Turn Up the Heat
A Gourmet Girl Mystery
For Alexa,
a loyal friend,
who survived college dining with Jessica
Praise for the Gourmet Girl Mysteries
“Mystery lovers know a champion when they see one.” —Carolyn G. Hart, author of Death on Demand
Steamed
“All the right ingredients—fresh characters, a dash of humor, and a sizzling romance.” —Elaine Viets
“This delectable collaboration between Jessica Conant-Park and her mother, Susan Conant, author of the Cat Lover’s and the Dog Lover’s mystery series, introduces an appealing heroine.… This scrumptious cozy, the first of a new series, has it all—charming characters, sappy dialogue, and mouth-watering recipes.” —Publishers Weekly
“Famous writer of mysteries involving cats and dogs, Susan Conant teams up with her daughter to write a refreshingly charming chick-lit mystery.… There’s no doubt about it—this is the start of a great new series.” —Midwest Book Review
“Steamed is a gem. It grabs you from the start, as the heroine is witty, down-to-earth, and rolls with the punches. Great competition to anything Diane Mott Davidson has ever offered. Top this winning combination off with some decadent sounding recipes and I can guarantee Steamed will be topping the bestseller list in no time.” —Roundtable Reviews
Simmer Down
“This is a fun Gourmet Girl Mystery.… Readers will enjoy the heroine’s escapades as she risks her life to uncover the identity of a killer. The mother-daughter team provides the audience with a delicious chick-lit cozy filled with lists, recipes, and asides as Chloe takes on Beantown.” —The Best Reviews
“A heaping helping of simmering suspense and just plain fun … Deliciously delightful!” —Alesia Holliday, author of Blondes Have More Felons
“Packed with delicious recipes … the Gourmet Girl Mysteries have quickly become one of my favorite culinary mystery series.” —Roundtable Reviews
“Enjoyable … A pleasant blend of romance, food, and mystery.” —New Mystery Reader
“The writing is breezy yet polished, the plotting adept, the overall tone funny without trying too hard.… The Josh-Chloe pairing is perfect—he loves to cook and she loves to eat.” —Cozy Library
“A delicious new series with engaging characters, a unique pet, a fascinating milieu, the right touch of romance, and lots of fantastic food and recipes—what more could any mystery reader want?!” —The Romance Readers Connection
“The talented authors Jessica Conant-Park and Susan Conant have created a pleasant blend of romance, food, and mystery. Any fan of romance or mystery will find it an enjoyable read with lots of recipes included. Enjoy.” —New Mystery Reader
Turn Up the Heat
“A delectable treat of a mystery.” —Michele Scott, author of the Wine Lover’s Mysteries
“A delicious murder complete with a sprinkle of betrayal, a generous dash of suspicion, and more than a pinch of danger.” —Leann Sweeney, author of the Yellow Rose Mysteries
“Combines a nicely detailed Back Bay setting with plenty of insights into the restaurant business … Recommend this one to fans of foodie crime.” —Booklist
“The authors serve up another delectable dish of detection.” —Publishers Weekly
“Spiced with mystery, romance, and recipes.” —Kirkus Reviews
Fed Up
“Jessica Conant-Park and Susan Conant turn up the heat … and cook up another winner! Take a pinch of poison, a heaping spoonful of intrigue, and a dash of romance. Then toss them all into a pressure cooker of a reality cooking show, and the result is another delicious read. You won’t want to miss a bite of this delectable mystery!” —Karen MacInerney, author of the Agatha Award–nominated Gray Whale Inn Mysteries
“Fed Up is the wonderful fourth entry in the Gourmet Girl series, and this reviewer’s favorite so far—and I’ve loved them all. Highly recommended to the discriminating connoisseur of cozy mysteries!” —The Romance Readers Connection
“A pleasant cozy so packed with food tips and appended recipes that it could cause a food frenzy.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Recipes, some by pro chefs, round out this delectable chick-lit cozy, which ends on an emotional cliff-hanger for Chloe.” —Publisher’s Weekly
“Reading Fed Up is like having a four-course meal at a gourmet restaurant. This scrumptious read offers up a mélange of humor and intrigue, including a culinary-based reality TV show gone horribly wrong and a zany wedding scene that will have readers bubbling over with laughter. Prepare to be treated to a cliffhanger ending and recipes that will leave you hungry for more of Gourmet Girl’s antics.” —J.B. Stanley, author of The Battered Body
Cook the Books
“A truly scrumptious mystery that gives readers a glimpse at the dark side of the restaurant business with its bang-bang cutthroat competition as Chloe finds a horde of suspects with strong motives.” —The Best Reviews
“This mystery will make you stand up and take notice.… If you like books with a twisting plot, an unexpected ending, and some goodies added in, this book is for you.” —The Romance Readers Connection
“Another exciting adventure … An enjoyable, suspense-filled story with a healthy helping of humor for their readers to enjoy.” —Fresh Fiction
“Intriguing. And don’t forget the scrumptious recipes at the end!” —Roundtable Reviews
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For sharing amusing insight into the culinary world, narrating chef antics, contributing phenomenal recipes, and answering questions about fish trucks, we thank Jody Adams, Maria Angels and Julio Veliz, Michael Garrett, Justin Lyonnais, Bill Park, Mark Porcaro, and Michael Ricco.
