The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,72
mouth wrinkles of a lifelong smoker. Her hair was cut short, curling around her head in a style popular in the seventies, and she wore a plain green sweatshirt with the name of a local high school sports team emblazoned over one breast. “I’m looking for Elena Alvarez,” she said.
“I’m Elena,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Tansy? Hector said I should come apply for the baker position?”
“Oh!” Elena stood up, trying to cover her surprise. “Sure, come sit down.”
“Thanks.” She settled gnarled hands on small thighs encased in black polyester pants. On her feet were ordinary tennis shoes, the kind with a cloth upper and rubber lower and nothing fancy in between. Elena didn’t even know you could buy them like that anymore.
“Tell me about yourself, Tansy. Hector thinks a lot of you if he would recommend you for this position.”
“Well, I did a real good business with those boys.” She twirled her rings around her fingers. “They’re all so lonely, you know, away from home. It makes them feel loved to get something like they’d have at home—churros and the like, you know.”
“Really! Do you do pan de muerto?”
“Oh, sure! My late husband—he died of a heart attack nineteen months ago, you know—was a Mexican. I learned to make all of his favorites, and now all the boys who come here to work like to eat my baked goods.”
Elena felt a load lightening the slightest bit. “What else do you do? Pies, cakes? What do you think would be a good dessert for a high-end Mexican meal?”
“I can do almost anything you want, Ms. Alvarez. I sold pies and cakes to restaurants for years out of my kitchen, before opening up the bakery. I still bake for the truck stop out on I-70. You know it?”
Elena nodded.
“I haven’t seen the menu here, a’course, but I guess I’d probably come up with something light, something with chocolate. Maybe something caramel.” She inclined her head. “Mexican hot chocolate with some fruit might be enough.”
“Ah!” Elena was unable to stop the smile on her mouth. “I have an excellent recipe for Mexican chocolate. Take a look at this—” She passed the menu over, with some of Mia’s recipes attached. “Can you work with any of this?”
Tansy bent over the page, plucking at her lip with a finger and thumb. “I think so. I can sure give it a shot.”
“Good. You’re hired. We’ll give it a two-week trial, and see how we all work together. What do you say?”
“Okay. Thanks for the chance, Chef.”
TWENTY-THREE
TASTING MENU
October 31
Julian Liswood, host
Elena Alvarez, chef
The Orange Bear, Aspen, Colorado
SAVORY CHOICES
Zucchini blossoms stuffed with blue cornmeal dressing and piñon nuts
Assortment of small, savory tamales—elk, duck, traditional pork
Baby corn fritters with chile-spiced honey Bowls of buttered squashes
Samplings of small enchiladas on fresh corn tortillas—goat cheese with tomatillo, chicken, pork
Posole
Baskets of small, freshly cooked tortillas—red, blue, yellow, white
DESSERT CHOICES
Pomegranate baklava
Mexican hot chocolate
Sopapillas with buckwheat honey
BEVERAGE SELECTIONS
Wines
Tequilas
Beer
Mango spritzer
Iced tea
TWENTY-FOUR
On Thursday morning, Julian was at his computer before the sun rose, putting the finishing touches on the treatment, a few sample pages of screenplay, and his vision for the piece. It was excellent work, some of the best he’d done in years, and that gave him a sense of mingled challenge, excitement, and fear. Challenge in the test to his skills and talents and knowledge; excitement that it had the potential to be the best work he’d done thus far; fear that Elena would find out and he’d lose her—if not to the restaurant, then to himself.
As dawn angled into the room, slanting in dusty gold through the pines outside the house, he punched the print command and stood up. Swinging open the balcony doors, he stepped outside and took a deep breath of thin, crisp mountain air and stretched his hands hard and high over his head. In a little while, he’d go for a run.
Tonight, his guests would assemble for dinner. Two couples had already arrived in Aspen, and the rest would come in this afternoon—it wasn’t a long flight from LA, after all. He’d asked Georgia to prepare several bedrooms, and she’d have a girl make sure everything was covered for this evening in terms of comfort. Someone, he supposed, to provide some of the hospitality details a wife might offer if he had one.
Not that he was particularly interested. His ex, the first wife and the third one, Ricki, would be coming, too. Their love affair had been, in a word, tempestuous, and they wouldn’t have married