The Gourmet Girl Mysteries, Volume 1 Page 5

  Eric just shook his head and smiled and called over to Garrett, “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just my damn eyebrows again. Third time this week I’ve singed ’em. Might as well just shave them off and get it over with,” he answered. Garrett shook a saucepan, violently mixing its contents and sending an aromatic cloud our way. He turned around to face us. “Hey, Eric! Sorry, I’ve been so crazed tonight, I didn’t even see you at my counter. Hope I haven’t scared you off from joining forces?” Garrett reached out to shake Eric’s hand.

  “No way, kid. Things are looking good to me.” Eric pumped Garrett’s hand. “Just gotta taste your dishes tonight, though, to make sure! I can’t pass up a free meal,” Eric snickered.

  “Don’t worry,” Tim assured him. “If you get on board with Essence, every meal here’ll be on the house, of course.” A look of concern cut across his face.

  “Hey, I’m just kidding. I know you’ll take care of me,” Eric said. “Oh, Garrett, this is Chloe. She’s the one you’re really going to have to impress.”

  “Well, then, Chloe. What’ll it be?” Garrett asked. “Any special requests?”

  I was momentarily distracted by the chef’s charred eyebrows but managed to regain my composure enough to say that I was sure anything he made would be outstanding.

  He clapped his hands together and announced that he was off to work on our mystery dinner—our chef’s tasting—which would be five courses, each a sample of what he could do.

  “I’m up for anything,” I replied excitedly.

  Garrett left to work some magic, I hoped, and I turned to Eric. The sights and aromas of the kitchen, as well as the fun of meeting the owner and the chef, had changed my mind about Eric’s harping about his insider knowledge. Now I wanted to hear the secrets of the restaurant world.

  Instead, I got a boring lecture on Eric’s business (something incomprehensible about financial planning) and a monologue about his professional success, which, he emphasized, had afforded him the opportunity to drive a Land Rover and invest in Essence. Eric took my hand in his. “It is so wonderful to have you here with me tonight. The beautiful Chloe, here helping me with one of the biggest decisions of my life. I couldn’t ask for a more perfect companion on this special evening.” Inappropriate though the words were on a first date, and a blind one at that, they would have sounded touching if Eric had been looking at me instead of over my shoulder as he spoke. Not big on eye contact, this guy.

  I slid my hand from his and drained what was left of my wine. “So, a chef’s tasting should be fun, huh?” What was he looking at? I turned around to see a couple at a nearby table who were having an acrimonious discussion with their waiter.

  “I’m going to help out here, my dear. Ian seems to have gotten himself in another jam,” Eric announced as he leaped up and rushed to the other diners’ table.

  Good God, he was irritating. This wasn’t his restaurant, and whatever was going on over there was none of his business. The meal had better be outstanding. The romance wasn’t going to be. Maybe I’d go to Adrianna’s after dinner and spend the night there—so Noah would see that I hadn’t come home.

  Eric’s undistinguished build began to look lumpy, his skin pasty, as if his looks were morphing before my eyes from mediocre to outright unattractive. And was that a nose hair I’d seen peeking from his left nostril? Oh, help me. For now, I’d just get through the dinner. So I refilled my wineglass and spun around on my stool to get a good view of the dispute.

  “What seems to be the trouble here, my friends?” Eric had assumed an air of affable authority.

  The diners, who I assumed were husband and wife, must quite reasonably have mistaken Eric for an owner or manager, because they launched into a complaint about their bill. The man, well-dressed and probably in his late fifties, spoke impatiently. “There seems to be a mistake here. We’ve been charged for some sort of ‘miscellaneous item,’ whatever that means, which we did not order. With the amount of money we’re spending here, I’d expect our bill to be correct.”

  The waiter, Ian, began apologizing profusely. “Sir, I’m terribly sorry for this error. This is obviously a cashier’s mistake, and I’ll correct the problem immediately.”

  “Maybe while Ian is fixing your check, you’d like some dessert? On the house, of course.” Eric smiled genially at the two guests. For a free dessert, I’d happily ignore a cashier’s goof that was being corrected.