For outstanding editing skills, we applaud David Grumblatt.
For assistance in testing recipes, we thank John and Meg Driscoll, Katrina Grumblatt, and Tony and Alexa Lewis.
For their unfailing help, we thank Natalee Rosenstein and Michelle Vega of Berkley, and our agent, Deborah Schneider.
ONE
Early May in Boston. There’s nothing else like it. After almost six straight weeks of apocalyptic rain, the sky had suddenly turned an all-but-forgotten blue, the temperature had risen to the miraculously high sixties, and, best of all, the outdoor dining area at my boyfriend’s restaurant was finally open. Josh Driscoll, love of my life, was the executive chef at the five-month-old Newbury Street restaurant, Simmer, and tonight, for the first time ever, Simmer’s fortunate patrons would be able to savor the fruits of Josh’s culinary genius while dining on the sidewalk patio. When Josh had called me earlier today, he’d practically been singing into the phone. “Chloe Carter, my lovely lady, you better get your ass down here to the patio tonight! It’s going to be nice!” Josh’s spring fever was highly contagious: I was as excited as he was.
As Josh’s girlfriend, I obviously had a major in at Simmer. Even so, my friends and I had had to wait forty-five minutes for an outdoor table that could accommodate all five of us, the five of us being me; my best friend, Adrianna; her fiancé, Owen; my social work school buddy and teaching assistant, Doug; and his new boyfriend, Terry.
Newbury Street restaurants were jammed tonight. The good weather seemed to have awakened everyone from hibernation, and all the outdoor eateries in this high-end area were packed with diners. Simmer was no exception. As we waited inside for a patio table, I looked around and, as I’d done before, felt amazed at how beautifully the place had turned out. I’d been around while Gavin Seymour, the owner, had been renovating the location, and I’d seen Simmer at its worst, with electrical wires dangling from the ceiling, holes in the walls, and floors made of crumbling concrete. Now, beautiful dark brown tiles covered the floor, modern light fixtures hung from the high ceilings, and wood moldings framed the textured walls. Gavin had wanted to create what he’d called a “worldly” feel to the restaurant; he’d been eager to have the decor and the ambiance announce that Simmer’s menu wasn’t limited to one style of cooking but was inspired by cuisines from around the globe. The room was filled with square tables and high-backed chairs. Because Josh had helped Gavin to pick out the china, the glassware, and the silver, I knew that all of it had been as expensive as it looked. Votive candles placed at each table gave the room a mellow glow and flattered everyone’s complexion. I loathe eating at restaurants where the lighting casts a yellow tone or a weird shadow on my face; no matter how good the food is, it’s hard to enjoy myself if I’m worried about resembling a ghoul.
And God forbid one not look sensational on Newbury Street, right? The problem with coming here to see Josh all the time was that I felt obliged to dress up. I mean, everyone in this sophisticated section of Boston was either independently loaded or living off someone else’s money and, in either case, was a regular customer at Barney’s. There was hardly an uncoiffed head of hair, a manicured hand not weighed down with Cartier jewelry, or a wallet not busting with platinum credit cards. I was torn between feeling totally nauseated by the disgusting display of wealth and pathetically eager to look as if I belonged. My deceased uncle Alan’s monthly stipend kept me easily afloat, but I didn’t have the money to go flinging bills around at Agnes B. and BCBG. I’d long ago run out of appropriate outfits to wear to Simmer and did my best to make my T.J. Maxx pants look like Chanel. Granted, there was a Gap on Newbury Street, but there were hardly streams of diners here in oversized hooded sweatshirts. It always took me at least an hour to get out of my apartment when I was going to Simmer. It never occurred to me to leave without pressing my wavy red hair between the burning blades of my flatiron; people on Newbury Street did not have frizz! And then I had to spend twenty minutes pretending that my L’Oreal makeup actually was from Paris, all the while slathering my blue eyes with brown liner and trying to color my pale cheeks a fresh-from-Barbados bronze. By the time I’d finished, I always felt passable on Newbury Street, but I remained basically disconnected from the obscene wealth that hit you at every snobby shop and from the stick-thin bodies that you passed on every corner. Not that there was anything horribly wrong with my body. But the average twenty-five-year-old around here weighed a hundred and ten pounds, and I was fifteen over that.
