My fresh drink arrives but Cole doesn’t tear his eyes away from me, lost in the momentum of his own arguments. He doesn’t even need prompting for the third secret.
“And the last one,” he says, leaning over the table now, his voice low and directed, as if uttering a conspiracy. “You wanna leave your customers wanting more. Now I’m not saying leave them hungry, but you wanna leave them a couple of bites short of completely satisfied. The meal lingers then, so they don’t just forget it and start thinking about work or traffic or their taxes. Think about it: people will love a single bite of caviar more than they’ll ever love a plate of it.”
I nod a little and take a slow sip of my drink. Cole sits back, satisfied.
“And there you have it,” he says, victoriously. “The three secrets.”
“Bullshit,” I say, calmly.
“Excuse me?”
“I could not disagree more with everything you just said.”
He laughs. “Really now?”
“Yeah,” I say, almost confrontational. “I think your secrets suck.”
The laugh dies away and Cole glares at me, his face flickering between confusion and offense, as if he’s never heard somebody speak to him about his craft this way before.
“Do they? How so?”
I take a deep breath, realizing that I’m well beyond the point of control, only my principles guiding me now.
“You talk about dishes looking good—well, what if I don’t agree with your idea of what’s attractive? What if I like my salads cut roughly and jumbled in a bowl instead of arranged and stacked like a flower arrangement? What if I like food that looks like food, and not post-modern art that’s trying to guilt trip me into liking it.”
“You don’t underst—”
“And as for pricing stuff ridiculously just so that people take their time eating—I think that’s awful. Maybe that works on the money-obsessed celebrities that go to Knife, but where I come from, people aren’t so good at lying to themselves and they can’t afford to purchase a plate of satisfaction. If a bad meal is expensive, well that just makes it worse. You wanna make people appreciate something you made, then you should make it with love.”
“Whether you like it or not, it’s the—”
“And small portions? Jesus! It’s like you don’t even know what food is for anymore! Great food is great food. It should make people feel happy and satisfied, not starve them into thinking it’s better than it actually is.” I gesture at the doll-sized tacos and one-bite samosas in front of us. “Look at this. It’s like a child’s portion size! Maybe that’s enough food for supermodels and decadent actors, but for somebody who’s drained after a nine hour shift, this is only going to leave them more hungry. What were these, thirty dollars a plate?”
I’m almost out of breath at the end of my rant, glaring back at Cole as if reflecting the dark irritation in his eyes. Before regret can set in, and the reality of where I am, before I remember who I’m talking to and how easily he can just hand me a pink slip. Before I start backtracking like crazy in order to still have my job tomorrow, he shakes his head, that infuriating grin back on his perfect face.
“You know that’s why your restaurant failed, right?”
“My restaurant failed because of its location,” I respond quickly, realizing I’m repeating myself. Instinct taking over again. “Nothing else. If I had half as good a location as Knife I’d have thrived.”
“You think it’s that easy, do you?” Cole smiles darkly, fully offended now.
“I never said I think it’s that easy,” I reply. “But I know that I’m that good.”
He doesn’t say anything after that. The silence is long enough for anxiety to set in, an awkward realization that I might have just fucked everything up—again. I sip my drink, looking around the restaurant to avoid Cole’s calculating stare.
“Prove it,” he says, eventually.
“What?”
“Prove it,” he repeats. “You think you’re so good, that you’ve got it all figured out, that I’m wrong—then show me.”
I put my drink down slowly.
“How?”
Cole shrugs.
“Cook for me. Something great. Something you think is ‘unpretentious’ and ‘real.’”
I shake my head. “You’re hardly the best judge. My point is what would work in a restaurant.”
Cole smiles, as if I’m balking at the challenge. I think hard, and eventually figure something out.
“Actually, you know what? I’ll do it. But if you like it, you let me put it on the menu at Knife. It could be a special—just for a week. See what your customers think. Then we’ll really see who’s right.”
Cole looks off into the distance for a second to consider it.
“Ok. Deal.” He offers his hand across the table and I take it slowly, waiting for him to laugh and tell me this is a joke. “But I have to try your dish first. I’m not just going to let you put anything on the menu. You’ll make it for me, and if I think it’s acceptable, we’ll add it to the specials menu and see if the customers agree.”
“Sure. Just tell me when.”
Cole throws me a look of confusion.
“Not when. Now.” He extends his arm to reveal his designer watch and checks it. “Knife’s been closed a couple of hours now. So we’ll have the kitchen to ourselves.”
I down my drink like I’m heading to war.
“You’re on,” I say, already sliding out of the booth. “Let’s go.”
But as I march confidently toward the exit, I can’t help wondering if this is the chance of a lifetime or the worst mistake I’ve ever made.
5
Cole
In the back of the cab I manage to pull my attention away from the golden skin of Willow’s legs just long enough to call ahead to the restaurant. It’s late enough that the dish washers should be just about done, but I need to make sure. When they answer, I tell them to take an early night, that I’m bringing private guests. It’s not an unusual request, so I know they’ll be gone soon.
Willow stares out of the window intently, tapping her fingers against her lush mouth. She’s probably thinking of what to cook. I don’t mind her silence, since it gives me a chance to gorge on the sight of her body, to drink her curves in, get drunk on them. By the time the car pulls up outside Knife I’m woozy with lust. Irrational, alcohol-infused imagination doing all kinds of things with that taut body beside me.
“You figured out what you’re gonna cook yet?” I tease, as the cab speeds away leaving empty air between us.
She gives only a tight, mystic smile as response. There’s too much solid determination about her now to entertain me. The laid back, graceful elegance she’s had up to this point now replaced by a directed poise, as much precise strength as it is focused determination. She turns and walks up to the restaurant with catwalk straightness, so fast that I almost have to quicken my gait to catch up to her.
“Are you going to be able to give me a hand?” she asks as I unlock the door.
I push it open for her.
“I’m not good at taking orders.”
“That’s ok,” Willow smiles as she steps through. “I’m good at giving them.”
Before I can even close the door behind me she’s making a beeline for the kitchen, tying an apron on around that tight dress and somehow still managing to look just as hot. I watch her pulling pans from the rack, firing up the stove, moving around the kitchen like a whirling dervish. She rushes past me at pace, ferrying a few bottles to the counter.
“Grab me a couple pounds of mince,” she calls out, her voice projected and sharp now, the kind of voice you develop working in a loud environment. “Red peppers—long enough to have some spice—and start chopping a sweet onion. Chopped, not diced.”
I get an adrenaline rush at her words, pulse racing at being ordered about by someone so purposeful, hot, and focused. It’s been too long since I actually cooked so hands-on, and even longer since someone told me what to do in a kitchen, or anyplace else.