Simmer Down Read online

  “Sure.” I went to the kitchen. As I set the oven, I felt proud to make a contribution to Josh’s food. I was so excited about tonight that I could hardly stand it. This evening, Josh would be introducing his food to the rich and famous, and he’d probably become an overnight success and achieve national recognition as the hottest, most influential chef of our time! Okay, I was jumping the gun, but Food for Thought and the opening of Simmer really were excellent opportunities for Josh.

  Now what was I going to wear again…?

  THREE

  AT five thirty, Josh and I pulled his yellow Xterra up to the gallery and double-parked so that we could start unloading his food and equipment. Mercifully, it was not snowing or freezing. On the contrary, the weather was unseasonably mild. I hoped the warm temperature boded well for a high turnout this evening. Josh followed me up a set of cobbled steps to the first floor of a quintessential Boston brownstone and into the gallery, which had originally been the first floor of an almost palatial house. A generous and graceful bay window overlooking Newbury Street had been set up as a well-stocked bar. Most of the interior walls had been torn down to create a large front room with an archway that led to the back of the gallery. Everything was brightly lit from the amazingly high ceilings, and beautiful pine floors stretched all the way from the entrance to the rear of the gallery. With the exception of the floors and the artwork, every surface was almost overwhelmingly, even blindingly, white, as if the intention were to impair the vision of those who visited the gallery: white walls, white ceilings, white reception desk. In the case of some of the works on display, the effect was, I thought, a charitable one. A massive canvas depicted what looked like a close-up view of abdominal surgery, blood, guts, and all. An appendectomy gone hideously wrong? Another painting, also large, was probably titled something like Study in Cobalt: blue, blue, and more blue evenly and smoothly spread over the whole surface. Here and there, pieces of sculpture in bronze and stone sat on white pedestals, and under the archway was a monumental hunk of smooth granite in the form of a gigantic egg.

  Well beyond the archway and the egg, at the far end of gallery, Naomi was tossing a white tablecloth over what I presumed to be our table. She was being helped by a frizzy-haired, lean man dressed entirely in black who fumbled awkwardly with the white fabric.

  “Chloe!” Naomi called to me. “Isn’t this exciting? Please, come meet Eliot Davis, the owner of this incredible gallery. Oh, and this must be your Josh?” She beamed at me in an uncharacteristically giddy fashion. I studied Naomi for a moment, trying to determine what was different about her tonight. Did she have on makeup? Yes, I definitely saw a pink hue on her cheeks and…was that lip gloss? I was even pretty sure that her chunky braids had been rebraided. Their usual stray hairs weren’t visible. It suddenly hit me: Naomi was nervous! I’d seen her before only in the office or at the irritating rallies she was forever dragging me to. She was completely out of her element here in this upscale, sleek gallery where the visitors were going to reek of money and class and Botox. In her effort to dress up for the event, she’d put on a turquoise peasant blouse, what looked to me like karate pants, and seven thousand bracelets—an outfit she must have thought would help her fit in. Her adorned arms kept making a piercing, clinking sound every time she moved. She might as well have thrown some hideous, big poncho over the whole ensemble to complete the look. I couldn’t resist peeking down to see that she had even put on simple brown flats instead of her usual Birkenstocks. Although her attempt at upping her fashion sense had failed, I still felt touched by it and hoped that she didn’t notice the difference in our attire. I had on my most recent purchases from Banana Republic, a shiny brown Empire tank under a yummy off-white crocheted sweater, and dark suede jean-cut pants. I wanted to look good for this evening but knew that I needed to look somewhat conservative since I was, after all, working at the Organization’s sexual harassment awareness booth, and any sort of provocative clothing might send an odd message.

  When Josh and I reached the table, I made the mistake of putting down a stainless steel tray of beef tenderloin in front of Naomi. Glancing at the meat, she visibly tried to avoid gagging. I’d forgotten that she was a vegan. Before she could open her mouth to say anything about cruelty to cows, I turned to Eliot. Lord, did he have big bug eyes!

  “Hi, I’m Chloe Carter. I’m Naomi’s social work intern. And this is Josh Driscoll, the executive chef at Simmer, which is opening a few doors down from you on New Year’s Eve.”