  The woman smiled politely and addressed Ian. “It’s not a problem, but dessert would be nice, thank you.” She shot a look at her husband that said he’d better shut up or dessert would be all he’d get that night. “Honey, just let it go. It’s just a little mistake,” she assured her husband.

  “Excellent, folks. I’m glad I could help here. Now let’s get you those desserts,” Eric said. He gripped Ian’s arm and led him past me, toward the kitchen. “You’d better be careful. Remember what we talked about,” Eric growled angrily as he flashed Ian a quick but ominous look. Ian nodded with understanding and rushed off to order the appeasing desserts.

  My date returned to his seat beside me, suddenly relaxed and exuding composure and cheer that somehow felt false. “Just a small misunderstanding about their bill. Happens all the time at restaurants. You should always check your bill. Remember that.” Eric winked at me.

  Freak, freak, freak!

  Cassie set two plates down in front of us. “Here’s your first course. Garrett has made you lobster and Brie wontons with papaya-mint dipping sauce. Can I bring you anything else right now?”

  “Double vodka,” Eric directed her.

  I wasn’t sure that even lobster could compensate for my date’s behavior, but when I took my first taste, I knew I was wrong. I’d put up with anything for this. Two crisp wonton skins, perfectly browned, held rich bites of lobster meat floating in melted Brie. I decided that I could survive on these for the rest of my life. Easily.

  “This is what I’m talking about!” Eric nodded, his mouth full of food.

  “Amazing,” I agreed. “These are phenomenal. I could eat a plateful!”

  “You want some more? I’ll get Garrett to make as many as you want,” Eric offered, looking into the kitchen.

  “No, no!” I shook my head in protest. “I want to save room for the other courses.” And keep you from embarrassing me yet again.

  “All right. So, we like dish number one, then? I guess Essence will need my money to get lobster on the regular menu, though. What do you think?”

  “So far, I vote for investing, even if it’s just to save these wontons from extinction,” I said.

  When the next course arrived, Cassie announced, “Mr. Rafferty, Garrett knows your favorite. Venison carpaccio with blackberry glaze, cranberry vinaigrette, eight-year-old Gouda, and arugula.”

  Wow! Another winner. Eric and I actually smiled at each another while we silently devoured our carpaccio. Possibly by accident, he made eye contact. But really, how could you not connect with someone, at least a little, when relishing such an amazing dish?

  “A woman who eats venison. I like that,” Eric said.

  Unfortunately, the rest of our dishes were not nearly so fabulous as our first few courses. The Pan-fried Oysters with Fennel-Fenugreek Aioli contained oysters that were simultaneously soggy and chewy. The Foie Gras Ravioli with Sweet Corn and Black Truffle Bouillon did not live up to its enticing name. Eric frowned as he pushed his tongue around in his mouth in a disgusting display of tasting. “I’m disappointed in this. The foie gras is dried out, and the bouillon is flavorless. A totally forgettable dish.”

  Our final course, called Grilled Ahi Tuna with Sweet Rice, Mustard Greens, and Hoisin Sauce, was just as unpleasant as the ravioli; the tuna was overcooked, the rice gummy, and the greens bitter. I started to wonder why such delicious-sounding dishes were so disappointing. Eric pronounced the tuna dégousse, which, he informed me, was French for “disgusting.” (French for disgusting is dégoûtant, as I didn’t point out.) Although I agr
eed with Eric’s assessments, I couldn’t stop picturing him as a child critiquing his birthday cake: Well, Mommy, the overall presentation was nice, but the cake was too dense, and the frosting too sweet for my liking. And the Big Bird candles were gaudy. In the case of Essence, I thought his criticism was justified. I didn’t know whether I’d sink money into this place, which clearly had kinks to be worked out. The quality of the food, for example. Rather a large kink.

  Poor Garrett. I saw him in the kitchen, sweating and running back and forth from oven to counter, shouting at staff members, sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish, struggling desperately to succeed. Although this was my first inside look at a restaurant kitchen, even I could tell by watching the manic pursuits of the entire kitchen staff that things were out of control. Eric was watching Garrett as well.

  “He seems pretty harried,” I remarked.

  “Yeah, well, kitchens are always wild. But I’m worried, considering that it isn’t even that busy tonight and Garrett looks overwhelmed. That just can’t happen,” Eric said, shaking his head in disappointment. “The other meals I’ve had here have been much better.”