We’d just sat down at one of the ten tables that had been squeezed into a gated area on the sidewalk in front of Simmer when Josh appeared at our table. “Chloe, I just heard you guys were here. I’m sorry you had to wait so long.” Josh leaned down and kissed me before brushing his arm across his sweaty forehead. He was dressed in his once-white chef’s coat, now covered in permanent food stains from previous months plus fresh stains from today. His dirty-blond hair was damp at the hairline, and his eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but even the dark circles and puffy bags couldn’t take away the sparkle of excitement. Business had been steady, and if tonight was any indication of how the spring and summer were going to go, Simmer was about to really take off.
Josh tossed a filthy dish towel over his shoulder and reached out to shake hands with Owen, Doug, and Terry, and then circled around the table to give Adrianna a kiss on the cheek. “How’s it going, Mama?” he asked affectionately. Adrianna was almost five months pregnant but already looked about to go into labor before tonight’s dessert.
She rolled her eyes. “Going great if you don’t mind constant heartburn, fatigue, swollen hands, and having your ribs kicked from three to five in the morning.”
“Owen kneeing you in his sleep again?” Josh grinned, and then rubbed her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know you’re having a hard time.”
“Yeah, it’s okay. I’m just grouchy. And starving.” She looked up at him hopefully.
“That I can help with.” Josh nodded assuredly. “I gotta run. I think Leandra is your waitress. Order whatever you want, and I’ll comp it for you.” One of the perks of being the executive chef at Simmer was that the owner, Gavin, let Josh sign off on orders so we didn’t have to pay for anything except a tip. “I’ll try to come out again later if I can.” Josh made his way between tables to the front entrance. One couple seated near the door stopped him. Josh smiled as he accepted what I knew were compliments about his food.
Leandra appeared moments later. I’d met her a number of times before, because Josh’s overwhelming work schedule meant that I was spending lots of time hanging around Simmer trying to catch glimpses of my boyfriend. In fact, I was beginning to look and feel like a barfly. Leandra was petite with very short white-blonde hair that somehow upped her femininity. (If I chopped off all my hair I’d look brutish!) She needed no makeup on her annoyingly symmetrical face, and Simmer’s unisex staff T-shirt and pants left no doubt that Leandra was voluptuously female. I saw Adrianna, her usual supermodel body now rounded, scowl and toss her long blonde hair back over her shoulder. I involuntarily ran my hand down my own hair, checking for any dreaded frizz.
Leandra handed out menus. “Sorry. Hope you haven’t been here too long. I can’t believe how busy we are tonight, and they didn’t schedule enough servers. Can I get you some drinks to start?”
“I’ll take a Kirin,” Doug said. “You want one, too?” he asked Terry.
Terry nodded and put his hand on Doug’s knee. I still had a hard time grasping that Doug and Terry were a couple. Their homosexual relationship didn’t bother me in the least; what alarmed me was Terry’s style. He looked like a woman-obsessed rock star or maybe the host of a VH1 show on hair bands of the eighties. Every time he opened his mouth, part of me expected him to burst out singing, “Once Bitten, Twice Shy,” “Unskinny Bop,” or “Eighteen and Life.” With thick, wavy, highlighted brown hair and rocker clothes, Terry was a total contrast to my social work school mentor, Doug. Doug was anything but conservative—on occasion, he wore neon—but it took most people, my parents excluded, about four seconds to figure out that he was gay.
Social work school was one thing, but I wasn’t sure how Terry’s image went over with his presumably more uptight professors and fellow students at MIT, where he was getting a PhD in physics. Studying at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology clearly put Terry in the category of über-intellectual. More importantly, he seemed genuinely to adore Doug.
Avoiding alcohol out of sympathy for Adrianna, Owen ordered lemonades for the two of them. I, on the other hand, felt the need to celebrate the arrival of spring with a crisp glass of Pinot Grigio.
Leandra reappeared a few minutes later with our drinks. As she set our glasses down, I wondered how she was going to get through the brutally hot and humid Boston summer in Simmer’s required attire. Her heavy cotton short-sleeved black shirt looked like it didn’t allow for much airflow, and the long black dress pants were stylishly tight with a slightly flared boot cut at the bottom. As if to assure a minimum of heat loss, all the servers and bartenders wore long black aprons with Simmer written across the top in white lettering.
