Too Many Cooks (15 page)

CHAPTER 18

The conversation with my dad never happens. I call, but when I do, Irene O'Malley answers the phone and tells me he is picking up a new hose at the hardware store.

“I'm happy to give him a message,” she says.

“I'm sure you are,” I mumble under my breath.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.” I clear my throat. “Just tell him Kelly called and that I'll try him later in the week.”

“Will do. Oh!” She lets out a yelp as something crashes in the background. “Jeez, Kelly, your mom sure stacked her pots high.”

“Why are you sorting through my mom's pots?”

“Your father needs a good home-cooked meal in his own kitchen is why.”

My jaw tightens. Man, my mom called this one. “How kind,” I say.

“It's how I'm built,” she says. “I'm a giver. I can't look at a handsome, lonely man like your father and not help out. No, ma'am. Not me.”

I'm about to jump in and tell her she could help him most of all by getting him to scrub himself with a little soap and hot water, but then I think back to my mom's note. My mom would, without question, rather my father stank up the entire state of Michigan with his stench than have Irene O'Malley insinuate herself into a potential sponge bath. The shower conversation will have to wait.

“Thank you for your generosity,” I say. “I know it would have meant a lot to my mother.”

“Yes,” Irene says, her voice tart. “Well.”

“Anyway, please tell my dad I called.”

“You got it.” Another pot crashes in the background. “Gosh darn it! This shelving system makes no sense at all.”

“Maybe you can reorganize it next time you stop by,” I say. “You'll need to make room anyway for that Tupperware of my mom's you still need to return.”

Irene goes silent.

“Bye, now.” I smile to myself, and before she can say anything else, I hang up.

 

Monday morning, I show up at Natasha's house carrying two bags of food: poached salmon, carrot salad, and the preliminary makings of a kale burger. Poppy sent me a text last night saying Natasha would be ready for the tasting at noon, after which we can discuss the next recipes on the list—but only briefly, because Natasha has an appointment with her acupuncturist at one.

Olga lets me in the front door and follows me as I hurry down the stairs to the kitchen. I begin unloading my containers into the refrigerator, while she stands at the edge of the counter, watching me.

“Mr. Ballantine, he say thank you for the . . . ‘hodge podge.' ”

I freeze. “He did?”

“Yes. He say the salmon is best yet. And the carrot salad . . . no needed Greek yogurt after all.”

I try to contain my smile. “Good. I'm glad he enjoyed it.”

She eyes me as I continue putting food into the fridge. “Miss Natasha, she is very happy you feed Mr. Ballantine so well.”

“It's no trouble at all,” I say, my face hot. “If someone didn't eat the leftovers, I'd end up throwing them out.”

“The cookies—those leftovers, too?”

My chest tightens. The chocolate chip cookies. The ones I made the night I slept over.

“Oh, those . . .” I don't know what to say. Do I make up some elaborate story? No, I can't do that. I'll just get myself into more trouble. “No, they weren't leftovers. Mr. Ballantine asked me to make some, so I did.”

“When?”

“Sorry?”

“When he ask?”

Why is she suddenly so curious? I can't tell her the truth. At the same time, I can't pretend he asked me while I was here at work. She knows that isn't true.

“You know, I can't remember,” I say, reaching into the bag for the container of carrot salad. “The past few weeks have been a blur. For all I know, I imagined he asked for the cookies.”

Okay, so that's kind of a lie, but not really. The past few weeks have been a blur, especially that Friday night.

“Ah.” She runs her eyes across my face. “Mr. Ballantine, he is happiest I've seen in very long time.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she says.

I close the refrigerator door, about to concoct some sort of explanation for his happiness, when Olga cuts me off.

“Is good,” she says. Then she shrugs. “To me, is good.”

I'm about to ask what she means by that, when we hear footsteps overhead.

“No more talk,” Olga says.

She grabs a duster from inside one of the kitchen cupboards, and as she makes her way toward the hallway, I could swear she offers me a slight smile before disappearing through the door.

