“The Best Book of Potato Latkes,” he said, and stared at it for a long moment. Elena’s nervousness grew. Did he remember their early conversation about special food?
He raised his eyes, and smiled. “Perfect. Thank you.”
“They go together.”
The other box held a small, antique menorah she’d found online. It had come from a New Jersey estate. He took it out. His voice was raw when he said, “Thank you, Elena.” He reached for her hand, squeezed it, and she realized he was hiding enormous emotion.
“Your real gift is not here yet,” he said. “I ordered it and there was a small delay. This is just a little something I thought you’d like in the meantime.”
She grinned and opened the package, which was a Day of the Dead skeleton in a small kitchen, wearing roses in her hair. Elena laughed and kissed him. “It’s perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”
FORTY
IVAN’S FRENCH TOAST
Perfect for that New Year’s Day celebration
6–8 slices thick-sliced cinnamon raisin bread or rich bread like brioche
5 eggs
1/2 cup milk
1 tsp each grated lemon and orange zest
1/2 tsp vanilla
Powdered sugar and raspberries
Whip eggs, milk, zests, and vanilla together in a glass bowl. Get the skillet ready by heating till drops of water dance and disappear. Dip the bread and let the mixture soak in, then grill till golden. Garnish with fresh butter, raspberries, and powdered sugar.
FORTY-ONE
The turn of the year brought a serious cold snap, with temperatures dropping below zero at night, making the entire mountain region an ice rink no matter how hard the sand trucks and snowplows worked. Enough snow fell that the slopes stayed prime, and Aspen partied. The hotel rooms were packed, the restaurants filled to capacity, everyone was happy, making pots of money on the tourists and skiers who wanted to mingle with the beautiful people.
The Orange Bear was full every night and word of mouth was excellent, but the bad reviews still rankled. The day the Condé Nast magazine hit the stands, Elena and Julian bought every issue in town and threw them in the Dumpster at the back of the restaurant. Slapping her hands together crisply afterward, Elena grinned. “That felt better!”
The kitchen staff worked itself into its new alignment. There were a few struggles for dominance among the line cooks, and there was never going to be the ease between Ivan and Dag that there had been between him and Juan, but the Danish skier had a lot of talent and he showed up reliably, so they had to keep him. Twice, Elena clamped down on them when a struggle broke out; the rest of the time, she looked the other way. Dag deferred to Ivan in the kitchen—this was a personal struggle.
She missed Juan. Terribly. He was an excellent chef, with a personality to calm the roiling waters, but it was Juan himself she missed. The twinkle in his eye, his old-world mannerliness, his easy chatting with her in Spanish. Having him around had been like having a piece of her home with her every day. She’d come to rely on him and his soothing influence, and she really wanted to get him back. Through Hector and Tansy, she found out the name of his hometown in Mexico, and asked Julian to help her find him. Maybe if they requested this particular cook, they could make a case to the authorities. It was worth a try.
In the meantime, she cracked down on the legality of the papers in her kitchen. Hector produced a legitimate green card somehow, and his sister married a local—probably for her green card, but Elena didn’t care, and a loophole in the law allowed the restaurant to request a certain number of work permits, which they sucked up as fast as they could.
Elena also wrote letters. Lots of letters—to her congressmen, to the INS, to the local state and city officials. She even wrote a letter to the President. The laws, in her opinion, were idiotic and benefited no one—not the employers, nor the illegal immigrants flooding in to take the jobs, nor the American citizens who supposedly wanted the jobs the illegals were taking. Nobody won.
Entire projects were shut down throughout the city because there was no one to work them. Potholes on side streets grew to the size of small lakes with no one to man the trucks to fill them up. Restaurants could seat only 70 or 80 percent of their former numbers. And construction projects sat silent, heavy plastic flapping beneath the brilliant skies.
One