The kitchen at the Praeger House was like most of the other kitchens Lizzy had labored in over the years—hours of preparation leading to a brief period of frenzy followed by more hours of preparation. The division of labor was pretty clear after a couple of days. Baking belonged exclusively to Clarice. Everything else belonged, also more or less exclusively, to Lizzy.
Lizzy had tried some of Clarice’s muffins, and she had to admit they weren’t bad. Nor were they particularly distinguished, unfortunately. Blueberry, bran and chocolate chip were about the extent of her muffin repertoire, or at least the extent of the muffins she produced for the Praeger House. They reminded Lizzy a bit of the kind of stuff she’d picked up at Whole Foods back in the day. Not awful—just sort of…mass-produced. On the other hand, Clarice was baking for people who might not notice the difference between bran and blueberry, given that they were more interested in quantity than quality where food was concerned, so it was possible she didn’t feel much need to stretch.
Clarice sure as hell wasn’t stretching when it came to the lunches. Turkey, ham and roast beef were about it for sandwiches, with a slice of matching cheese for each piece of meat and a draggling bit of leaf lettuce. Lizzy asked her the first day about chicken salad, but Clarice grimaced. “Too much trouble. And it’s liable to get soggy if the sandwiches sit in the case for too long. Plain sandwiches are good enough.”
“What about spreading on some mayo or mustard?” Lizzy asked. The dry bread seemed to make the single piece of lettuce look even more pathetic.
Clarice shrugged. “They can pick up a packet of mayo or mustard from the basket next to the cooler. There’s probably some ketchup in there too. Desi’s the one who keeps it stocked.”
Lizzy felt like sighing. Commercial mayo in a packet struck her as just this side of barbaric, but it wasn’t her kitchen. And dry-bread sandwiches were faster to make than sandwiches with condiments.
She’d started staying late in the afternoons rather than coming in at four in the morning to do prep. She could get most of the breakfast prep work done after she’d finished the sandwiches and salads. Clarice usually took off soon after the breakfast service was over, which left Lizzy alone in the kitchen for most of the day.
In fact, now that Lizzy thought about it, Clarice spent precious little time in her kitchen. Lizzy frowned at the bowl of greens with cranberries and almonds on the counter in front of her. After Clarice got her muffin and coffee cake batter mixed up and in the walk-in, she basically disappeared. Lizzy was all for efficient use of time, but Clarice seemed to be taking efficiency to a new high. How had she functioned before she had Lizzy to take care of the other kitchen duties?
However she’d functioned before, she was functioning now by letting Lizzy run the kitchen for all intents and purposes. Fortunately for Lizzy’s sanity, however, she had Desi to load the dishwasher, sweep the floor and scrub the pots.
“Where does Clarice go?” she asked him one day. “I mean she doesn’t spend a lot of time around here.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Ever since you got here, she’s been taking off early. Of course now she’s got you doing all the stuff she used to do, so why should she stick around?”
Lizzy grimaced. Why indeed? She checked the recipe for Autumn Salad on the bulletin board one more time. She didn’t really see what was so Autumny about it—every restaurant seemed to have a salad with dried cranberries and sliced almonds. At least it was better than the Asian salad with Mandarin orange slices and chow mein noodles. And like condiments for the sandwiches, the salad dressings came in factory-produced packets.
It’s not your problem, Lizzy. It wasn’t. But at the same time it made her grit her teeth. It wouldn’t be that much harder to make up some custom salad dressings and some flavored aioli for the sandwiches. They could put it in cups and have it available in the same cooler case where they stocked the sandwiches and salads, and they could bump up the price a bit to compensate. She couldn’t figure out why Clarice was letting her kitchen slide into mediocrity—because that was absolutely what was happening.
She wondered if the problem was Denham. Did he want to keep costs down? Had he given Clarice a limited budget to work with? Still, you could do interesting things even with a limited budget. Lizzy had done a few of them herself. Breakfast stratas were easy and cheap. A bowl of fresh salsa would make the scrambled eggs a lot more interesting. Hell, adding some onions and garlic directly to the eggs would definitely spice things up.
Getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?
Lizzy grimaced again, shoving another ham and Swiss sandwich into the cardboard and cellophane box. When she got into a kitchen, she automatically started planning menus and dreaming of recipes—even in a limited kitchen like this one.
She could make it better. She could introduce some simple changes in the recipes that would produce major changes in the quality of the food.
You could be exposed as a fraud.
Lizzy’s shoulders tightened. So far nobody had seemed particularly interested in her. Maybe nobody in town would recognize her anyway.
You were on the covers of three tabloids.
She bit her lip. They hadn’t been the big tabloids. And maybe nobody here read tabloids. Maybe the people of Salt Box were too well-adjusted to read gossip.
The door to the kitchen swung open and one of those well-adjusted citizens prowled in. Denham narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the kitchen. “Where’s Clarice?”
Actually, Lizzy had no idea where Clarice was. But she followed the long-standing kitchen tradition of Protect the Chef. “She just stepped out a moment ago.”
Denham didn’t look impressed. “I just stepped in, and I didn’t see her.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure she’ll be back soon.” She glanced toward Desi, hoping for support.
Desi shrugged. “I don’t know where she went. She just walked out.”
Denham looked at the line of sandwich boxes on the counter, along with the stack of plastic salad bowls. “Did she do that?”
Lizzy shook her head. There was only so far she’d go in protecting Clarice. “I did that.”
“Oh.” He still frowned. “What about breakfast?”
What about it? “We’ve finished serving.” Which should have been self-evident since it was two in the afternoon at least.
Denham turned his frown in her direction. “I know that. I mean, what about breakfast for tomorrow. Don’t you have to get things ready?”
Why was he checking up on her? “I’ll start working on it as soon as I finish with the sandwiches and salads.”
Denham leaned back against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. “So you do the preparations for breakfast and you do the sandwiches and salads?”
She nodded. “I do.” Have there been complaints? Did somebody get sick? Her stomach muscles clenched tight.
He raised an eyebrow. “So what does Clarice do?”
Good question. Except that she couldn’t really sandbag her boss and feel good about it. “She runs the omelet station. And she bakes all the breakfast breads. She’s already made the batter for tomorrow. It’s in the walk-in refrigerator. Chilling.” Presumably, Clarice was off chilling herself at the moment.
Denham started to ask her something else when the kitchen door flew open, banging back against the wall. Clarice strode across the floor to where Denham stood. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” He gave her a dry smile.
“Well, here I am. What do you want?” Clarice was there, but she didn’t look like she was ready for action. She’d changed from her chef’s clothes to jeans and a tank. Instead of her clogs, she wore high-heeled sandals. And she was breathing a little hard—as if she’d just trotted in from the parking lot.
“Going out?” Denham’s eyebrow was up again.
Clarice shrugged. “I’m working in my office. Like I said, what do you want?”
Denham picked up a magazine from the counter beside him. “Have you seen this?”
Lizzy peered surreptitiously at the headline he was pointing to. Best of the Box Entries Open.
Clarice looked at the page and then shrugged again. “So? They run that contest every year.”
Denham nodded. “They do. But they’ve added a new category for breakfast buffet this year.”
Clarice stared at him, her eyes widening. “You’re not thinking of entering.”
Denham shrugged. “Why not? We qualify. It’s a different category from Sunday brunch, so we won’t be up against the hotels at the resort.”
“You’re not serious.” Clarice’s lips spread in a grin that was closer to a sneer. “This place? This buffet? We wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Denham’s jaw had gone square, and his eyes looked like they could cut steel. “We wouldn’t? Why not?”
“Because this is an all-you-can-eat buffet for outdoors freaks. We specialize in mass quantities of food, not food for some restaurant critic.”
Sneering at the restaurant in front of your boss seemed like a really poor idea. Lizzy took a quick glance at Denham’s face. His jaw muscles were clenched so tightly they looked like granite.
