Turn Up the Heat Read online

  “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.

  “We should take off, too, Doug.” Terry wrapped his arm around Doug’s shoulder, pulled him in, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. As much as I couldn’t stand the ostentatious wealth and fashion pressures of Newbury Street, at least the tolerance for homosexual displays of affection was high. Between the numerous salons, boutiques, clothing stores, and restaurants here, gay men made up half the population of staff and customers, and I was glad that Doug and Terry could feel comfortable. Doug gave me another stern warning about taking my finals seriously. Then he and Terry left hand in hand.

  Leandra arrived, accompanied by Santos, to clear our table. “You heading out, Chef?” she asked, beginning to stack plates on the large tray that Santos held.

  “Soon. I just have to finish my prep list, and then I’m going. Are you all set here?”

  Leandra nodded. “Yeah, we’re in good shape. Snacker just left, and the other guys are breaking down the kitchen now. I think there are only a few people left at the bar, but it’s a mess back there, so Kevin will be busy later. Poor guy got shot down again by one of those barely twenty-one girls over there. I told him he could do better, but he keeps trying. So, what time do you come in tomorrow?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Josh said with a smile. “I’ll be here by eight or eight thirty, but Snacker and the others will be here before that, so leave a note if anything comes up while you’re closing. I know, don’t look at me like that.” Leandra had crinkled her face into a questioning frown. “Don’t ask me why we’re having a full crew on first thing in the morning. I’m only following orders.”

  “Okay, but I might not be here that much longer. Wade and Kevin are locking up tonight, so I’ll tell them. Nice to see you again, Chloe.” Leandra flashed me a perky smile before piling the last of the dishes on Santos’s tray, and then she turned to Owen. “So, when am I going to get a ride in that new truck of yours? I hear the fish business is booming.” I couldn’t tell if Leandra was being flirtatious or sarcastic, but either way, I didn’t like it. And neither did Adrianna, who shot a death stare in Leandra’s direction.

  Owen was suddenly flustered and presumably uncomfortable. “Business is fine. Thank you for asking.” I was glad he didn’t mention Leandra’s inappropriate request for a ride.

  As Leandra walked away, she looked over her shoulder at us and gave Owen a wink. What the hell was that about? I shook it off and touched Josh’s arm. “Josh, can we go say hi to Isabelle before we leave?” Isabelle had been working in the kitchen at Simmer since they opened, and I liked to check in with her once in a while because I’d gotten her this job. I’d met her in late December when I’d volunteered at Moving On, an agency in Cambridge that provided temporary housing for women in crisis. Isabelle had been kicked out of her house when she was sixteen, and until she had found help from Moving On, she’d been living mainly on the streets. I’d have thought someone with her background would be thick-skinned and street-smart, but Isabelle struck me as fragile and vulnerable. I adored her.

  “Sure. I have to finish up this list and make sure the guys are all set back there.”

  I dropped more tip money for Leandra and followed Josh through Simmer’s heavy glass door into the main dining room. We made our way past a few lingering diners and bar customers to the back of the room. Josh pushed open the kitchen door. Cleanup was underway. Javier was busy using the industrial spray hose to clean oversized pots and sauté pans, and Santos was methodically scrubbing food and grease off the stainless-steel counters and cooking equipment. Josh still hadn’t figured out exactly how the two workers were related (somebody’s cousin had married somebody’s half sister?), but they came off as father and son. Javier was in his midfifties, short, with a round belly that stretched his short-sleeved white kitchen
shirt. His graying hair curled around his hairline. Santos was Javier’s opposite, weighing half what his relative did and, at six feet, towering above him. While Javier was loud and garrulous, Santos was horribly shy and barely said a word unless spoken to.

  “Hola, Chloe! ¿Cómo estás?” Javier called above the din of rushing water.

  “Estoy bien, señor.” I’d been trying to learn Spanish with the help of an online Spanish tutorial and had amassed a collection of travel phrases. “Dónde está un buen restaurante?” I asked with a smile. Where is a good restaurant?

  “You are funny, señorita.” Javier bellowed his wonderful laugh.

  “All right, señorita.” Josh smiled and shook his head at my Spanish. “I’ll be back in a minute. Check the walk-in. Isabelle might be there.”