“Okay, we need to toast,” I said, raising my glass. “To the appearance of the sun, the end of school, and dinner with good friends,” I proposed cheerily.
“Not so fast.” Doug stopped me before I could take a sip of wine. “You still have finals to get through.”
I sighed. “I haven’t forgotten.” Actually, I had forgotten about exams, at least momentarily, until Doug mentioned them. He took great pleasure in humorously reminding me that as a doctoral student, he was superior to me. Finals were going to be a nightmare. I had two long papers to finish writing and three two-hour in-class exams. It was at times like this that I regretted enrolling in social work school. Although I was finding more and more things to like about the experience, I still hid my ambivalence about school from my peers. Most of the other students were avidly devoted to their studies and their field placements (social work speak for internships), and I had enrolled only because of a clause in my uncle Alan’s will that required me to accept an all-expenses-paid trip to the land of graduate school. In my late uncle’s opinion, I needed a master’s degree in something. Anything. Only then would I receive my inheritance. I’d been pretty resentful of this manipulative and controlling plan that came from the other side. When I’d originally chosen social work school, the choice had felt as if I’d drawn it out of a hat, but as the end of my first year approached, I was beginning to think that my choice hadn’t been so random after all. The fit between me and the profession was better than I’d expected, and I was finding that social work skills actually applied to daily life. For instance, instead of just seeing Terry as a complete oddball, I was interested in the personality characteristics that pushed him to deviate from the norm. How did he manage to remain independent and unique? Why didn’t he cave in to societal standards?
“Well, we’re going to toast anyway, finals approaching or not.” I raised my glass and clinked drinks with everyone.
I smiled across the table at Adrianna, who, despite feeling ghastly during her pregnancy, was as beautiful as ever. Maybe because she was feeling so terrible, she was making an extra effort to look as stunning as possible. Her hair and makeup were done to perfection, and she was wearing an adorable navy blue wraparound maternity top that hugged her round belly and her full chest. When my sister, Heather, had been pregnant with each of her children, she’d always worn voluminous tops that covered her body and hid her weight gain. Ade was doing the opposite: embracing her body’s changes and accentuating her growing curves. But as much as she was displaying the pregnancy with her usual confidence, she was pretty tight-lipped about the entire concept of motherhood and had yet to express any feelings about being on the verge of becoming a parent. Children had never topped her favorites list; I’m not sure that she’d ever intended to become a parent, and I suspected she was more afraid than she was letting on. At least her fiancé, Owen, was enthusiastic, in fact, sometimes irritatingly so. But unlike Adrianna, he was practical. He had already started shopping for clothes, diapers, and baby equipment. Remarkably, Owen still had the sense to give Ade the emotional space she needed. As to physical space, I had no clue about how they expected to fit all that baby gear into their new apartment.
I did, however, feel sure that Adrianna and Owen would have a beautiful baby. In terms of looks, Owen was as attractive as Adrianna. His black hair, fair skin, and bright blue eyes, coupled with his charming personality, made him a dream. The hitch was his garish taste in clothing. The T-shirt he wore tonight had an arrow pointing to the left and the words, That’s My Kid in There! To make sure that the ridiculous T-shirt would deliver its message with full impact, Owen had been careful to keep Adrianna on the correct side.
Although Adrianna and Owen had not planned on having a baby, the two of them were managing this enormous surprise fairly well. They were moving in together next week and had found a decent two-bedroom apartment around the corner from me in Brighton. To describe their new apartment as having two bedrooms was pushing it, since the second bedroom was actually a walk-in closet, but the tiny room did have a radiator and a small window, so it would work as a nursery, at least for a while. What’s more, although Adrianna and Owen hadn’t set a wedding date—they couldn’t even decide whether to get married before or after the baby was born—they were nonetheless officially engaged. I was just happy that they were together at all, especially since Adrianna had freaked out when she’d found out she was pregnant and had foolishly made out with Josh’s sous chef, Snacker, a number of times in some sort of rebellious denial. On the night the unsuspecting Owen was going to propose, in fact, just as he was about to propose, right here at Simmer, Adrianna had suddenly announced both her pregnancy and her recent history with Snacker. Owen had understandably flipped out, but fortunately, the two of them had quickly worked things out. Owen and Snacker, on the other hand, loathed each other but remained coldly polite, mostly for my sake.
“So what are we ordering?” asked the ever-hungry Adrianna. Despite complaining about heartburn all the time, the girl couldn’t get enough to eat. “The cod with vegetables looks really good. This is a new menu, right?”
