Just Like This (Albin Academy #2) - Cole McCade Page 0,140
hide my smile. “I’d like to check them out. See the space and maybe talk to a few people in the front of house if they’d be willing. I think it will be good to start off on the right foot with folks.” I paused, looking from Sean, who had crossed his arms, to Riccardo, who was nodding along vigorously. “And what about The Yellow House? I really want to see what they’re doing over there.”
I didn’t mention that my interest in the local-coffee-shop-turned-award-winning-culinary-destination had a whole lot to do with a profile I’d read a few months earlier of Beth Summers, the laid-back owner. Waiting in line at the grocery store, I’d picked up an issue of a splashy food magazine specifically because the cover image had caught my eye—a gorgeous woman laughing with her head thrown back, a tumble of auburn curls, a decidedly non-cheffy lavender dress, a hodgepodge of crystal necklaces.
Then I’d flipped to her interview. I’d been fascinated with her business philosophy even if it didn’t make a lick of sense to me. In theory, using only local ingredients, ensuring a competitive salary and full health benefits for all staff, and cooking almost everything in a wood burning oven sounded amazing. In the cold reality of the restaurant world, though, those things were almost impossible to do. Still, when she breezily mentioned her dedication to visibility for queer female chefs in a male-dominated industry, I’d actually bought a copy of the dang magazine so I could read the full interview. Several times.
Riccardo made one of his dramatic affirmative noises, whereas Sean’s brows crashed together. “That tiny place in the middle of nowhere?” Sean practically scoffed. “I don’t think we need to worry about them. Overhead like that they’ll close next month.”
I tried to rein in my prickly, only-sister-among-six-brothers instincts and kept my voice as even as possible. “Last year alone they were named the best restaurant in Maine and won a Martin Williams Award. I think they might be worth checking out.”
“Yes.” Riccardo clapped his hands and the sound echoed through the cavernous kitchen. “We will go there first.”
Chapter Two
Beth
The flames wandered over the kindling, sparking golden as the rich scent of wood smoke filled the kitchen. It was early still, the sunlight weak and soft. Outside, the clear crack of Andrew chopping wood mingled with the cries of chickadees and jays. Inside, I was alone. I drew in a deep, steady breath to greet the dawn.
I was exhausted. The night before had been long, with a private event yawning long past midnight. The morning came too early and too busy. My to-do list snaked through my mind unrelenting: update the menus online, proof the boules, fill the tart shells, pick up the blueberries from my dad, answer at least fifty emails, follow up with vendors... Realistically I needed to hire someone else. But the last two guys I’d brought on didn’t have the right energy. They cut corners and didn’t connect with our mission. The recent onslaught of guests and publicity meant, however, that Andrew, Nina, and I were constantly exhausted. It wasn’t sustainable.
Okay, so priority number one: create a new job listing to post on Craigslist that might attract someone more attuned. Really, what I needed was another me. Or the ability to work endless hours with no sleep and no personal time. Or to pack up and leave this whole operation behind in favor of a beach in Tulum. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been to yoga or taken Hamlet on a hike. The last time I’d dreamed of anything but invoices and health inspections.
“Coffee... Must have coffee.” Nina’s scratchy voice preceded her round, flushed face.
I inclined my head to the blue and white speckled percolator keeping warm next to the hearth. “Just made another pot.”
“You’re a goddess.” Nina was still dressed in her running clothes, a pair of tiny spandex shorts and a hot pink tank top. Her golden hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. We’d been inseparable since childhood and drunkenly slept together a few times before settling back into a cozy, supportive friendship. She was a gifted cook, responsible for the vegetable-forward dishes that helped put our tiny kitchen on the culinary map. Nina poured us each a mug, adding a healthy splash of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar to mine. “What time did you get here, anyway?”
“Five.” I tried not to let any exhaustion creep into my voice.