The Chef's Choice / The Boss's Proposal

And felt a flare of heat that had nothing to do with the food.

He was watching her again with that naked hunger in his eyes. She held the fork but he was the one who looked starved—and she was the main course. He stepped closer to her, his gaze never wavering.

“You think I can make your mouth happy now,” he murmured into her ear, “just wait."

She swallowed. “Dream on.”

“Remind me to tell you what’s been happening in my dreams lately,” he said softly. “I think you’ll find it very interesting."

There were glints of gold in those dark eyes, she realized as she stared back helplessly, like sparks at midnight. And his mouth had been so soft. Nearby, the rest of the staff were oblivious, but the feeding frenzy was beginning to die down. She moistened her lips. “This isn’t the place or the time."

“Give me another place and another time, then.”

“Later,” was the best she could do. “Right now, we need to worry about dinner service."

“And later we’ll worry about something else.”

The dining room, with its broad sweep of windows looking out over Grace Harbor, had always been one of her favorite places at the inn. Antique maps of the Maine Coast dotted the pale blue walls, rugs covered the wide-planked maple floors. Atop each snowy-white tablecloth sat a glass storm lantern with a flickering candle. Outside, the sailboats in the marina bobbed on water stained gold by the last rays of the setting sun.

It had been a while since she’d waited tables. She’d forgotten just how exhausting it could be. By the end of the first hour, she’d discovered that her new black shoes pinched; by the second, she’d managed to punch a hole in her finger with the corkscrew. By the third, her arms were leaden from carrying heavy plates.

It could’ve been worse—at least the servers didn’t have to haul the meals from kitchen to table. That honor fell to the runners, who carted the heavy trays of dishes out to a station in the dining room where Cady and the other waiters delivered them to waiting diners. Not that the arrangement had kept her from burning herself on a plate that had been broiled under the salamander a little too long. All things considered, though, she’d probably gotten off easy.

“Waitress, over here.”

Or maybe not.

She turned to see a disgruntled-looking man waving at her from a table in the corner. The flesh of his neck spilled over his collar; his comb-over didn’t hide the pink shine of his scalp. The hint of embarrassment in the face of his companion across the table warned Cady that it wasn’t his incipient baldness that had made him unhappy, though.

She gave him her best smile. “How are your meals?” she asked.

“Terrible.” The man’s face was dark with displeasure.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“I ordered fois gras glazed tenderloin, medium well. It’s not glazed, it’s all dried out, including the meat."

Cady glanced at the plate. “It looks right to me, sir. That’s the way the dish is made."

“Well, that’s not the way it sounds from the description. You can’t serve meat dry like this. It needs some kind of a sauce."

Perfect. Cady could just imagine walking into the kitchen and delivering that particular bit of news to Damon. She’d wind up with the plate launched at her head, if she weren’t careful. Or the customer tossed into the parking lot.

“I think it’s dry because you asked for medium well, sir. I did warn you that this cut of meat is very difficult to cook anywhere past medium. The chef recommends that if you want something more well-done, you order the rib eye.”

“If I’d wanted the rib eye, I would have ordered the rib eye,” he said peevishly. “Iordered the tenderloin."

“But, sir—”

“No buts. I want it sent back.”

“Walter.” His companion looked embarrassed.

“I want my dinner,” he returned, obstinacy in the very set of his shoulders.

Cady sighed. “I’ll take it back, sir. It’ll just be a few minutes.”

Now this, she thought, had all the makings of a disaster.

During one renovation or other, a McBain had installed a double set of sliding doors between the dining room and the kitchen, separated by a vestibule. The arrangement insulated the dining room from the racket of the kitchen. It also gave Cady brief refuge before facing Damon with the unwelcome news that a customer had had the temerity to suggest that not only had they overcooked the tenderloin but that the very concept of the dish was faulty.

She took a deep breath and walked through the second set of doors.

The unbroken hot surface of the stove was festooned with steaming kettles of soup and boiling pasta water and what looked like dozens of sauté pans of sizzling meat and fish. On a shelf above the stovetop, dozens more clean sauté pans sat waiting, flanked on either end by salamanders for warming finished plates or adding a final broil.

In the lane between the stove line and the counter stood the trio of white-aproned line chefs. At the far end, quick-handed Roman manned the grill and deep fryer; in the middle was Rosalie, on veg and pasta; and nearest Cady, on sauté, stood Damon.

During Nathan’s tenure, the scene had been one of more than a little chaos, with insults and ribald jokes flying thick and fast above the sound of speed metal from the radio. Now, the room was almost eerily quiet. Gone was the music, gone was the sense of untidy confusion. In its place was a focused calm. The only voices were those of the expediter, Andy, reading off the orders as they printed out on the machine in the corner, and Damon repeating them.

The printer chattered. “One tenderloin, one salmon, two lobster,” Andy called out.