“Right. They’ve only been running it for a few days. It’s got all the new spring items on it. Josh had to teach the kitchen staff all the recipes and how to plate the food. I think it looks awesome.” I was bursting with pride at Josh’s food.
I’d watched him sit at my kitchen table, pen in hand, while he brainstormed to come up with the perfect dishes for the menu. I’d also learned how he went about pricing them out. It was fairly appalling to learn how little it costs to make some plates and what restaurants charge for them. The basic rule was that you figured out what the protein portion of the dish would cost, like the steak or the tuna, then you’d estimate the cost of the other ingredients, add those together, multiply by three, and then add three dollars. So, a twenty-four-dollar entrée might only cost the restaurant seven dollars in actual food costs. Josh had explained to me that after following the basic rule, he would then adjust the price depending on how a dish sold. Pasta dishes were great because they sold really well, and the pasta was cheap to buy, so chefs could up the price on those menu items. It was also easy to up the prices for lobster and tuna dishes, which were obvious luxury foods and sold a ton. Chicken, on the other hand, often had to be on a menu to please the occasional customer who wanted it, but it generally didn’t sell well, so a chicken entrée price would stay close to the formulated pricing cost.
Terry put his menu down on his plate. “I’m definitely getting the seared scallops with grilled pancetta, honey parsnip puree, and warm pear chutney. No question. Thank you for inviting us, Chloe. Doug has had such nice things to say about Simmer, and I’ve really been looking forward to coming here.”
“I’m with you on the scallops,” Owen agreed. “And the roasted pork quesadilla with apple salsa.” It was very Josh to do something traditional like quesadillas but then serve it with an unconventional topping.
Leandra came to take our orders. “Everybody set?”
Despite having eaten at Simmer many times, I was still impressed that the servers didn’t write anything down. Order pads were apparently beneath the upper-crust atmosphere of Newbury Street. If I’d been Leandra, I’d have had to run to the register, scramble to remember every order, and immediately enter it into the computer. She showed no signs of strain.
Just as Doug finished telling Leandra the entrée he wanted, Gavin Seymour appeared and welcomed us with the charm that’s so useful to restaurant owners. Gavin was in his late thirties, very handsome, and dressed in his typically and somewhat misleadingly casual style. Tonight he had on soft khaki pants and a simple cotton shirt, but I knew from Josh that Gavin did most of his clothes shopping through his personal dresser and that his clothing all came from high-end shops. The plain shirt was probably from Brooks Brothers. If I ever have the luxury of having a personal dresser, I’m going to instruct my assistant not to waste my money on overpriced clothes that might as well come from Old Navy.
“Have you all ordered?” Gavin asked. We nodded. He took our menus then turned to Leandra. “Why don’t you ask Josh to send out a few extra appetizers for this crowd? They all look especially hungry tonight.”
“Of course, Gavin. I’ll go put these orders right in.” Leandra smiled directly at her boss and smoothly took the menus from his hand. I’d heard that she and Gavin were seeing each other. Gavin was another Simmer male known for his many romantic flings, but according to the wildly active restaurant rumor mill, Gavin and Leandra were having a full-blown relationship and not just making out in the backseat of Gavin’s Jaguar after service. Although Josh said the two did their best to avoid public displays of affection, it was hard to ignore the glint in Gavin’s eye as he watched her walk away from the table.
With all the love in the air, it really felt like spring. Doug and Terry, Adrianna and Owen, Gavin and Leandra, Snacker and whatever girl of the week, Josh and me. Things with Josh were great, but looking around the table at the happy couples, I found it hard not to miss him. Visiting him at the restaurant was the best chance I had of catching a glimpse of my chef—that or the late-night visits at my place. Not that I was complaining about that department. But I wanted him with me for dinners like this, too. Josh had repeatedly assured me that his crappy schedule would ease up over time. But Simmer had opened on New Year’s Eve, and I was still waiting.
Best friends are good at reading thoughts. “I’m sure Josh will come out again when he can,” said Adrianna in an effort to comfort me.
“I know, I know,” I said. “I’m happy it’s so busy tonight, but it also means Josh might have to stay late.” Again, I thought.
