The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,4
Diego. “I worked as a line cook, then was promoted to sous chef at the Yellow Dolphin.”
“Yes. I know.”
There was a soft fall, a short pause. “Expensive hobby, restaurants,” Elena said into it.
“It’s more than a hobby, actually.” The words were mild, but Elena reminded herself that he was a man with considerable power and influence. Who was probably going to offer her a job if she could keep the chip off her shoulder. Or at least hidden.
“Sorry. That was rude.”
One side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Don’t apologize. It’s true that I don’t have the background you do, but I didn’t choose restaurants by accident. I love the business—bringing together a chef and a location and a direction and a staff and seeing what happens.”
“You’ve been very successful.”
“By trial and error. The Purple Tuna—are you familiar with it? In San Diego?”
“Somewhat.”
“It failed twice.” He grinned. “Luckily, enough cash will hide a multitude of sins.”
Elena was surprised into a laugh. “Is it successful now?”
“Yes. I kept changing the dynamic until it worked.”
“Which dynamics?”
“Staff. Menu.” He met her eyes. “Chef. The location is brilliant, and the building is beautiful. It took three years to get the rest of it right.”
Letting go of a long whistle, she said, “That’s a long time to keep a restaurant afloat. Why bother?”
“It’s a puzzle. I don’t like to give up until it fits together.”
She thought of the many, many elements that went into the success of a restaurant—menu, food, ordering, cash flow, décor and presentation, and most important, staff, front and back, all those personalities, often very high strung. “Very complicated puzzle.”
“Exactly.”
Leaning forward, he shook his hair off his brow and said, “Tell me, Elena, what are your five favorite foods?”
She tamped down a sense of anxiety. Was this a test? “Hmm. Favorite everyday dishes? Or favorite restaurant dishes? Or what?”
“Five best things you’ve ever eaten, anywhere.”
She considered. In the service area, someone loaded hot glasses into a rack. Outside, a breeze coaxed ripples into the satiny surface of the ripening bay. She narrowed her eyes and chose honesty. “My grandmother’s homemade tamales, fresh out of the steamer. A cup of hot chocolate I drank in a restaurant by the Louvre in Paris. A plate of blue-corn cheese enchiladas with green chile in Santa Fe.” That was three. She paused, letting others bubble up. “A bowl of buttered squashes at a museum restaurant. And—” she sucked in a breath and snatched one of the hundreds swirling up, “a roasted garlic soup, in New Orleans.” She brought her focus back to Julian’s face. “I’ve been trying for years to reproduce that soup and still don’t know why it was so spectacular.”
He nodded.
She sipped her tea. “Now you.”
“Of course.” His eyes, she noticed, were not just brown, they were blackest black. It made him seem wise. “A plate of roasted lamb in New Zealand, made by a housewife who put us up when our car broke down.”
“Oh, I forgot lamb! I love lamb.”
“That was one. Two was a strudel our next-door neighbor used to make, back when I was a kid.” He held up a third finger. “A bowl of green chile in a greasy spoon in New Mexico. Espanola, as it happens.”
She raised her eyebrows—she’d mentioned Espanola in the article. “My uncle probably made it.”
Julian chuckled. “A steak pie in Aspen, and”—he gestured toward her—“a zucchini blossom with blue corn-bread and piñon stuffing.”
She pressed her hands into namaste position. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“The last three are why we’re here.”
A ripple of nerves shot through her gut. “Okay.”
“The steak pie was in a failing restaurant. The chef is a drunk, the owner was a ski bum who had no business sense, and the building is challenged, though in a very good location.”
Elena hazarded a guess. “And you bought it.”
He smiled. “Yes.”
The food came, steaming hot, served on heavy white porcelain plates the server set down with no attention whatsoever to presentation. The parsley on Elena’s was at the top—as it should have been—Julian’s at the bottom. She couldn’t be silent. It would have been like letting someone leave the restroom with toilet paper stuck to her shoe. “Miss?”
The girl turned. “Did I forget something?”
“No, it looks beautiful—but can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Are you new to this job?”
“Yeah. Only three weeks.” She winced. “Does it show? They’re pretty shorthanded and I didn’t get trained that good.”
Elena gently touched the girl’s wrist. In her smoothest, least threatening voice, she said, “The food here is