Clarice licked her lips. Her voice took on a slightly more conciliatory note. “I mean we do what we do very well. But we’re geared for our particular guests, not for people who come to a restaurant for a leisurely breakfast.”
Denham stared at her for a moment longer. Then his lips moved into a smile that didn’t seem to reach the upper part of his face. “Maybe we should think about that a little more. Not everybody who stays at the hotel is getting ready to climb Mt. Monson.”
Clarice shrugged. “We can discuss the menu sometime if you want, but it’s set for the rest of the month. I’ve already put in the orders with our suppliers.”
“And you can’t change the menu once you’ve ordered the food?” Denham’s eyebrows went up. “Can you alter the recipes?”
Clarice’s expression was taking on that mulish cast again. “It could screw up the kitchen if you start meddling with my recipes. Right now we’re functioning efficiently.”
Denham’s gaze flicked to Lizzy and back, and she knew just what he was thinking. You’re operating so efficiently you can basically punt the entire kitchen to your new assistant.
Clarice’s shoulders tightened. She must have seen that side glance at Lizzy. “If you start making changes, efficiency will go down. Changes need to be introduced carefully, a little at a time. You don’t throw out a whole menu and start something entirely new.”
Denham stared at her for a long moment, and Lizzy wondered if he’d actually fire his chef in front of the kitchen crew. Then he shrugged. “We’ll talk about it.” He picked up the magazine. “I want to enter Best of the Box. And if that means changing the menu, I want us to do that, Clarice.”
Clarice stared back at him stonily. “We’ll talk about it,” she echoed.
Denham turned on his heel and stomped back through the kitchen door.
“Asshole,” Clarice snarled, blowing out a breath. A moment later she followed him out.
Lizzy watched the kitchen door swing closed behind her. “Well, that was interesting.”
Desi shrugged, turning back to the dishwasher. “Maybe. The thing is, whatever they decide it’s just going to mean more work for us.”
“Possibly.” She frowned. There had been all sorts of intriguing undercurrents in that conversation, but she hadn’t really been in the kitchen long enough to get a clear read on what was going on. “Very possibly.”
Whatever it was, Desi was undoubtedly right about one thing. It would definitely mean more work for the two of them.
*****
Clark left his office earlier than usual that evening. He wanted a beer. He’d even say he needed a beer. He was still nursing a case of being irritated with nowhere to direct his irritation. The galling thing was that Clarice was telling the truth—the breakfast buffet had turned into a feeding frenzy for post-adolescent outdoors types, and he’d let it happen because the buffet itself was a cash cow.
He didn’t mind enthusiastic diners—they paid the bills. But when he’d bought Praeger House, he’d vowed to make it the best hotel in town. He’d done that to his own satisfaction. It might not be the most luxurious place in Salt Box, but it was definitely up there. Travel guides ranked it consistently among the top three hotels in the area, and that included the major chains at the ski resort. But he’d let the food service slide because he didn’t have the expertise. And the breakfast buffet clearly wasn’t up to the Praeger House standard anymore.
The Best of the Box competition had been around for several years, and he’d done well with it every year. Praeger House got regular mentions for accommodations and beautiful grounds. Given that the hotel had started out as a mostly derelict building that Clark had brought back to its former glory—restoring the place to the grandeur it had once had as a timber baron’s mansion—those mentions were more than welcome.
But the larger part of the ratings was always food-oriented: best burger, best pizza, best romantic dining spot, and so on. Why shouldn’t Praeger House get a mention there too? If they were going to be the best of the best, the food service should be part of it.
He was still a little annoyed that Clarice hadn’t shown more enthusiasm for the idea. How tough would it be to make the breakfast buffet a little more special? Hell, they already did omelets. It didn’t seem that much harder to add French toast or something.
He plunged his hands into his pockets and headed for the back door, still simmering slightly. He wasn’t sure how to deal with the situation. Clarice had basically refused to do anything about Best of the Box, and he didn’t get the impression that decision was going to be open to discussion. Firing Clarice wasn’t an option since replacing her would be a true pain in the ass, although she was beginning to annoy him seriously. She’d run the kitchen for a couple of years now and she’d done a decent job. He wasn’t interested in the hassle of hiring somebody new, particularly in a foodie town like this one.
