The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,29
the best in the business. She’d worked her way up through the ranks, from private in the scullery to captain of the line. Now general. Jefa.
Patrick pulled open the door, gestured her to lead, and came behind her. Two fingers lightly fell on her spine—I’ve got your back.
And there they were, her troops. All men, which she’d expected. Ivan, the sous chef, with his Rasputin face and burning blue eyes, leaned insolently against the wall, one foot braced behind him, his arms folded over his lean belly.
“Hey, Chef,” he said. Next to Elena, Patrick vibrated, tuning into the sound of that bearish voice, the voice of an orator, a serial killer. “Who’s your pretty sidekick?”
Elena took off her sunglasses, not speaking as she took the case out of her purse and put the glasses away.
Ivan was dressed in a more elegant way than she would have expected, in a long-sleeved silk T-shirt and low-slung jeans.
Next to him was a dashingly handsome Mexican in his late twenties, with soft dark eyes. “Cómo está?” he said, dipping his head politely. North Mexico, his accent said.
“Bueno, gracias.” Northern New Mexico, said Elena’s. “Cómo se llama?”
He stepped forward politely, his dark hand splaying over his chest. “Me llamo Juan Diego Vialpando Garcia.”
Elena smiled. A good omen that a man should have the name of the Indian peasant to whom the Virgin Mary had appeared in Mexico, where she was known as the Virgin of Guadalupe. “Me gusto mucho.”
He gave a charming little half-bow. “It is an honor to meet you, Chef.”
“Thank you.”
A stocky, balding man with shrewd eyes and very expensively cut trousers stepped forward. “Chef, I’m Alan Cody, the house manager.”
“Good to meet you. I’ve already met Rasputin there,” she said, gesturing to Ivan. “Tell me about the rest of our staff.”
“I’m happy to do that.”
Patrick took a step closer, an elegant bodyguard.
“Everyone,” Alan said, “this is Elena Alvarez. She’s most recently been sous chef at the Blue Turtle in Vancouver, which is where we found her and seduced her away.” He gave Elena a grin.
“I heard she was fired,” Rasputin said in his dark voice.
“I was,” Elena said. “A reporter did a story on my food style and Chef didn’t like being upstaged. I suggest you remember that.”
He raised an eyebrow but said no more.
Alan wrung his hands, but when war didn’t break out, he said, “Well, of course, this is Ivan Santino. You may not know that he studied at Le Cuisine in New York, and won a James Beard award for best new chef six years ago.”
“I did not know. Well done.”
He inclined his head.
“Next to Ivan is Juan, whom you’ve just met. He’s been with us for three years, and he’s a master saucier.”
“Among other things,” Ivan said.
Alan introduced a trio of others, all young men with the look of restlessness that told her they’d not yet found their kitchens. Maybe they were ski bums, here for the access to the slopes. It was standard to offer season passes to employees, and Julian also preferred to help find housing.
These boys were exploring and gaining experience, and Aspen wasn’t a bad place to do it. The youngest of the group was a pale blond with dark brown eyes who said his name, Peter, in a cheery voice. He couldn’t yet be twenty-one.
“Thank you, Alan,” Elena said. “I’m looking forward to working with all of you.” The twinges in her lower spine started up again, and she wanted to lean or sit, but straightened the tiniest bit instead, remembering to pull her shoulder blades down her back.
Show no weakness.
Lifting her chin, she met the eyes of each man in turn. “As Alan just said, I am Elena Alvarez. I originally studied in Santa Fe, then moved to San Francisco, then spent three years in Paris, at Le Cordon Bleu. I did stints in London and New York before I returned to San Francisco, where I eventually worked my way up to a sous chef position at the Yellow Dolphin, which is one of Julian Liswood’s most successful restaurants. I believe it was his first?” Elena looked to Patrick for confirmation, and caught him glaring at Ivan. He felt her gaze, recovered, and nodded.
“His first,” she confirmed. “Three years ago, Chef Dmitri Nadirov and I were hired to develop the menu and open the kitchen of the Blue Turtle in Vancouver.”
“What’s ours going to be called?” the young Peter asked.