“One tenderloin, one salmon, two lobster,” Damon echoed.

Watching the group at work was a bit like watching a ballet because for all the quiet, the line was the scene of rapid, purposeful activity so synchronized it could have been choreographed. The cooks pivoted between stove and counter, passing plates to one another, saucing and garnishing, each of them working on three and four dishes simultaneously.

And as in a ballet, there was always one who was impossible to stop watching. Damon worked the end of the line in constant motion, bending, reaching, flipping, stirring, shaking a sauté pan with one hand while seasoning an entrée with the other. And, she swore, plating up with a third. There was a precision to his movements and more than a little grace, as though he were indeed going through the moves of a dance. He seemed totally absorbed in the process, bending over every plate as he worked with a swift, silent, almost ferocious concentration.

“Two scallop, veal medium rare, rib eye well,” Andy called out.

“Two scallop, veal medium rare, rib eye dead.” Damon reached to the shelf above the stove line for a trio of sauté pans, setting them on the stove to heat.

“One rib eye dead,” echoed Roman with a grin, slapping the cut on the grill.

Grabbing a cylindrical bain-marie from its simmering water bath, Damon ladled a sauce into a fourth pan and put it on a back burner to reduce. “Where are we at on table ten?” he asked, moving a sizzling pan of what looked like tenderloin from stovetop to oven.

“Ready on the rib eye, one salmon in the salamander, one on the grill,” Roman responded.

“Risotto’s done. One minute on the lobsters,” put in Rosalie, winding pasta around a meat fork to provide a bed for one of her lobster tails.

By the time she’d finished speaking, Damon had the veal seasoned and into the pan with the shallots to sear off. “Okay, stop where you are on the last order. Let’s focus on getting this eight-top out.” Reaching into one of the ovens, he pulled out two sauté pans, each with a piece of meat that was finished cooking. Lamb loin, Cady recognized.

He flipped the meat onto the cutting board and deftly sliced each loin into medallions, leaving them together like a sideways stack of poker chips. Even as he reached out, Rosalie passed him a pair of plates with mashed potatoes piled in one corner. He pulled a bubbling sauté pan of what looked like wine sauce from the stove and drizzled a circle onto each plate, then used his knife to lay the stack of medallions in the middle, pressing them gently over so that the perfect rounds of lamb lay against one another in the ring of red.

“Veg, Rosalie,” he said, sliding over the two plates so she could add the tiniest zucchini and yellow squash Cady had ever seen. Meanwhile, Rosalie had traded him her two lobster plates. With a squeeze bottle, he added a few precise dots of lemon butter sauce around the edges of each, adhering to some vision that only he could see.

Meanwhile, Andy the expediter was madly sprinkling sliver-thin parsley chiffonade over the lamb and risotto and sticking what looked suspiciously like fancy potato chips into the top of the mashed potatoes. He and Damon slid the plates across the counter to the pass.

Less than a minute had elapsed.

“All right, table ten up,” Damon called. “Let’s go, people. Hands on hot food.” He clapped his hands. The runners swarmed in.

Cady cleared her throat. “Chef?” she said.

Damon turned from adding knobs of butter to two of his sauté pans. He started to flash a smile. Until he saw the plate in her hands. “What’s that?"

“Fois gras glazed tenderloin from table four.”

“I can see that.” He flipped the veal. “The question is what is it doing back in the kitchen?"

This was the delicate part, she thought. Little was more irritating to a chef than having to interrupt the complicated dance of getting orders out the door to redo a plate he’d thought was safely gone. And when that chef was Damon Hurst, almost anything could happen.

“The customer isn’t happy. He says it’s too dry. He wants a sauce."

Damon’s eyes narrowed. “Table four, that was medium well, right?”

Cady nodded.

“Well, yeah, it’s dry. It’s been cooked to death.”

“I tried to suggest the rib eye, but he didn’t want to hear it.”

“Roman, toss this one in the Frialator,” Damon directed, slapping a new piece of tenderloin onto a sizzle platter and sliding it down the counter as if he were playing kitchen shuffleboard. “Set phasers for medium well."

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Roman grinned.

Damon turned back to the stove to get the veal in the oven and add scallops to the other two sauté pans. “Now what’s his sauce issue?"

“He says when he saw glazed, he wasn’t expecting a crust,” Cady said.

“Did you tell him that’s how the dish is made?”

“He didn’t want to listen to me.” “Maybe he’ll listen to me,” Damon said with an edge to his voice.

The printer chattered. “Three lobster, one scallop, two tenderloin medium, one lamb rare,” Andy read. “I don’t really think—”

“I’ve got to get some entrées plated,” Damon interrupted.

“But what do I tell him?” Cady asked desperately.

“Leave it to me. I know how to handle these kinds of idiots. Now go take care of your tables.” He turned away, hands already moving in a blur.

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