  Josh placed a massive food processor next to the tray of dead cow, and we all shook hands.

  Eliot smiled. “I can’t wait for people to start arriving. This is fantastic that I get to help promote an organization like Naomi and Chloe’s, and such a great restaurant with a fine chef such as yourself, Josh. Please let me know if you need anything at all. Consider this your home for the night. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “Nothing right now, thank you,” I answered. Josh and Naomi shook their heads in agreement.

  “I need to get moving if I’m going to get food out on time.” Josh clapped his hands together, eager to start working.

  “Okay, then. You can set up here.” Eliot gestured to a couple of tables next to the one with the tablecloth. “Josh, I thought you might need two tables for Simmer, and I put you right here next to Naomi and Chloe. There’s a large coatroom behind us, here, and a phone in there. Or feel free to use my office if you need to.” In contrast to the front of the gallery, this area retained its interior walls. Eliot pointed to a room right off a hallway that led to a set of stairs illuminated by an exit sign. “And there are outlets here, too, if you need them. I see you’ve got a big food processor there, huh?” Eliot said, eyeing the industrial-sized piece of equipment, which Josh had put on Naomi’s table. The heavy-duty machine, all steel and black and shiny aluminum, looked like a monstrous version of a Cuisinart.

  “This is what we call a Robocoupe,” Josh said. “Thanks to Gavin, I’ve got all new top-of-the-line equipment. And, yeah, I need to hook this up for the dressing. Okay, I’m going to go move the rest of the stuff from the car and find a parking spot, if possible.”

  “Please, park in the alley behind us. I own six spaces back there. Naomi’s parked there. You’ll never find a legal spot at this time.”

  “You know what? I’ll take you up on that offer. And I’ll just unload from there and come up these back steps if that’s okay with you?”

  “Absolutely,” Eliot said.

  Josh took off, and Eliot went to open the rear door. With Naomi’s help, I covered Josh’s two tables with the white tablecloths that Eliot had thoughtfully provided. Then, with considerable effort, I shifted the heavy Robocoupe to Josh’s space. After that, Naomi and I worked on setting up the harassment table. Before long, Eliot and Josh returned, each carrying armfuls of culinary supplies, and then Eliot left to go to the front of the gallery to rearrange the bottles and glasses. I looked around the room as I worked, admiring the large canvases on the walls. The paintings here were much more appealing than those at the front, abstract works with bold colors streaked throughout.

  Naomi leaned in and whispered to me as we spread out flyers. “Eliot has been extremely welcoming to us. And did you see how he helped out Josh just now? Not all gallery owners would do something like that.”

  “He seems very nice. And has very, um, distinctive eyes.”

  “He’s really been quite helpful. And Josh seems very sweet, too.”

  Seeing Naomi so out of place made me feel more in place than I really was, and I felt determined to try hard to help her tonight. Her idea of art probably leaned toward objects made of gimp or woven on looms. But nutty as she often made me, I didn’t want to see her embarrass herself. For the first time, I saw Naomi as slightly vulnerable.

  “Here,” I offered. “I’ll do that.” I took a poster from her and began to hang a list of unacceptable workplace behaviors on the front of the table.

  I looked up to see Gavin Se
ymour, who made his way around the giant egg and headed toward me. I’d met Gavin a few times before and genuinely liked him. He usually dressed in fairly casual clothes, but tonight he was wearing a navy suit and gleaming black dress shoes. In his late thirties and extremely handsome, Gavin attracted women easily and enjoyed bachelorhood. He was a tough businessman, but it still amazed me that someone his age had amassed enough money not merely to lease the high-end property that would house Simmer, but to renovate it. Ordinarily composed, even restrained, Gavin was clearly fired up about Simmer’s first public appearance and practically skipped over to us.

  Josh looked up from the table where he was busy lining up ingredients to make more dressing for the beef medallions. “My man, Gavin!” he called to his approaching boss.

