THE clouds moved in sometime in the wee hours, and Sunday morning dawned gray and sullen. Simon rolled out of bed feeling, if not refreshed, at least not as exhausted as he had the night before. He checked his phone and found only a few urgent matters had cropped up while he was sleeping, and he forwarded those issues to the staff who needed to know. Then, still sitting on the edge of the bed, he took a moment to tweet. Great to see @TwoStarLuke and @ColeDoren at the brasserie last night! Then he closed the reminder about Luminara menu prep this morning. In spite of all there was to do, he felt the first little stirrings of relief. Finally there would be a few boxes on the gigantic and ever-enlarging to-do list that he could check off.
He showered and shaved and dressed. For the staff of the brasserie, it was almost the weekend, and tired though he was, Simon could make it one more day.
They never ran service at the brasserie on Monday. It gave the staff a guaranteed day to rest and recover from the week, and the cleaners a day to do a deep clean between the weeks so the whole restaurant was exactly as it had to be. Hotel guests could grab something quick in the bar or order room service, but it was just salads, soups, and sandwiches on Monday.
But Sunday was a service day, and even if it was too early for the brasserie to open or for any of the customers to see him go into the place, Simon dressed to be seen. He could have chosen jeans and a T-shirt—if he owned a T-shirt—but those had been absent from his wardrobe since culinary school. He’d left them behind when he left being a child behind. Instead he wore a summer-weight white-and-blue dress shirt with his jeans, rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, and picked penny loafers instead of work shoes. And that was as close to casual as Simon ever came.
A part of him envied his brother Nate, who ran the Old Canoe Brewery. The guy always looked like he slept in what he was wearing. He tended toward comfortable T-shirts and busted old shoes. Tristan too had a really good casual thing going, what with his black-and-white kitchen shoes and his collection of New York bakery shirts. But Simon could never remember his dad in a T-shirt, though he did remember his dad once said, “Apparel oft proclaim the man.”
He glanced out his window at the bad view down to the dumpsters and the back of the kitchen. The sky was already clear, and the cream color of a hen’s egg. They’d have to prop the windows and doors open and get the fans going to make the kitchen bearable tonight.
Simon waved at Jim at the front desk as he headed out the door into air that was already hot enough to be sticky. Maybe he and the staff could look over the paperwork outside before they all got shut up in the brasserie for service. He walked the few blocks into town to buy a croissant and a coffee from Sweet Nothings, where his brother Tristan stood, red-faced and sweating, at the till.
“Hot one,” Simon remarked as he paid for his croissant.
“Brutal,” Tristan agreed.
“I sent a friend down.” Simon tried to make it sound casual. “Luke, from culinary school.”
“Okay,” Tristan answered. Simon was aware of the line stacking up behind him, just as he was aware of Tristan’s red and sweaty face and the flour that dusted his forehead. First impressions. This is going to be a terrible one. Luke can’t see him like this.
“You might want to wash your face,” Simon suggested.
Tristan glared at him. “You want to do my job?”
Simon shrugged. “You have flour all over you. It looks… scruffy.”
“I’m a baker,” Tristan snapped. “And you’re holding up the line. Get lost.”
Simon took his croissant and headed to the cafe and then back to the brasserie and to work.
GINGER and Jenny and Mark were waiting for him, already deep in conversation when he arrived. Jenny, the sous, was the first to notice him. She glanced up and waved. “Morning,” she called.
He saluted them with his coffee and dragged a stool over to the stainless steel worktop to join them. All the doors in the kitchen were flung wide, and the breeze was cool enough to make the place bearable, even with the promise of a broiling August afternoon in the air.
“How’s it looking?” Simon asked, nodding at the stack of paperwork on the table before them.
“Everybody’s timesheets are in,” Ginger answered. “And since I’m currently acting as maître d’, but I’m also, allegedly, head of beverage, I have to tell you—”
“Ah,” Simon whispered. Right, the new position. And David leaving soon. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll talk to HR.”
She nodded. “When?”
He frowned. “What?”
“You’ve been telling me you’ll talk with HR for a week. When are you actually going to do it?”
Simon squeezed his eyes closed. “Really? It’s been two weeks since Dave gave notice already?” This summer was going past him like a freight train. First Tristan’s bakery fire, then the shenanigans with Nate, and now Luminara rushing up.
“Yep.” Ginger popped the final p in the word. “David’s already mentally in Napa. You need to get this stuff sorted out or Hiro’s going to blow a gasket over the state of the cellar.”
Next to her, Jenny giggled. When Simon scowled at her, she shrugged. “She’s right. He says all that’s left is the high-end stuff and the stuff mall Santas drink and nothing in between.”
Simon tried not to laugh at that. He gripped the coffee with one hand and fumbled out his phone. “Right,” he said as he opened the note program.
Mark made a sympathetic noise. “It’s been a big summer,” he said in a comforting tone.
