fact that he was struck so quickly with symptoms.
“What has been tested so far?”
“The dishwasher and sanitizing area is clean, and we are about halfway through this area. We’ll need to test the foods next. I will need to know how many salads you served last night, how many of the steaks, and how many dessert dishes you brought out to patrons.”
“Yes, of course.” I turned to Ricardo. “Can you please get the numbers?”
“Yes, Chef.” He disappeared toward the office. While our numbers for salads were sometimes off, we would have a general number on that. Some people who ordered didn’t want their salad or switched it with another one of our salads instead of the standard garden. The number for the steaks would be exact though.
Ricardo returned a few minutes later as I stood off to the side and watched every move the two inspectors took. “Chef,” Ricardo handed me a piece of paper that he printed out. Ricardo had not only given me last night’s numbers but the night before too.
“Thank you, Ricardo. Is this since our last meat delivery?” He nodded, and I handed the document to Mr. Rushmore, and he looked it over.
“We’ll notify the local hospitals to be on the lookout for more cases. If it was in the salad, you could have hundreds of cases.”
“If it was in the salad, but I still don’t think it was from us. Was this man healthy otherwise?”
“As far as I know.”
“Was it possible he had a compromised immune system? That is the only way I can see him turning ill so quickly. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Do you know the odds of that?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know the odds, Ms. Davidson. I’ve been doing this for a very long time.”
“Okay, and how often have you seen someone come down with E. coli poisoning in less than twenty-four hours?”
He pursed his lips and turned away from me, saying over his shoulder, “it can happen.”
His response meant that it had never happened in his career, and now my kitchen reputation was at stake. The fact that they were here was already a taint to our shining rep. It would show up on their site by tonight that they were investigating us for E. coli. Plus, it would be put into the paper to announce, in case someone else got sick, but not bad enough to go to the hospital. They will want to track all the claims, and they will have to weed out the people who are trying to screw us by making a buck in a lawsuit—a lawsuit! Oh, my god!
I squeezed my eyes closed; I had to call Randolph and let him know what was going on before he heard about it through another chef. What time was it in France right now? I glanced at my watch; it was just after three here, and France was six hours ahead so it would only be nine there. He would be at his brother’s restaurant, probably cooking, so I’d wait at least another hour, or two, and then call him.
It was just after four, and they had tested every surface in our kitchen. We were seriously behind in preparing, and the kitchen was a madhouse. Luckily, my staff was professional and calm, and the minute they said we could return to the kitchen, everything started moving in super—but safe—speeds.
I sat at the desk in the back office and stared at the international phone number for Randolph. My gaze shifted to the report in front of me, and I was glad that Mr. Rushmore hadn’t found anything in his inspection. It made me even more confident that the person had gotten sick elsewhere.
I picked up the desk phone and started to dial the number. It took a few seconds to connect, and then it was ringing. A woman’s voice answered and spoke too quickly for me to understand. While I did know some French, it was reserved for simple phrases, and mostly kitchen terms.
“Puis-je parler avec Randolph Laurent, s'il vous plaît?” I asked for Randolph with stilted French.
“Juste un momento.” The phone clicked as she asked me to wait a moment.
It took almost a full minute before he answered gruffly, “Randolph.”
“Bonjour Randolph, c’est Ali. Comment vas-tu?”
“Ah, doux Ali, tout va bien.” He paused for one second and then switched to English, for which I was grateful. “I would ask you how you are, but if you are calling me, chérie, something must be wrong.”
“Randolph,