As he neared the back door, he noticed light from the dining room, where there shouldn’t be any since it was well past five. Frowning, he swung the door open and stepped inside. Actually, the light was from the kitchen door at the back of the dining room. He frowned harder. No one was supposed to be in the kitchen at this time of night. He wondered briefly if some of his frat-boy guests had decided to come down for an evening snack.
He approached the door carefully and peeked in the window at the top.
Lizzy Apodaca stood at one of the prep tables, slicing onions with precision and grace. There were several bowls on the table around her, already full of vegetables. Just on a hunch, he’d bet they were for the omelets, but he supposed they could be for the salads.
Clark frowned. He hadn’t thought about the sandwiches and salads. Were they as uninspired as the breakfasts? They didn’t sell as many of them, but most visitors went out to eat in the evening, didn’t they?
For the first time he wondered if the quality of the sandwiches and salads had anything to do with their modest sales.
Terrific. He really didn’t want to be worrying about this stuff. Food service was way out of his comfort zone. That was why he’d hired Clarice in the first place, so that she could take care of all these problems and he could run his hotel in peace.
Lizzy Apodaca looked up suddenly, maybe aware of someone staring at her. Clark opened the door, feeling slightly embarrassed. I’m not a Peeping Tom, lady, honest. “Hi. Working late?”
She frowned slightly, and he had to admit it wasn’t one of his better opening lines. Lines? Since when are you giving the kitchen help lines?
“I usually get the prep work done for tomorrow before I knock off. It beats coming in at four.”
“In the morning?” he blurted.
The corners of her lips edged up. This seemed to be his day for idiotic statements.
“Clarice starts baking around four thirty. I come in at five and get the meat and potatoes going. And the oatmeal.”
Oatmeal. He’d forgotten that they even served oatmeal. Not surprising since he never touched the stuff. “What about juice and fruit?” Surely they served something healthy.
She shrugged. “Actually, I just finished cutting up the melon a few minutes ago. I’ll put the berries in bowls tomorrow morning.”
He frowned. Was there anything she didn’t cook? “What about the juice?”
“We have a juice dispenser in the dining room. I fill it before we start serving. Then Desi empties out any juice that’s left and cleans it after we stop serving.” She didn’t seem particularly annoyed by his interest, unlike Clarice.
He leaned back against the counter again. “Any ideas about how we could maybe change things up a little around here?”
It might have been the dim light, but he could swear she blushed. The flush of color across her cheeks seemed to draw attention to the dark obsidian of her eyes. Until she looked away from him again. “That’s not really my area.”
He frowned again. “What isn’t?”
“Planning the menu. That’s up to Clarice.” She gathered the pile of chopped onion and dropped it into one of the stainless steel bowls on the tabletop.
“Why is that?” Although he was pretty sure he knew the answer.
“Clarice is the chef,” she said slowly. “You don’t undermine the chef. It’s not…” She paused for a moment. “It’s not good form.”
He nodded. “I understand that. Hierarchies matter. But this is my hotel. And I want to put out a good breakfast. Not just an edible breakfast.”
She raised her head again, and this time her obsidian eyes were flashing. “Our breakfast is more than edible. It’s tasty and it’s filling. Which is what your guests are looking for.”
For a moment he was distracted by those eyes, that dark wave of hair, and those very nice, slightly bee-stung lips. Then he shook it off. “Glad to hear it. Now if we could just get a breakfast that I could brag about, we could all be happy.”
“I’m already happy, Mr. Denham. But I’ll see what I can do.” Her lips moved up into a faint smile. Then she picked up another onion.
Clark started to turn back toward the door. His cue to exit. “Good night, Ms. Apodaca.”
“Good night, Mr. Denham.” She didn’t look up.
He headed down the hall again. Time to head for the back door and then the Blarney Stone. But all the way there he found himself thinking of Lizzy Apodaca. And what it was that might make her happy. Or maybe happier.