  “Well, if this is his first executive chef job, he must still be learning a lot. Maybe he’ll get better?” I asked hopefully.

  “I don’t know. The lobster and venison were so damn good, but he’s losing it as the night goes on. I mean, look at him. He’s a wreck. There’s a big difference between being a great chef and being able to stay a great chef all night—especially on a busy night.” Eric pointed to the kitchen just in time to catch sight of Garrett grabbing a smoking frying pan that was emitting a vile stench. “It’s a gamble. He might learn quickly and become one of the best chefs around. Or this job might be too much for him. And I guess I’m concerned that Timothy put someone like Garrett in this position. Tim’s got a lot riding on the success of this place, so he should’ve found someone with more experience. There are some great menu ideas here, but they’re not coming out right.”

  “Well, the staff seems solid, and Timothy obviously has great experience. From Magellan. Why is Essence is having such a tough time? Just because of Garrett?”

  “No, probably not just Garrett. It could be a staffing issue. It’s a good staff, but there’s always the usual conflict. The front of the house—the hostess, the waitstaff and bartenders, the managers—and the back of the house—the chef and his crew—have to be able to work well together. And that’s rare. See, the waitstaff can make quite a bit of money on the right night and at the right restaurant, because they get tips. And, frankly, half the time they don’t care about the food all that much because they just want their money. They’re not in this business because they appreciate good food.” Eric finished his drink quickly and thumped the glass on the table before continuing.

  “But the chefs and the line cooks hardly make any money. Those guys, or at least the executive chef and executive sous chef, cook because they love food and they love to cook. For them, it’s an art. So when they bust their asses to prepare and plate a dish perfectly, they get outraged when the server doesn’t pick it up on time. Either the food gets left out getting cold, or it sits under a heat lamp getting dry. Then the chef gets criticized for making lousy food, when it was the server who pretty much ruined the dish. Or the servers will blame the chef. They’ll claim they had to wait so long for their orders that they got backed up and had to leave the food sitting out. And sometimes the chef just screws up a dish. I don’t know the specifics about the staff here, but I’d guess there must be some problems.”

  If the food had been even moderately good, I’d have kept eating while Eric talked. As it was, I just listened. My lack of participation obviously didn’t bother Eric at all; if he’d been alone at the table instead of with me, he’d probably have delivered the same soliloquy. If he’d looked significantly adorable, I’d at least have been able to sit back and stare at physical perfection. Unfair as it was, hot guys could get away with boring, useless attitudes. But those who looked like Eric? Well, his bland looks and mousy hair were doing nothing for me.

  “To top it off,” he went on, mainly to himself, “a lot of restaurant owners, who are concerned about their own financial success, can get angry with the executive chef. See, the chef orders the food for the restaurant. But if business is down, then the food costs get too high because the restaurant isn’t taking in as much money, and they end up throwing out expensive ingredients, thereby losing money. The chef gets blamed for high food costs and an empty restaurant, when the fact that business is down might not have anything to do with the quality of the chef’s food. A bad economy, poor advertising by the owners, that kind of thing. I mean, let’s face it. There are plenty of very successful restaurants in Boston that serve crummy food, but the restaurants have been so hyped up and blitzed all over the media with the right spin that nobody even cares.”

  Eric didn’t seem to get the idea that a two-person conversation is supposed to be like tennis: back and forth. Instead of sending the ball to my side of the court, he just kept hitting it against the backboard.

  “So,” he persisted, “people in this restaurant business are always blaming somebody for something. Tim is a great guy, though, and I think he knows when to assign blame and when not to. But no matter who gets blamed, most nights the whole staff will end up staying out together until the bars close. It’s a crazy world.”

  Although I realized that Eric was by no means my soul mate, and not even second-date material, and although I was pretty sick of having him monopolize the conversation, I was interested in some of what he had to say about the restaurant world. I knew a lot about food and eating, but except for what I’d read in Boston Magazine, I didn’t know much about the business itself. After Cassie had cleared our plates, Eric evidently remembered that I, too, possessed the power of speech, and we discussed the pros and cons of investing in Essence. I almost started to enjoy the conversation. I noticed, however, that not once during the evening had he asked anything about me. He knew my name and knew I liked eating, and that information alone was evidently enough to make him comfortable in sharing his thoughts on possible financial transactions. Keeping the discussion away from anything that might further identify me was fine. After tolerating his self-important and dictatorial attitude all evening, I’d be content to fade away with my belly full and with Eric unable to contact me again.