  “My man, Josh!” Gavin held a garment bag out to his new chef. “Look what I have for you.” He ceremoniously unzipped the bag to reveal a bright white chef’s coat for Josh. “All the coats arrived yesterday, and I just picked this one up from the dry cleaner. I know how you hate wearing new coats that haven’t been washed yet.” He removed the chef’s jacket from the hanger and passed it to Josh. “It’s your show now.” He grinned.

  “Hey, look at that stitching,” said Josh, admiring the deep red thread that spelled out his name under the restaurant’s. I left the harassment table to check out the jacket. “Feel the fabric, Chloe. That is one hundred percent Egyptian cotton. Absolute best. Don’t think this coat’ll stay white very long, so you better admire it now!”

  The fabric was thick and soft, and I could tell this was the kind of top-quality jacket that not every chef was lucky enough to wear. The buttons down the front and on the cuffs were covered in more white fabric, and the short collar had been pressed into place. Josh had been a little hesitant to ask Gavin for pure-cotton jackets, since not every boss was willing to spring for them, but Gavin had gone ahead and ordered these ultraexpensive ones for Josh. The cheaper coats were a cotton-poly blend—or, as Josh called them, “bullshit polyester pieces of crap”—that didn’t breathe and made chefs and line cooks sweat even more than necessary in already overheated kitchens.

  “Your Birkenstocks should be here tomorrow. Sorry I don’t have them for you now,” Gavin apologized.

  “Not a problem. I think I can make it through the night,” Josh assured him.

  The first time I’d heard that Josh wore Birkenstocks in the kitchen, I’d had visions of him whipping up culinary masterpieces clad in sandals identical to Naomi’s. Much to my relief, I learned that chefs often wore kitchen clogs rather than sandals suggestive of tofu and granola. Josh had explained that the long hours chefs were on their feet meant that they absolutely had to wear high-quality shoes or end up with terrible varicose veins, back problems, or other aches and pains. Chefs’ catalogues carried a variety of kitchen clogs, but trial and error had taught Josh that the London-style leather clog made by Birkenstock was the only way to go. He went through at least three pairs a year, and he’d gotten Gavin to spring for the high-priced footwear.

  Josh introduced Gavin to Eliot and Naomi.

  “We’re going to be neighbors, I see,” Eliot said, shaking Gavin’s hand.

  “You bet.” Gavin smiled. “I’ve always wanted a place on Newbury Street. This is where it’s all at. I had to outbid that Full Moon Group to get the location, but it was worth the money. They’re supposedly tough, and I never expected to outbid them, but I did. They’re a big-money group. They certainly have more than I do, but I got lucky.”

  Eliot laughed. “I’ve heard they’re tough. I know one of their restaurants has a table tonight at a gallery that belongs to a friend of mine. Anyhow, congratulations and welcome.”

  “Thank you. If you don’t have other plans, we’d love to have you over to Simmer on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll be there. I’ll look forward to it.”

  Naomi was looking worried about our table’s presentation and scurried off to hover over the flyers. Gavin wanted to go check out other galleries and restaurant tastings but promised to return to Simmer’s table. Eliot said he’d walk Gavin to the door. And that’s how Food for Thought began: with excitement, nervousness, generosity, and friendliness. I don’t really believe in bad omens, but for what it’s worth, there were none. I had no forebodings at all.

  FOUR

  JOSH surveyed his tables. “I guess I better make more dressing now since I might not have time later.” He packed the Robocoupe full of herbs, oil, and lemon juice, and the noise from the big food processor prevented further conversation for the next few minutes.

  Unable to resist the lure of food any longer, I walked over to Josh and took a good whiff of the dressing. “Oh, that is amazing,” I said.

  One of the many things I loved about Josh’s food was that you were never overwhelmed by one particular flavor; the tastes and smells from his cooking blended seamlessly. I hated walking into a restaurant or eating a meal and thinking, Yup, that’s garlic, or Oh, lots of sherry in this. Josh’s food always consisted of some unidentifiable fusion of ingredients that left you wondering what made up that delicious flavor.

  “Glad you like it.” Josh smiled as he poured the dressing into a large stainless-steel container. He unplugged the Robocoupe, wrapped the cord around it, and lifted it off the table. “I’m going to move this beast out of the way for now. Hey, Eliot? Can I put this in your office?”

