Neil expertly drizzled a fine pattern of honey over his plates of crispy, butter-fried pastry. The lines were so thin and airy they seemed like they might float away if the slightest breeze came through the back door. That was exactly the impression Neil wanted.
“Honey can be an overwhelming taste,” he told Larry as he laid down the first line. “Too much, even one glob out of place, and the balance of the dish is completely thrown off.”
Neil Flambé never let that imbalance happen.
Never.
“It smells like a candy shop in here!” Larry yelled happily as he peeled potatoes. “Who can make the buns rise? Pringle them with stew!” he sang, mashing up the words to the tune of “The Candy Man.”
Gary, the bike courier and part-time kitchen helper, joined in. “The candied ham! The candied ham can!” Gary had recently stepped in to help cook at Chez Flambé, during Larry’s ill-fated trip to Japan. Gary had proven so good—especially with fish—that Neil had kept him around for the busier nights.
“Please be quiet!” Neil yelled as he attempted to concentrate on his honey pattern.
Larry stood stock-still, a shocked expression on his face. “Neil Flambé said . . . please!”
“Mark today on the calendar!” Gary said, chuckling.
“Shut up!” Neil yelled. . . . “Please!”
“Twice!” Larry yelled, leaping up and giving Gary a high five.
“Even the ‘shut up’ sounded polite!”
“I think the chef is in love!”
Neil shook his head sadly and turned his attention back to his meal. “Note to self: earplugs,” he murmured sadly as he continued the delicate work. Larry was right about one thing: The kitchen smelled wonderful.
The ice-cream maker was gently churning a perfectly blended honey confection.
The honey-glazed ham was braising on low heat in his oven, the honey browning and mellowing as it mixed with the fatty meat, the cloves, and other spices.
The ham itself had been bought—for a hefty price—from Neil’s hefty mentor, Angel Jícama. It was worth the money. Neil knew it would be better than anything you could get at a butcher shop, even a great one. Angel had that special, magic touch. Neil would eventually slice the cooked ham so thin it would melt on the mouths of his guests like a fine pancetta.
A tiny rush of cool air slid under the kitchen doors from the dining room. The draft was a sure sign the front door of their dilapidated building had opened. The guests had begun to arrive.
Neil put the last gossamer thread of honey over the pastry. He took a step back and smiled. He was ready.
Zoe and Amber Soba, Neil’s waitstaff, peeked their heads in through the kitchen doors.
“Showtime!” Zoe said.
Neil barely nodded his head in acknowledgment.
“Is Lane’s daughter, Penny, out there?” Larry said, smoothing the front of his chef’s jacket. “I haven’t seen her in ages.”
Zoe shook her head. “Sorry, lover boy. Lane says she’s accepted some research assignment on bugs or lizards or something in the middle of a jungle somewhere. Even he doesn’t know where she is.”
Larry’s shoulders sagged, and he scrunched up the front of his chef’s jacket again.
Zoe’s twin sister, Amber, peeked her head into the kitchen. “Menus have been delivered. Don’t blow it!”
Neil narrowed his eyes and growled.
Larry and Gary exchanged a chuckle behind him.
“I think the best chance for ‘blowing it’ comes from the sous-chefs,” Neil said, walking over to the stove and agitating a frying pan filled with caramelized onions.
“Hey, I’m only here because you said you needed help!” Gary said with a look of mock disgust.
“Then stop cracking jokes with Captain Coffee over there and actually help,” Neil said.
“Coffee! Great idea, Neil! Gary, let’s make coffee!” Larry cheered.
Larry busied himself with the coffeemaker as Gary began grinding some freshly roasted beans.
Neil rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll get the food ready. It’s safer for everyone that way.” Thank goodness tonight was a set menu, no variations allowed. He sounded more annoyed than he actually felt. On a normal, busier night, he’d be ready to kill either Larry or Gary . . . or both.
Neil took the ham out of the oven and placed it on the counter to rest. Then he set out the plates for the appetizer course.
Larry and Gary got the coffee brewing and got back to work. The sound of all the chopping, slicing, boiling, cutting, and plating gave the kitchen a kind of electric buzz.
Neil allowed himself a deep, satisfied breath. He was finally back in his element, in his kitchen paradise. He loved being a chef. This was way better than solving crimes. He glanced up at the one bottle of honey that threatened his peace, and scowled.
Amber and Zoe collected the appetizers and took them to the dining room.
