The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,51
at last. “I challenge you to a cook-off.”
“Like what?”
“Whatever,” he rumbled.
“You could do, like, Iron Chef,” said one of the ski boys. “We could come up with a secret ingredient and we’ll be the judges.”
“Hmm.” Elena lifted one brow. “I’d go for that. But get some more judges. Not just you guys, but people from outside.”
“Cooks and servers from other restaurants,” Ivan said, arms crossed over his chest. His apron was slung low over his hips, and showed splatters of blood, a spray of something yellow, a mark where he’d scorched the cotton. “A lot of them will close by ten or so. We could serve at eleven.”
Elena considered. He would likely know many of them, if not most. No way around that, really. “Okay,” Elena said, and pursed her lips. “Each of you guys go out and bring back one item, enough for each of us to use in a dish. We’ll cook, what?—three courses?”
“I’m game.”
“What if we all bring back the same thing?”
Elena thought about it. “Bring back something that starts with the same letter as your name.”
“En español?” Nando asked.
“Whatever works,” Elena said, laughing. “Whoever wants to can come back by eight-thirty. We’ll start cooking at nine.” She looked at Ivan. “Good with you?”
“Fine.”
“All right then.” She pointed at the CD player and looked at Peter. “Turn that shit off.” He brought her the CD and she gave it to Ivan. “Aren’t you a little old for hip hop?”
“You’re only as old as you feel,” he said, and sauntered away.
“Back to work, everybody.” As they shuffled to their stations and a CD of sixties rock came on, Juan approached her.
“Be careful,” he said in Spanish. “You don’t want him too drunk.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” she said.
“He gets mean. And if he goes on a bender, he won’t be back to work for a few days.”
Elena thought of the poker games in her New Mexico garage. “I’ll be all right, Juan.” She touched his arm. “Thanks for worrying, but I’m a lot tougher than I look.”
His dark eyes were sober. “I’ll be here, if you need me.”
“Thank you.” She grinned. “I couldn’t run this kitchen without you, Juan, you know that.”
“No, it’s Ivan you need.”
Elena shook her head. “Ivan is the spice. You’re the meat.”
He gave her a sideways grin. “Thanks, Jefa.”
She headed to the back and found Ivan at his locker, putting the CD away. “If you don’t show up for work tomorrow, Rasputin,” she said, “I’ll fire you.”
He looked over his shoulder. “Nice move, Jefa. Better win, though.”
“I’m not kidding,” she said.
“I get that.” For one hot second, she saw the resentment, the fury, in his eyes, and then it was gone. “I’ll be here.” He slammed the locker closed with a bang. “I’m going to kick your pretty ass all the way to China.”
“We’ll see.”
From her office, with the door closed, she called Julian. “Hey,” she said when he answered. “I wonder if I could impose on you for the evening.”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“I’d like your daughter to babysit my dog for the night.”
“I’m betting that will not be a problem, but let me ask her.” He covered the phone and murmured something. “She says that would be so great.” He spoke the words in a falsetto, and laughed, “Ow! Ow. Quit it. She wants to know when you’ll bring him.”
Elena looked at the clock, calculated what she would have to do to prepare for the evening. “Say, five? I’ll bring supper if you like.”
“Hey, now that’s a great idea. What’s up?”
“Power play,” she said. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
Portia flung open the door when Elena rang. “Hi!” she said. She wore a long-sleeved pink T-shirt and jeans, her hair swept into a ponytail. “I’m so happy you called me to babysit! Come in!”
“I’m glad you were available.”
Portia only had eyes for Alvin. “Hi, Alvin! Oh, look, how cute—do you have a toy, baby?” She laughed and reached for the grimy, once-yellow crocodile Alvin carried in his mouth. Alvin happily tugged back, his feathery tail swishing.
“He really doesn’t like to go anywhere without it.”
Portia tugged high, lifting Alvin to his back feet, and she laughed in delight.
“He loves to play chase,” Elena said. “If he lets you have it, he wants you to toss it.” She eyed the parquet floor. “Maybe not right here, though. Drop it, baby.”
Alvin, looking deflated, sat down. Portia squatted in front of him. “It’s okay, baby, we’ll play in a minute.” The dog sat down and let