“It sure has. And it’s not done yet,” Simon agreed. He hauled in a deep breath and centered himself. Then he called up the phone app and dialed Taylor. She wouldn’t be in, since it was Monday, but that was fine. “Hi, Taylor, Simon here. Ginger has accepted an offered position and has become head of beverage as of….” He glanced at her.
“August first,” she answered.
“Holy shit,” he whispered and then said “August first” into his phone. “Could you call me back to confirm you’ve received this information? I’ll send the signed contract along this week.” He hung up.
“Thanks, boss,” Ginger said.
“Sorry it took so long.” He took a drink of his coffee and set down his phone. “Okay, how’s the paperwork looking?”
“Timesheets are in, but Sam still hasn’t gotten us his tax information.” She frowned. “He asked me when payday is and….” She shrugged. “I’ve worked in service for ten years and never seen someone fail to turn in their paperwork after two weeks. Do we issue the check or not?”
Simon scowled. Sam was a good kid for the most part. He was young, but he did seem to have more than his fair share of the issues that accompanied a young member of staff. He turned up to work in a less than pristine condition, forgot paperwork or shift-end times, and once even had to be sent home to shower. He was diligent and thorough about his work, but definitely lacked in other areas.
“No,” Simon declared. “If he asks, tell him we have to have his tax information first. Legally we do.” He thought about how Sam’s whites had been less than white all week and how he’d overstayed his shift on Wednesday. “Actually, I’ll talk to him. There are a couple things I’ve been meaning to mention.”
“Don’t scare him,” Jenny said. “Remember he’s just a kid.”
Simon was genuinely startled. “Me?”
Jenny gave him the side-eye. Simon glanced at Mark, who shrugged and pointed first at Simon and then at himself. “The three of us? We’re used to the kitchen, and as far as kitchens go, this one’s pretty tame. But Sam doesn’t know how they usually go. And you can be… abrupt sometimes.”
Shit, really? He’d always prided himself on following in his father’s footsteps, running a respectful kitchen where people earned their places rather than stepped over the bodies of their former friends to become the next sous. But apparently it wasn’t quite as lovey-dovey as he’d always thought it was. Simon nodded. “Okay, okay. Thanks for letting me know.” He took another long sip of his coffee to give himself a minute to wrap his head around that. While he was sipping, Mark slid a paper over to him—the final draft of the proposed Luminara menu.
Simon glanced at Mark’s blue-ballpoint all-caps menu, and Mark cleared his throat. When Simon looked at him, Mark scratched one thick eyebrow and smiled and shrugged, all in one sheepish motion. He glanced at Jenny, who nodded with her whole body.
“What?” Simon asked.
“Ferreya,” Mark said. “There’s a two-star chef staying in town. It’d be ridiculous not to ask him if he wants to have a look at the menu.”
“No.” Simon felt a pinch of panic, a powerful desire to protect Luke from even the idea. He looked at Jenny and then Mark. “You guys, he’s out. Didn’t you hear him last night? He left the kitchen. He doesn’t want to work with food anymore.”
“I know,” Mark said, and he said it with a heavy significance that Simon couldn’t understand. “Can you imagine what that’s like?” he elaborated.
“Can you imagine how bad it must have been for him to get to that place?” Simon countered.
Mark nodded, his expression sober. “Terrible,” he said quietly. “I’ve been thinking about it since last night. You know he spent the entire meal looking into the kitchen?” He shook his graying head. “You could see him wanting to get up and then stopping himself. I don’t think he tasted a thing on his plate,” he added with more sympathy than disappointment.
Simon sighed. Even though Luke professed happiness, he’d noticed the air of distraction, the unfinished glass of wine. “I bet it’s hard to turn off after a while. I guess celebrity is pretty exhausting.”
“Being in a kitchen is exhausting. Being in the industry is exhausting,” Mark said. “None of us do it because it’s easy, or for the pay,” he added with a faint smile at Simon, who spread his hands in an empty gesture. “I know,” Mark said soothingly. “The margins are tight. What I’m saying is, we do it because we’re all broken people. We love food more than we love money or rest. How about that?” he chuckled. “And people with Michelin stars? They’re the worst of us. They’re the most addicted. Those kitchens are brutal, and we all know that.”
Simon heaved in a deep breath. He knew only too well how many chefs Mark had nurtured in the brasserie’s kitchen, where Mark never raised his voice unless it was to be heard more clearly. People who trained under Mark rarely made it in other fine-dining kitchens, and not for lack of skills. They were far more likely to set up their own shops than take the abuse dished out in most kitchens.
“Maybe,” Mark went on, “maybe what he needs isn’t a break from the work. Maybe what he needs is a change.”
“Something quiet. Low pressure,” Jenny agreed.
Simon’s stomach clenched. “You guys.” He raised his hands in a calm-down motion.
“He came out to the brasserie… and with a food critic,” Mark said.