The appreciative oohs and aahs and the animated conversation wafted into the kitchen.
“Music to my ears.” Neil smiled as he pushed some silky boiled potatoes through a ricer, giving them the exact creamy texture that would balance the meaty ham.
Tonight was going to be another crowning, and lucrative, success.
“I prefer my music with more drums.” Larry laughed as he quickly sautéed some green peas with butter and garlic.
“That’s because your head stops working if it’s not banged around by loud noises,” Neil said.
“Ha-ha,” Larry said. “This from the guy who spent all week cranking a fry pan off his noggin.”
“Can I do anything?” Gary said. He’d finished cleaning some pots and was now sitting on a countertop rocking his legs back and forth.
Neil began slicing the ham. “Yes,” he said. “For the dessert topping I need exactly two cups of honey. Not a molecule more or less. The honey is still a little crystallized, so you’ll need to heat it a bit in a double boiler to liquefy it. I need it nice and silky so I can pour it into the trifle with the crumbled chocolate.”
“Yes, sir!” Gary said, leaping down from the counter and prepping a pan of water on one of the stove tops.
Neil heard Amber and Zoe gathering the plates.
He knew, from experience, that this was the best moment to make his appearance. The crowd would be happy and attentive. Their first glasses of wine would leave them mellow and settled.
Neil put his knife down and smoothed the front of his chef’s jacket.
Larry made a drumming sound on the counter with his hands. “The great star prepares to make his grand entrance. Should Amber get the spotlight ready?”
Neil ignored him and walked up to the kitchen doors. Amber and Zoe began bringing in the dishes, smiling and giving Neil pats on the back and relaying the various compliments the diners had asked them to convey.
Amber offered up . . .
“Delicious.”
“Delectable.”
“Fantastic.”
“Fabulous.”
With each word, Neil seemed to grow taller.
Zoe, as she passed through the doors, added . . .
“Wonderful.”
“Stupendous.”
“Repulsive.”
Neil did a double take. “What? Repulsive? Who said repulsive?”
“I made that one up,” Zoe smiled. “We don’t want you getting too cocky.”
Neil took a deep breath and then pushed open the kitchen doors.
“I’m surprised he can fit his head through there,” Larry called, just loud enough to be heard over the swinging hinges.
The diners heard it as well, and turned to see Neil, who was actually scowling for a moment as the insult lingered in the air.
Neil made a mental note to put a laxative in Larry’s next coffee. The idea cheered him up and the smile returned to his face.
Lord Lane was seated at the head of a large table. A group of five men and women were seated around the table.
Lane spotted Neil and leaped to his feet. He strode over to Neil, his hand extended. “That was an exquisite use of that honey. I knew you were the perfect chef for this job. ‘Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens, a joint of mutton, and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William cook.’ ”
Neil took Lane’s hand, but as happy as he was with the compliment, he was completely confused by the string of words Lane had added to them.
“Thank you and . . . um, sorry,” Neil said slowly. “Was that last bit German? Or . . . French?”
Lord Lane looked at Neil as if he didn’t quite understand him. “You were supposed to say, ‘Doth the man of war stay all night, sir?’ It’s the next line from the play!”
“Play?”
“Henry the Fourth, Part Two!” Lane gave Neil a slap on the shoulder.
Neil still looked perplexed. He suddenly felt an incredible urge to hightail it back to the kitchen. His mood was further confused by a bright flash from outside the front window. Neil looked over and saw a photographer taking photos.
Paparazzi? Snapping pics of an English lord having dinner? Possibly . . . The British press were notorious for their rabid pursuit of celebrities. Or was it something else . . . ? Forget it! Neil told himself. No more mysteries!
Lane’s silky voice snapped Neil back to reality. “Shakespeare,” Lane was saying slowly. “You’ve heard of him?”
Neil was distracted by another flash. What was going on? He looked outside as a large man in a trench coat got into a dark car and drove away. Lane was still talking.
“You seem perplexed, lad. Well, perhaps you don’t study Shakespeare here in the colonies anymore?” Lane asked, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “He’s actually quite good.”
“I know who Shakespeare is,” Neil said. “I just haven’t read that particular play.” Neil hadn’t read any Shakespeare plays, in fact. He was more interested in unlocking the secrets of pepper than of poetry.
“Well, you should try, dear boy! Or perhaps, like so many of your generation, you are more enamored of video games and loud music?”