 

Later that morning, I put the finishing touches on the carrot salad and assemble the kale burgers, which I will sear to order once Natasha comes down. At five minutes to noon, I plate up the salmon, drizzling the mustard-dill sauce over the top in a zigzag pattern, and scoop out a portion of carrot salad into two small bowls, making sure I include sufficient amounts of both grated carrot and chickpeas.

Ten minutes later Natasha storms into the kitchen, with Poppy close behind, a notebook and pen clasped in her hand.

“So where is this salmon I've been hearing about?” Natasha says, flicking her long, glossy hair over her shoulder. She is, once again, dressed in blacks and grays, this time dark gray harem pants and a silky black tank.

I grab the plate of salmon and push it toward her on the marble island. “I think I finally got it right. The coriander seeds really make the flavor pop.”

“Let's hope so,” she says, “considering Hugh has mentioned it twice since I got back.”

“He has?” I say before I can stop myself. Then I quickly add, “Your opinion is the one that matters, so I hope you like it.”

I hand both her and Poppy a fork, and Natasha slices off a small piece of salmon and swirls it around in the sauce.

“Mmm,” she says, covering her mouth as she chews in her odd, rhythmic pattern and swallows. She nods at Poppy. “Try it—it's good.”

Poppy pokes at the fish and takes a small bite. “Lovely,” she says.

Natasha holds the fork upside down in her mouth, tapping the tines against her teeth. “But I wonder . . . could we maybe add some rosemary?”

“No,” I say, probably a bit too quickly.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“What I mean is . . . rosemary is a very strong flavor. Probably too strong for a preparation like this. Especially given the dill in the sauce. The flavors don't really go together.”

“Hmm, you're probably right. . . .” She lays her fork on the counter. “But why don't you take a crack at it, just to see.”

I clench my fists beneath the counter. “Okay . . . I can do that. But the more times I retest things, the more trouble we run into with your deadline.”

“Not if you work quickly.”

“Even if I work quickly, we still have a long way to go. I can retest this recipe if you aren't happy with it, but we'll probably have to borrow that time from another recipe.”

“She . . . isn't wrong,” Poppy says timidly. “Your editor wrote today asking how things are progressing. You have time, but not loads of it.”

Natasha raps her fingers against the counter. “Fine. We can keep this version for now. But if there is time at the end, I'd like to try it with rosemary. Just to see.”

“Okay,” I say. “Deal.”

Even though I already know rosemary won't work
.

I bring out small bowls of the carrot salad for both her and Poppy, and while they sample small portions, I finish off the kale burgers.

“I'm sorry, what are those?” Natasha asks, nodding at the burgers I've transferred to a plate.

“Kale burgers.”

“Why aren't they green?”

“I needed to add a few other ingredients to make everything stick together.” And not taste like a tree branch.

“The kale burgers I used to eat in LA were much greener than that.”

I push the platter toward her. “Maybe you could try a bite and let me know what you think of the flavor, and we can work backward from there.”

She wipes the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Or we could start with wanting them to be greener, and you could work forward from there.”

I try not to lose my cool.
It's her book, not your book; it's her book, not your book
.

“Okay,” I say. “Sure.”

Not that it took me a week to develop the recipe or anything. Not that refusing to taste so much as a single forkful is rude and disrespectful and utterly infuriating.

She takes another bite of the carrot salad and twists her lips to the side. “This is good,” she says. “But now that I'm tasting it . . . I'm reminded of a raw zucchini salad I once had while on location in Italy. Could we make this with zucchini instead?”

“Sure. But I'd have to change a few things, since zucchini can be really watery. Do you want the same dressing, just with zucchini?”

She rubs her fingers along her lower lip. “No, actually . . . The salad I'm thinking of was zippier. It had lemon juice in it, I think. And parmesan shavings. And toasted nuts.”

“Pine nuts?”