Josh was working at least ten, if not twelve to fourteen, hours a day. He caught me one morning covertly trying to apply cold cucumber slices to his exhausted eyes while he slept. I hated Josh’s schedule, but he wasn’t the least bit surprised by the hours he was putting in. Josh felt strongly that Simmer’s success rested on him. Gavin might be the owner, but it was Josh who seemed to feel the most pressure to have the restaurant succeed. The majority of restaurants fail within the first six months, and Josh was determined that Simmer wouldn’t be one of them. Now that he’d finally found the ideal place to showcase his culinary, artistic, and managerial talent, he was giving Simmer everything he had. The menu was all his, which didn’t happen at every restaurant, and Josh had complete control over every dish that was served. Gavin had been really great to Josh, too, and promised him that the better the restaurant did, the better Josh would do in terms of both hours and pay. Right now Josh’s salary was almost laughable, but Gavin just didn’t have the money to pay him what he deserved. The start-up costs involved in opening any restaurant are astronomical. I wanted to believe Gavin’s promises, even though it seemed odd that an executive chef working on Newbury Street didn’t get a decent salary, never mind a fat paycheck. In spite of everything, though, I was thrilled for Josh and convinced that Simmer would be the place he’d really make a name for himself in the competitive world of Boston restaurants.
TWO
Leandra arrived, followed by two young Hispanic busboys, all carrying plates of food. “Here we go,” she said, delicately placing her plates on the table. “I’m sorry these took so long. We’re having problems with this new computer system Gavin is trying out. All the orders have to be entered into this elaborate program, and then, theoretically, they’re magically sent to the kitchen, but we keep having trouble. Anyhow, we got your orders through, and then Josh sent this out for you, too.” Leandra set an oval platter in the center of the table. “Tempura lobster tails with a sweet chili sauce.”
Oh, wow! Lobster was one of my absolute favorite foods. I took this additional dish as a sign of love from my chef.
“You know what I pay for these?” Owen said, reaching across the table to help himself to one of the golden servings. “And you know what I sell them for?”
“You probably pay nothing and sell them for a lot more,” I guessed.
Owen had recently quit his position as a puppeteer’s assistant to work as a seafood purveyor for a company called the Daily Catch. Before he’d found out that Ade was pregnant, he’d bounced from one quirky occupation to another. After hearing the news, he’d miraculously taken it upon himself to look for a somewhat traditional job.
“That’s right, Owen.” Doug jumped in with interest. “I haven’t seen you since you started with the fish thing. What’s that like?”
Looking proud of himself, Owen said, “I’m what’s known in the business as a seafood purveyor. I work for a company called the Daily Catch. We sell seafood to restaurants. So I get up by six, check my cell phone for orders from chefs, write those down, and then write up a price list. See, every day I get faxes from the companies we buy the seafood from with their prices. We buy from them and then sell to the restaurants. I’m kind of the middleman, so I mark my prices up based on what we’re going to have to pay. Then I take my delivery truck and drive down to the seafood district in South Boston’s waterfront, where I put in my orders, load up the truck, and I’m off to deliver everything. I’ve only been with them for a few weeks, but I’ve already got a bunch of great accounts. And Josh even dropped his old company for me!” Owen beamed with satisfaction at having persuaded Josh to switch purveyors. Simmer had decent-sized orders for Owen almost every day, but Josh knew enough not to let Owen overcharge him. Josh had explained to Owen that he’d better be careful who he tried to screw over with prices, because when chefs caught on, they’d drop him. “I bet that’s my cod right there!” Owen pointed his fork in the direction of a cod fillet that had been baked in foil with tomatoes, squash, zucchini, red peppers, scallions, fresh oregano, butter, wine, and garlic.
“So are you salaried? Or do you get paid on commission?” As soon as Doug asked the question, Terry held out a fork laiden with scallops for Doug to try. He chewed, swallowed, and smiled. “That pear chutney is to die for!”
“No, he’s definitely not salaried.” Adrianna shook her head. “And save some scallops for me. They look incredible.”
“No, I’m not. I get a percentage of the profit made on the sales. It’s basically like I have my own business through the Daily Catch. I run my accounts and set my daily prices based on whatever I’ve got to pay, and then the company gets part of the money I earn. Wait until you guys see my truck. It’s just a regular pickup truck, but we added a refrigeration unit to the back, and I just got the company logo painted on. It’s so cool. Want to come check it out quick? Josh let me park it in the back alley behind Simmer.” Owen stood up as though we all might be itching to abandon our dinners to go out and admire his delivery truck.
“Owen, no one wants to tromp through the dirty alley right now, okay?” Ade grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his seat. “And, technically, it’s not even your truck. It’s your boss’s.”
“Well, yeah. But when I get enough money, I’m going to get my own from one of those car auctions and get the refrigeration unit installed on top. Or get a refrigerated van. That would mean better gas mileage. And with my own truck, I’d get a larger percentage of the profits. It’s forty percent when you use a company truck and sixty percent when it’s your own.” The pork quesadilla was in the center of the table, and Owen took a section and scooped some apple salsa onto his plate. “Man, these are quesadillas gone wild!”