“Oh, come on,” Simon cried. “None of us have any friends who aren’t in the industry. You met your wife in the kitchen. You two didn’t even take a honeymoon.”
Mark conceded the point with a nod.
“Look, we wouldn’t be asking him to work,” Jenny said. “We’d be inviting him to give his opinion on the menu. Maaaaybe make some suggestions if he wanted to. No pressure.”
“We wouldn’t even set it up in the kitchen,” Mark added. “We could chat out here in the walnut grove.”
“That’s brilliant,” Jenny agreed. “It’s an outdoor menu anyway.”
“Oh my God, you two,” Simon interrupted. “He came out here to get away from everything.”
“Well, you know….” Mark bobbed his head from side to side. “I wonder.”
Simon gave him a flat look.
“You could ask him as a friend,” Jenny suggested. “That would be even less pressure.”
“The man clearly misses his work,” Mark said firmly.
“It’s mutually beneficial,” Jenny chipped in. “We want Luminara to be spectacular. His input could really put it over the top.”
“They’re right,” Ginger murmured. “We could use his help.”
Simon scrubbed his face with his hands. On the one hand, Luke was his friend, and he’d clearly made a decision that was hard for him. One the other… well, Mark was right. Even Simon had noticed Luke’s self-deprecating comments and his longing glances into the kitchen. Simon had seen chefs burn out before. Sometimes they ran too hot for too long and then suddenly bought a ticket to somewhere like Patagonia and vanished from the culinary scene. Maybe this trip was Luke’s equivalent of dropping off the map. But maybe what he needed wasn’t a complete break, just a step back—to work with his passion without the pressure to perform.
And there was Luminara and all that it meant to the hotel and next year. Simon groaned into his hands. They were right. They’d be stupid not to tap Luke’s palate and his experience.
“Okay,” he said at last. “Okay, okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll text him and ask him if he’d like to check out the new menu. Okay?”
Mark visibly perked up.
“And if he says yes, we’re just going to run it like a tasting. All right? Informal. Under the walnuts. He won’t even see the kitchen.”
Mark nodded. “Perfect.”
“And then if he says he wants to make some suggestions, fine. But let him initiate.”
Mark nodded again, and Jenny joined in too and grinned. Simon scowled at the two of them. “Listen you two. I will flip my shit if you try to get Luke into our kitchen. Understand?”
“Absolutely,” Mark said as he pushed himself to his feet. “We don’t want to force him into a kitchen again, just—” He framed a big circle in the air. “—make space for him to feel invited in.”
All at once, Mark’s phone chimed, and he got to his feet. “Well,” he said, smiling at Jenny, “I’m glad we got that done.” He nodded at Ginger. “Text me if I need to do anything for you. All right? I’ll have my phone on.”
Ginger nodded.
Simon frowned at Mark. “Are you heading out?”
Mark nodded. “I’m driving Helena to Coalville, remember?”
Actually Simon had forgotten. Mark’s wife had been having vision problems. The doctors thought it was migraines, but she had spent a whole day being tapped for blood and doing all kinds of tests, and the results were in. It wasn’t as though she could drive herself over there. “Text me if he says he’ll come. Okay? I need to tell the rest of the kitchen.”
Simon nodded.
“Great.” Mark’s grin was huge and boyish. “And if he likes that, maybe he could go tour the barns and the farm.” He had one hand on the doorframe but seemed like the kitchen was hauling him back. “If he goes to the farm, he should go in the morning, when everything is cool and you can still smell the herbs in the air. The gardens are perfect then.”
Simon shook his head, helplessly proud of Mark. “Do you want to be there if we go?”
Mark shook his head. “No, no. I’m a fellow chef. He won’t be able to stop himself from talking shop. Jenny shouldn’t go either,” he added. “Sorry.”
She shrugged.
“He should go with you,” Mark said. “Just friends. No pressure. Oh, and—”
Jenny sat back in her chair. “Mark,” she said, “it’s eight thirty.”
“Right.” Mark shook himself as though coming out of a dream. “Coalville.” He pointed at Ginger. “Let me know what I need to do for you.” He pointed at Jenny. “Take a look at the cream in the fridge. I think it needs a shallower pan.” Jenny nodded. He made finger guns at all of them. “See you guys later.”
When he disappeared, Jenny turned back to Simon. She had a satisfied smile on her face. “Oh, don’t look so worried, Simon. We’re not going to tie Luke up and throw him in cold storage or anything.”
He sighed. “Jenny, I do not have time to chaperone Luke all over the farm.”
Ginger suddenly turned her head just slightly and narrowed her eyes at Simon.
“I don’t.”
“Wouldn’t Luke do it for you?” Jenny asked.
Simon scowled at her. The answer was yes. In fact, considering the way Luke sought him out when he dropped out of culinary school and kept up with him online and kept him involved in the industry hotspots, he couldn’t help feeling that Luke already had.
“Touché,” he muttered.