“Almonds, I think. Or was it pistachios?” She shakes her head. “I don't know—I'm sure you can figure it out.”

I take a calming breath. “So, just to clarify: We're swapping out the carrot salad for an Italian zucchini salad.”

“Yes, I think so. I think that's for the best.” She dabs at the corners of her mouth as Poppy scribbles furiously in her notebook. “Oh, and don't bother leaving any of the zucchini salad for Hugh. He
detests
zucchini.”

“Ah, so no zucchini bread, then.”

She narrows her eyes. “What?”

“Zucchini bread. For Hugh—Mr. Ballantine. I guess that's out.”

“Why on earth would you bake zucchini bread for my husband?”

“I wouldn't. I just meant . . . since you asked me to bake banana bread that one time . . .” I trail off as I remember the finer points of the banana bread incident.

“I never asked you to bake banana bread,” she says.

“Right. Sorry. My mistake.”

She glances at Poppy. “Where do we
find
these people?”

Poppy does not respond. A wise choice, as far as I can tell.

Natasha studies her manicured fingers and then looks back up at me. “Are we done?”

“I . . . guess so,” I say. “That's all I have for you to taste today.”

“Then we're done.” She motions for Poppy to follow her out of the room, but pauses before leaving. “Why don't you plan on having the zucchini salad and kale burger ready for me to taste on Friday. And if you can start working on a version of my grandmother's scrambled eggs, that would great. I know we already finished that section, but I'd like to add this recipe. Her eggs were fluffy and creamy without being wet and gross.”

Not wet and gross. Got it.

She struts out of the kitchen, with Poppy following close behind, and when she gets to the door, she rests her hand on the frame.

“Oh, and I've been meaning to mention—from now on, when you arrive, could you please use the servants' entrance?”

“The what?”

“The servants' entrance. The one on the side of the house.”

“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound as taken aback as I feel. “Okay. If that's what you'd prefer.”

“It is. I know I can be low-key about a lot of things, but I'm not okay with having my staff come in and out the front door.”

Her staff
. Is that what I am? I guess so. In that case, I wonder how she'd feel about having her staff sleep in her guest bedroom....

“Then I'll use the servants' entrance. Not a problem.”

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I should have mentioned it sooner.”

She turns and walks out of the room, and all I can think is that she just apologized for entirely the wrong thing.

CHAPTER 19

Natasha is my boss. I know this. She is the one who hired me, and she is the one paying me—although I have yet to receive any money since I arrived in England. Her business manager, Larry, cut me a check as soon as I signed the contract (a small amount to “get me started”), but he was supposed to arrange for the rest of the money to be deposited directly into my US bank account in installments. I emailed his assistant last week when nothing had appeared, and apparently they lost some of my paperwork, so I needed to resend all of my banking details. They are allegedly processing my information, but it's taking an awfully long time, and no one seems all that concerned. I suppose that's what happens when you are rich and famous. You never worry about money, so you don't understand why anyone else would either.

But somehow, even though Natasha is my boss, I'm still a little offended that she considers me a “servant.” I am pouring my soul into this book so that she can achieve her dream of writing a cookbook. Without me, this book would be nothing more than an idea. If she is the architect, then I am the engineer, contractor, and handy-woman, taking her pie-in-the-sky blueprints and turning them into something functional, sturdy, and real. I don't expect her to treat me as an equal, or even as a friend, but I don't think a little respect is too much to ask.

Nevertheless, I do as she asks and start using the servants' entrance the next morning when I arrive. I follow the small pathway around the side of the house to the door I used with Olga the morning I overslept and forgot my keys. Olga opens the door seconds after I press the small, round buzzer.

“I buy more kale,” she says as she lets me in. “And zucchini.”

I've decided to let Olga do most of the shopping from now on. The control freak in me would rather do it myself, but my inner pragmatist knows having Olga do it will save me time, and given my increasing antipathy toward Natasha, the faster I can finish this project, the better.