  “Absolutely. Put it on the floor, desk, whatever you want,” Eliot called back. He’d been pacing between the front of the gallery and our section at the back and was now heading to the front, probably to peer out onto Newbury Street, eager for people to start arriving.

  By six forty-five, the gallery was packed with art lovers and food lovers, and Josh was working up a sweat to meet the demand for his beef medallions. He had turned on a butane stove and had a skillet heated to the correct temperature. I nudged Naomi every time I saw someone nod and smile while sampling Josh’s food; I was beginning to fear that she’d end the night with a big bruise from all my elbowing. Our harassment booth had a few visitors, mainly people Naomi pounced on when they accidentally approached our table. Naomi’s tactic was to try to engage an innocent person in a discussion of workplace environments and then to interrogate her victim about acceptable and unacceptable behavior.

  I watched her in horror as she spoke to a frail woman of eighty or eighty-five who wore a rabbit-fur coat, a garment not designed to endear its wearer to Naomi, of course. Contemplating the probable ferocity of Naomi’s attack, I mentally prepared myself to leap across the table and catch the poor woman should Naomi cause her to faint.

  Naomi leaned over a mountain of flyers and spoke with urgency. “Do you think it is appropriate for your boss to ask you about what kind of panties you wear? Or what your favorite sexual position is?” That was my cue.

  “Ahem, perhaps she would prefer to just take some informational packets with her.” I shoved a folder at the surprised woman, who immediately and wisely limped off, leaning on a cane.

  Naomi turned to me. “Employers and coworkers say things like that, Chloe, and it doesn’t help anyone to pretend that it doesn’t happen. I know you find my style to be somewhat aggressive, but, Chloe, we have got to make people of all generations and all backgrounds understand the reality of what can happen in workplaces across the country. We’ve got to be outspoken and make our voice heard. Give it a try.”

  A few moments later, Naomi lectured a young man on the requirement that every workplace have a sexual harassment policy in place. Would he like her to come to his office and give a presentation? I heard him respond that he was only sixteen and that the only job he had was shoveling his parents’ driveway. So far, he insisted, the only unacceptable thing either of them had done was to refuse to buy him a snowblower.

  I decided to take a short break.

  I told Naomi that I’d be right back and made my way through the crowd to grab a drink. The unseasonably warm weather, combined with a steady c
rowd and Josh’s butane stove, had heated up the gallery. The only relief came from a welcome draft of cool air in back of our tables. Someone, I realized, must have propped open the back door to cool down the room. I made my way past the sculptured egg and through the crowd, grabbed two bottled waters from the bar, and worked my way back to Josh’s tables, where he had just refilled platters with beautiful focaccia crisps and was searing the thinly sliced beef in the skillet. Considering how popular his table seemed to be, I was surprised to see him looking stressed. He usually loved being the center of attention.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked as I handed him a bottle of water.

  “Mishti Patil is here.” He frowned.

  “Get out! That’s excellent!” Mishti Patil was the restaurant reviewer in Boston. She wrote a weekly newspaper review and also did guest reviews for local magazines and online publications.

  Josh shook his head and whispered to me. “No, it’s not excellent. I don’t want her here eating food I’m cooking off of a goddamn cafeteria table. Whatever. The beef is fine, but it’s not the first dish of mine I want her to taste. And when she came over here, she told me Gavin had invited her to opening night. I mean, opening night! Can you believe that?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Chloe, opening night is going to be crazy, and I don’t want a reviewer there! It’ll be the first night the whole staff has been on. Nobody will know what they’re doing. It’s going to be a mess. Opening nights always are. We should’ve just opened the restaurant quietly, worked out all the kinks, and then had an official opening where we invited people like Mishti. Now, she’ll show up on New Year’s and see chaos. This is ridiculous,” he fumed while placing beef slices on focaccia. “I mean, Jesus, the kitchen isn’t even ready to cook in yet. Don’t get me wrong, I’m psyched that he gutted the place and that he’s putting in all the new equipment and everything, but we haven’t even had a real run-through. I still have to finish teaching my cooks how to make and plate all the dishes.”