  I waved to Javier and Santos and went to look for Isabelle. After searching the walk-in refrigerator, where the perishable food was kept, I went to the dining room to see if I’d missed her there. Isabelle was near the bar, bagging table linens and aprons for the cleaners to pick up. I was happy to see her doing so well here, by which I don’t just mean that she was competent at bagging linens. Josh said she was a good employee and that although she’d never worked in a kitchen before, she was becoming a good prep cook. Whatever Josh taught her, she picked up quickly. In some ways, Josh told me, he preferred working with people without kitchen experience because he could teach them to cook the way he liked and didn’t have to break them of bad habits.

  Isabelle smiled when she saw me. “I heard you were here tonight, Chloe. It’s so good to see you. Guess what? Josh is going to teach me how to cut and debone fish tomorrow!” she said excitedly, her short black curls bouncing as she spoke. Like all new employees, Isabelle had been paying her dues in the kitchen by performing the most tedious of tasks, like peeling gallons of potatoes, so each time Josh taught her a new skill, it was a reward for her good performance.

  “That’s great. I’m so happy this job is working out for you. How is your apartment?” Isabelle had recently found a three-bedroom apartment that she shared with five other girls. In spite of the cramped quarters, she’d been totally giddy at the prospect of moving into a real place rather than living in social service housing in Cambridge.

  “I love it! You wouldn’t believe how cool my roommates are! One of them works at this TV station and…” Isabelle launched into details about the other girls. I listened to her happily describe her new life and new friends. The only time she paused for breath was when Simmer’s owner, Gavin, passed by. I was pretty sure I detected a nervous blush color her cheeks. But who wouldn’t have a crush on Gavin? He was young, handsome, wealthy, hardworking, and successful: the perfect catch. But Isabelle was only nineteen, whereas Gavin was in his midthirties, so I suspected that her crush would remain just that. Furthermore, Gavin already had Leandra. I talked with Isabelle for a bit while she finished with the laundry and then started to help clean the bar.

  The general manager, Wade, nodded his appreciation to Isabelle. “Thanks for your help, Isabelle. We got killed tonight.” His black T-shirt clung to his muscular chest and arms, and a simple silver chain peeked out from under his shirt. He had this weird Ryan Cabrera hair thing going on—lots of long gelled strands puffed out from his head—and he had his usual few days’ growth of facial hair. I’d have put money on it that he spent more time in front of a mirror than I did.

  “How was your dinner tonight, Chloe?” Wade asked as he began going through a mountain of receipts.

  “Excellent, as always.”

  “Good. Josh made us all something to eat before the dinner rush. Did you have that new scallop entrée? God, that was good. Your boy has got talent. I can definitely say that.”

  “I did, and I agree. I loved it.”

  Kevin, one of the bartenders, began cleaning out the taps. I couldn’t help but think what a crappy job it was to clean up at the end of the night. These guys had just spent hours serving wealthy customers and hobnobbing with Boston’s young and elite, and here they were dumping backwash out of glasses and mopping liquor off the rubber mats that lined the floor behind the bar.

  “Wade, could you grab me more tequila, rum, and triple sec? I’m low on everything.” Kevin shook his head and started wiping off bottles. “I can’t believe how much we went through tonight.” Wade nodded and disappeared to restock the bar.

  Since restaurants make most of their money from liquor sales, I was delighted to hear that Kevin was running low. With Josh’s food and a little luck, Simmer could soon become a real moneymaker.

  “Ready to go, babe?” Josh came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, Kevin? Do you need anything else before I go?” Josh asked.

  “Nah. Thanks, though. Wade and I can handle this mess. See ya tomorrow.” Kevin waved good night and continued polishing a bottle of Irish whiskey.

  THREE

  WHY the hell was my alarm clock going off this early? I reached over Josh to hit the snooze button and accidentally whacked my sleeping chef on the head. He was so overtired that he didn’t flinch. I rolled over to go back to sleep and remembered my promise to Owen. I’d been on the verge of reentering a dream about Donatella Versace and Wentworth Miller, my Prison Break crush. Well, best to wake up from that, anyway.

