemight had been inching closer and closer to the Chef’s secret kitchen hideout, as the Chef began to nurture himself back to health. Clearly, a huge showdown was looming. In the latest installment, Vegemight landed his ship on the island and walked right to the Chef’s door—a cliff-hanger, to say the least. But there hadn’t been a new comic in days.
Neil assumed the manga was on hiatus while Larry and Hiro got down to the business of writing their book. He didn’t actually know, because Larry had also stopped texting him updates on his trip. Neil shook his head. Larry was always immersing himself in his various projects.
Neil understood that. It was the way he felt every time he walked into his kitchen. He grabbed some onions and started chopping them into quarters, getting them ready for the salsa he planned to serve with his grilled arctic char.
“Angel,” Zoe said, entering the kitchen.
Neil stole a look at the clock. Oops. He was supposed to check in with Angel hours ago. “Is he on the phone?”
Zoe shook her head. “Angel is here to see you.” She paused. “Nakamura is with him.”
“Um, okay. Tell them to come in.”
Angel and Nakamura showing up to talk to Neil at the same time wasn’t that unusual, but they almost always gave him advance warning by loudly arguing about some food bylaw. Showing up together silently—that was odd. Neil felt his knees start to quiver.
The look on Angel’s face as he slowly swung open the kitchen doors confirmed Neil’s worst fears. Had Angel been crying? Nakamura followed him and put his hand gently on Neil’s shoulder. His voice cracked as he said, “Neil, I think you should sit down. I’m afraid I’ve got . . . horrible news.”