Ade spoke with her mouth full of cod and vegetables. “True, but it’s nice that you get to use the company’s one for now. And that monster will definitely get you through the Boston winters.” She finished chewing and pointed at Owen with her fork. “He doesn’t pay for anything except gas. His boss pays for all the maintenance, repairs, insurance, inspection fees, and all that. He’s got to get the lock fixed on the back of the truck, and that won’t cost him a thing. Not a bad deal. Oh, my God! That fish is so good. Is that fresh oregano? I love it.”
“Oh, pass some over here.” Terry reached for the plate of cod that was accompanied by plain couscous that soaked up all the delicious juices. “A broken lock, though? Aren’t you worried someone is going to break into the truck?” asked Terry. “People probably think it’s full of lobsters.”
Owen shook his head. “Nah. I’m only at each restaurant for a few minutes while I’m delivering, and then the truck is empty the rest of the day and night. Someone could get into the back, but there’s nothing there to take except plastic tubs full of ice or the dolly I use for larger deliveries. I’m getting the lock fixed in a few days anyhow. This has got to be the best job I’ve had! And best of all, I’m usually done for the day anytime between one and four in the afternoon. It’ll be perfect when the little one arrives.” Owen reached over and rubbed Ade’s stomach. “Hear that? Daddy’s gonna be making big bucks and is going to have plenty of time for you. Oh, did I tell you I got another account today? Big order for tomorrow already.”
I was so happy for Owen. He was obviously doing well with this job, and his success was going to make life less stressful for him and for Ade. She was still working as an independent hair stylist, but because she’d been feeling so sick, she’d eased up her hours by keeping her highest-paying clients and slowly dropping off the less profitable ones.
We worked our way through the meal, savoring the delicious food and the good company. Doug excused himself to go to the men’s room. When he returned, he scooted his chair close to the table and leaned in. “Hey, Chloe. Since you’re a regular here, do you know what’s going on with our waitress, Leandra, and that other girl back there?”
I peered in the direction Doug was pointing and saw Leandra almost nose to nose with Blythe. Or, rather, nose to boob, since Blythe was much taller than Leandra. Blythe’s back was to me, but I could see Leandra’s pretty face scrunched up in a snarl. “That’s Blythe,” I said with an unintentional sigh. “She’s a hostess here, but sometimes she bartends or waitresses when they need her to. Why?”
“Just looking for some restaurant gossip. When I walked by them, they seemed to be having some sort of spat. I don’t know what it was about, but I did hear Leandra say something to the other one about being flat-chested.”
“Yeah, I’m not surprised. They don’t really get along. Blythe can rub people the wrong way.” Or at least rub women the wrong way. I had gone to college with Blythe, although I hadn’t known her that well then. We were in some of the same circles, so I’d known her socially, but Blythe had taken icky classes like Introduction to Economics and Advanced Cell Biology, so we hadn’t crossed paths too often. I’d run into Blythe again a few months ago, and with Adrianna out of commission for late-night partying, I’d ended up hanging out with her. I guess it sounds sort of pathetic, but I didn’t have that many friends in Boston anymore. I’d met a few new people at social work school, most notably Doug, but a lot of my friends had moved across the country for school, jobs, or relationships. I was finding that after college, it was becoming much tougher to make new friends, so when I ran into Blythe, I just felt happy to see a familiar face. Blythe was taking a few classes at Suffolk University Law School, and I hooked her up with Simmer for some part-time work. I had sort of a love-hate relationship with her; one minute I loved her, and the next I wanted to claw her eyes out. And Ade just hated her.
Blythe’s mother was Filipino, and her father was Irish. The combination had produced the intoxicating Blythe, who was infuriatingly attractive, although in a completely different way from Adrianna. While Ade had more of a model look, Blythe was less classically perfect. She had dark-brown hair that was cut in stylish angles that accentuated her cheekbones, shorter on one side than the other, gorgeous brown skin, and a tall body. She had one slightly lazy eye that somehow added to her looks. In fact, all of Blythe’s supposed imperfections made her more attractive than she’d have been without them. As Leandra had evidently pointed out, Blythe was pretty flat-chested, but she always wore low-cut shirts that exposed her smooth skin. I always had the impression that Blythe wanted people to think that because she didn’t have big boobs, her revealing shirts couldn’t possibly attract the opposite sex, right? Even the permanent chips in her nail polish seemed deliberate, part of a calculated effort to convince people that she had a blasé attitude toward her appearance. Men often seem drawn to women who don’t look as if they spend hours in front of the mirror loading on makeup and hair products. Blythe cultivated that kind of inadvertent-looking beauty. In combination with her sharp intellect, it dazzled almost everyone. Yet she rarely hooked up with guys. One thing I couldn’t fault Blythe for was being slutty. And she was definitely entertaining to be around: charming, smart, and engaging. As if all of that weren’t enough, she somehow managed to balance her law school studies with her work at Simmer; she was one of the busiest people I knew. Hormonal Adrianna was a lot fussier than I was about who she hung out with. Ade tolerated Blythe only for my sake and only after repeated assurances that Adrianna’s place as my best friend was secure.