  I climbed over Josh and fumbled around in my closet to find something to wear. Owen and Ade had crashed at my place so often that Owen wouldn’t expect me to look good at this hour, but I didn’t want to run into any of Simmer’s front-of-the-house staff, who’d all be groomed according to Newbury Street standards, while I was in sweatpants and my hair was sticking out of a big clip. I took a quick shower but didn’t dare wash my hair because I couldn’t be bothered to spend an hour wrangling my curly strawberry blonde mane into smooth locks. My blow-dry from last night had done a good job of flattening itself while I’d slept, and I wasn’t going to undo a good hair day. I tossed on jeans, a white camisole tank, and a cute, pink, fuzzy cropped sweater Ade had temporarily grown out of. My hair had been foiled to within an inch of its life, so I had enough blonde to pull off the pink without blinding anyone. Otherwise, Owen would’ve had to wear sunglasses on our drive over.

  I started up my Saturn Ion, grabbed a couple of coffees at the Dunkin’ Donuts in Cleveland Circle—practically the one Dunkin’ in the entire world that didn’t have a drive-through—and reached Owen’s apartment at six forty-five. I beeped a few times, and Owen bounded down the steps. I immediately noticed his long-sleeved shirt that read, We’ll Give You Crabs!

  “Nice shirt, Owen.” I rolled my eyes. “Does your boss know you’re wearing that?”

  “Course he does,” he grinned. “He had ’em made for us! Hey, thanks for picking me up. Ade has been so tired with this pregnancy, and I’m sure she’s still sound asleep. Oh, did I tell you? I’m going after work today to pick up a crib and a travel system that I ordered. Ade’s going to love them!”

  “Owen, where are you going to put all this stuff? Your new apartment isn’t that big. Don’t you think you should wait until closer to when the baby is going to be born?” I turned onto Beacon Street and headed for Kenmore Square. Even at this hour, Boston traffic sucked. I forced myself to stop at a yellow light and not block the intersection. My reward was a slew of horn honking from the cars behind me. “And what the hell is a ‘travel system,’ anyway? Where are you planning on going with this kid?”

  “Well, the stuff was on sale, so I wanted to buy it now. And a travel system is this cool stroller that comes with an infant car seat you can plunk right into the stroller. It also has a base that you strap into the car, and then you can just pop the seat in and out without having to worry about the buckle. So when the baby falls asleep in the car, we can just keep it in the seat and plop it in the stroller. Cool, huh?”

  “Very cool,” I agreed, impressed with Owen’s knowledge of baby paraphernalia.

  When we neared Newbury Street, I asked Owe
n whether I could just pull onto one of the side streets near Simmer and leave him to walk down the alley to his truck. I wasn’t crazy about weaving my relatively new car around Dumpsters and subjecting the tires to broken glass and crumbling pavement.

  “I thought you wanted to see my truck,” Owen said pathetically.

  “Oh, right. Of course I do.” I nodded with all the excitement I could muster at this hour.

  Owen showed me where to turn to reach the back entrance to Simmer and the other Newbury Street businesses. Most of the buildings in this part of town were beautiful old brownstones and converted town houses, many with large bay windows that displayed high-end products. But behind the glamorous storefronts and equally glamorous stores, the alleys were the same trash-filled back streets you’d find in any other part of Boston. As I eased my car down the alley, I kept an eye out for anything that might puncture a tire.

  I knew Simmer from the front, but the alley robbed me of my sense of direction. “Which one is Simmer’s door?” I took my eyes off the pavement for a moment to glance around.

  “Right there! Right there! See my truck?” Owen pointed excitedly at a white pickup truck. “Just pull over in front of me,” he said, leaping out the door before I’d even shifted into park.

  I got out and took a look at what was apparently the most thrilling truck of all time. It was just as Owen had described it last night: a white pickup with a white box unit the size of a small shed set in the bed of the truck.

  “See? That’s the refrigeration unit. Can you even imagine how much fish that could hold? I could make millions!”

  The refrigeration box occupied the entire truck bed and rose above the cab of the pickup. “You’re not going to fill that thing up on your deliveries, are you?”

  “Well, no,” Owen admitted. “Not yet. But I’m just saying…”

  “It’s very cool. You were right. I like the logo on the side there.” The Daily Catch was scripted in red paint and surrounded by sea creatures done in black.