I set my bag on the counter, open the refrigerator, and stare into its chilled interior. The mere thought of tackling the kale burger recipe makes me want to set this kitchen on fire. The burger I developed was good—really good. It had texture and substance, rich with garlic and onion and perfumed with smoky pimenton. Okay, so it wasn't green. But it had green flecks. I did use kale. Just not enough of it, I guess.

Instead of delving back into my recipe nemesis, I decide to start on the zucchini salad. I remember once preparing a recipe for sautéed zucchini based on one from the Red Cat in New York City. The Red Cat recipe calls for cooking a mess of julienned zucchini for barely a minute—just enough to warm it through, while tossing it with toasted almonds and olive oil. The dish gets a few quick shavings of Parmesan at the end, and voilà: zucchini perfection.

Natasha specified a zucchini salad, not a zucchini sauté, and she said the dressing was “zippy” and involved lemon juice, but I can use the Red Cat recipe as a springboard to develop the sort of salad she has in mind.

I grab two zucchini from the fridge and, using one of Natasha's bespoke Kramer knives, meticulously slice each one into even matchsticks. I dump the matchsticks into a colander and sprinkle them with salt, leaving them to shed some of their water while I brainstorm what type of lemon vinaigrette to make. For as long as I've been cooking, I've never loved a big, lemony slap in the face. For me, a little lemon goes a very long way. But this isn't supposed to be my recipe. It's supposed to be Natasha's, and Natasha wants it to be zippy and lemony, which means I'll have to create a dish I might not otherwise make or enjoy.

That's one of the toughest parts of my job: the palate meld that accompanies the mind meld. I have to create a dish Natasha would like and write up the recipe the way Natasha would present it, taking myself out of the equation, even though I'm the one responsible for all of it. I'm like the man behind the curtain in
The Wizard of Oz,
except that guy had it easier because the wizard wasn't real.

Since the dish is based on a salad Natasha had in Italy, I decide to use one of my standby vinaigrettes, which uses lemon, olive oil, mustard, a little garlic, and—the secret ingredient—an anchovy. The anchovy gets mashed up with the garlic and some salt, so you barely even know it's there, but it adds extra oomph to the dressing and gives it an Italian flair (not that I've ever actually been to Italy).

I find a jar of anchovies in Natasha's pantry, and as I mash one with a garlic clove and a fat pinch of salt, Poppy drifts into the kitchen, tapping on her phone. She approaches the counter, still glued to her device, and when she gets within three feet of me, she sniffs the air.

“What in God's name is that smell?”

“What smell?” I take a whiff. “You mean the anchovy?”

Poppy makes a gagging sound. “Oh, my God. Of all the unbearable smells . . .” She claps her hand over her nose and mouth.

“It's one anchovy. That's it.” I squirt some lemon juice into the bowl. “There—you can barely smell it now.”

She slowly removes her hand, but quickly slaps it back over her nose. “Nope—still there.”

“Sorry. It's part of the recipe.”

“Well, thankfully this conversation will be brief. Natasha wanted me to tell you she plans to go to Paris next week and wanted to know if you'd like to come, since you've never been.”

My heart leaps. “Really?”

“Apparently.”

“When would we leave?”

“Monday morning, first thing. It'll be a quick trip this time—only three days. Just enough time for a fitting at Dior and a facial.”

“Would you be coming as well?”

“Obviously.”

“So would we share a room, then?”

Her eyes widen, as if I just proposed waxing her bikini line. “Certainly not.” She suddenly seems very worried. “At least I don't think so. I'll have to ask Natasha.”

“I promise I'm not as scary as I look.”

Given Poppy's expression, I must look terrifying.

She blinks, her hand still covering her nose. “You're in, then?”

“Definitely.”

“Good. I'll let Natasha know.”

She whirls around, scurrying away from the vinaigrette as quickly as possible, and as I whisk the olive oil into the bowl, I can barely contain my smile.