Josh returned to our table looking significantly more sweaty and food-stained than earlier this evening. He held a small notepad and pen in his hand. The top few buttons of his chef’s coat were undone, a sign that he was finishing up for the night. I was surprised. It was only ten fifteen.
“Are you done?” I asked excitedly, hoping I’d actually get a little time with him tonight before he collapsed in an exhausted heap.
He pulled a chair over to the table and squeezed in next to me. “Yup. Just gotta write the prep list for tomorrow, and I’m good to go.”
“What goes on to your prep list?” wondered Terry, flipping his hair behind his shoulder with a headshake. “Don’t you guys have the same things to do every morning?”
“In some ways we do, but a lot can change from day to day depending on what business was like the day before. Like today I sold almost all our soup, so we’ll have to make another one tomorrow. Sunday is usually our inventory day, so we’ve got to weigh all of our proteins, like the meats and cheeses, and then estimate amounts of our dry products, fill out paperwork on it all, and then put in any orders we need for restocking. Oh, yeah! We’ve got an eight top coming in for a lunch party, and they preordered everything, so that’s got to get done.” Josh started scribbling on his notepad as he talked. I loved some of the restaurant jargon Josh threw around. Eight top meant a party of eight. Deuce was a party of two. It was funny that even though I knew these terms now, I would never use them myself since I wasn’t in the business. If I’d tried, it would’ve been like Justin Timberlake throwing around street slang, as if he’d grown up in the inner city instead of in Tennessee. Idiot. Anyhow, I wasn’t going to humiliate myself by using lingo that wasn’t really mine.
“Snacker is coming in before me tomorrow, so I’ll leave this out for him and the other guys.”
I noticed Owen flinch at the mention of Snacker’s name, but he restrained himself from saying anything.
Josh continued. “I thought I’d have to stay late tonight, but the big dinner rush is over, and Santos and Javier can handle any orders that come in.”
“I thought Santos was one of your dishwashers,” I said.
“Well, yeah, he is. But he’s also a line cook. He and Javier sort of do whatever I need them to do.” The flexibility was typical of restaurant people. Everyone seemed to work double duty; a bartender might end up receiving food deliveries, a line cook might sweep the floor, and a server might help put away bar deliveries. “If you’re me, you end up doing everybody’s job half the time.” Josh sighed, clearly beat. He’d been at work since seven this morning and had to be back here around ten tomorrow morning. Theoretically, Josh wasn’t scheduled to arrive at Simmer until eleven, but eleven was right before lunch service began, and Josh still didn’t trust everything to run smoothly without him.
“I seriously can’t stay awake any longer.” Adrianna looked even more tired than Josh. “Everyone kept telling me that after the first three months I wouldn’t be so tired and I’d feel better, but I’m still waiting. Owen, can you drive me home in my car and then just take it back to your place? Maybe Chloe would drive you back here tomorrow to get your truck?”
“Yeah, babe. Of course.” Even though they were moving in together in a few days, Owen had been spending most nights at his apartment because he had to get his price lists, which were faxed over to his place every morning. “Chloe? Would you mind? If you can pick me up by six thirty, I can be down to the warehouse by seven.”
“Yeah. No problem.” I didn’t relish the thought of waking up at six in the morning, but the need to give Owen a ride would get me up and moving. I had plenty of studying to do before finals came around as well as forty pages left to write in my papers. “Ade, you look blitzed. Can you sleep in tomorrow?”
Adrianna sat up tall in her chair, rubbed her lower back, and spoke through a yawn. “I don’t have any appointments until ten, so I can sleep some. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Absolutely. Go home and go to bed!”
Owen replied for her. “All right. Thanks so much. And now you’ll be able to see my truck!” Owen sounded wildly excited. He dropped some cash on the table for a tip. I couldn’t believe how great it was that Josh could comp this whole meal. What a privilege!
“Josh, as always, thank you for an excellent meal.” Owen shook Josh’s hand and then pulled Ade’s chair out for her. The two said their good-byes. I blew Ade a kiss and promised to call her tomorrow to check in and see how she was feeling.