  Note to self: Cancel Back Bay Dates account immediately upon completion of date!

  Eric’s cell phone rang. He glared at the Caller ID and picked up. “Hello? I told you not call me,” Eric hollered into the receiver.

  God, having lacked the decency to turn off the phone during our date, he went ahead and answered it? And screamed! Oh, what did I care? Dessert would probably be good. I had been eyeing the house speciality, honey-lavender crème brûlée, which I knew would have been made in advance. The sugared top would be seared with a torch just before serving, and even in his befuddled state Garrett probably wouldn’t mess that up.

  “Phil, if I were you, I’d take care of it.” Eric signaled to me that he was leaving to finish the call somewhere else. He headed toward a corridor at the back of the restaurant.

  Cassie brought me a cappuccino, which was delicious. Nothing can kill a good meal like a finale of bad coffee. I can never understand why some places serve the worst coffee. How hard can it be to buy a good bean and brew a pot? Okay, myself not included. But if I owned a restaurant, I’d buy a coffeemaker that worked.

  When I’d finished the cappuccino, Eric still hadn’t returned, and I was itching for the crème brûlée. Unfortunately for me, my mother’s training prevented me from ordering while Eric was gone. I looked into the kitchen to see whether Eric had invited himself into the heart of the restaurant to pester poor Garrett. I didn’t see my date and practically threw my hands up in exasperation at the evening’s events. Two cappuccinos later, I said to hell with manners and ordered dessert from Cassie.

  “Have you seen Eric?” I
asked her. “He left to finish a call on his cell phone and hasn’t come back.”

  She shook her head but promised to look for him. She wasn’t worried that he’d skipped out; as a guest of the restaurant, he’d hardly have run off to avoid paying a nonexistent bill. I wasn’t worried, either; I was annoyed and insulted. If my date could disappear, I decided, I could do exactly the same thing. It could take me a long, long time to touch up my makeup and fuss with my hair; it could take me long enough for Eric to return to the table, find me gone, and sit there all alone wondering where I was. My crème brûlée would have to wait.

  Essence was not, of course, the sort of restaurant with large, garish signs pointing to the restrooms. Looking around, I couldn’t find so much as a small, tasteful arrow and had to ask Cassie for directions. “Down that little corridor at the back,” she said. “Ladies is the first door on your left. If someone’s in there, use the men’s room. Everyone does. It’s the next door.”

  After making my way around a few tables, I entered the narrow corridor, which led to a door prominently marked Exit. The first door on the left showed a stylish sketch of a figure with long hair and a skirt. The door was locked. I took Cassie’s advice and pushed open the second door, the one with a matching sketch of a debonair figure in a coat and tails. Although the door was unlocked, the men’s room was occupied.

  Sprawled on his stomach on the slate floor was a tall man with curly dirty-blond hair. His legs were bent awkwardly, and one arm was stretched out at a painful-looking angle. The man, however, was beyond pain. His head lay in a pool of blood. The blood led away from the blond curls and toward two objects that lay on the tile. One was a mobile phone. The other was a knife with a black handle and a long, thin, curved, and bloody blade.

  I had found Eric.

  FIVE

  I stood under the fluorescent lights in the men’s room for a good two or three minutes while I tried to take in what I was looking at. I couldn’t look away from the repulsive wound in Eric’s neck. The skin was split open, the cut long and somehow clean despite the bright red, glistening blood. I could feel my heart pound and my whole body shiver, but I just couldn’t move. It felt impossible that Eric, who had just been critiquing food and yelling on his cell phone, was lying here on the floor, dead. I suppose I should have dropped down to the tiles to begin some sort of lifesaving attempt. As it was, I was frozen, in part, I suspect, because no one could have survived that dreadful wound. Also, the thought of stepping into the pool of blood churned my full stomach.