Caught Bread Handed (13 page)

Sterling arrived with an empty delivery box. “I'll take the other one,” he said, standing on his toes to push the delivery box onto a high shelf out of the way.

“Dude, right?” Andy waved his hands above the casserole so that scent could waft up to his nose. “What do you say, boss? Can Sterling and I each have a tray?”

I laughed. “Sorry. I'm afraid these are for our paying customers.”

They both protested. Sterling pulled a five-dollar bill from the front pocket of his ripped jeans. “I've got cash. I'll pay.”

“I'll make you a deal,” I said, pushing Andy toward the espresso bar. “You can be my taste testers as soon as it cools, but right now back to work.”

Andy looked at Sterling and shrugged. “I can live with that. You?”

Sterling nodded.

“I can tell you right now, boss, I don't need to taste that stuff. It's awesomeness on a plate. I know it.”

“Awesomeness on a plate,” I repeated. “Maybe that's what we should call it. Potato casserole sounds pretty lame in comparison. Maybe you should actually taste it first though.”

“Nah,” Andy said as he went to start up the espresso machine. “It's awesomeness.”

Mom ladled muffin batter into paper-lined tins. “That's what we get for hiring twenty-year-old help. They're not kidding, you know. If we gave them the green light they'd devour both of those casseroles before we could blink.”

“Locusts,” I agreed. I grabbed the chilled cookie dough from the fridge and used an ice-cream scoop to spoon round balls onto parchment-lined baking sheets. As soon as I took the cookies out of the oven I would dip them in granulated sugar.

“Hey, I heard that. Who are you calling locusts?” Andy spun around from the coffee machine and made his eyes bug out. “Can you blame me? Everything you both make is so good, plus with football and helping on the farm at home, I'm always hungry.”

Mom's tone turned serious. “We're kidding, Andy. We'll always feed you and Sterling. You two are the hardest workers in town.”

“Thanks, Mrs. C.” Andy returned his focus to the coffee. I could tell by the way his shoulders arched back that he appreciated the praise.

“Yeah, thanks.” Sterling dried his hands. “Lay it on me, what do you want me to do now?”

“How did deliveries go?” I asked, sliding the trays into the oven.

“Fine.” He made eye contact with me. “No major crimes. Everyone was happy to get their bread.”

“Good.” I sighed. Maybe things were back to normal. “I'm going to put you on grilling duty this morning. You can fry bacon and sausage links to serve with the casserole.”

Sterling gave me a half salute. “On it.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

My stomach growled as I scooped two heaps of my potato casserole onto plates and handed one to Sterling and the other to Andy. They both scarfed the casserole down. “Any chance we can get seconds?” Andy asked.

“Let's see how it goes over with customers. The leftovers are all yours.”

Mom held up her index finger. “Uh, don't hold out on me. I need a taste too.”

I dished up a serving for Mom and one for me. The casserole was even better than I remembered it. It was comfort on a plate for sure. Baking the potatoes in the cheese and soup made them soft and supple.

“Maybe you should make more, Juliet,” Mom said, holding up her empty plate. “I have a feeling this is going to go fast.”

“Yeah, make more,” Andy said. “I was just thinking about licking my plate clean.”

“Okay, okay.” I held out my hand to stop him. “I'll make more. No need to start licking the plates.”

By the time we opened the door I had more casseroles in the oven and dozens of my chocolate-molasses crinkles dusted with sugar. The bakeshop was alive with the smell of Andy's coffee, muffins cooling on the counter, and frying bacon. It was a good thing that Mom had suggested I make a second batch of the “Awesomeness on a plate,” which Andy added to the specials section on the chalkboard. We went through the casseroles within an hour.

“Should you make another?” Mom asked, placing a cranberry-orange muffin on a plate.

“I don't think I have enough potatoes. I thought today was going to be slow.”

Mom motioned to the crowded dining room. “Not with a murder investigation going on across the street.”

I hadn't looked up from my work. The fog had lifted outside. Mom was right. People continued to gather at the sidewalk shrine in front of ShakesBurgers. A TV satellite van had arrived on the scene, probably from nearby Medford. I noticed a pretty young reporter interviewing none other than Richard Lord in front of the police caution tape. Of course Richard had found a way to put himself in the spotlight.

“Look at that,” I said to Mom.

She rolled her eyes. “Richard loves to hear himself talk. I wonder what he's telling her.”

“He's probably finding a way to get free publicity for the Merry Windsor.” I did my best Richard Lord impression in a deep, booming voice. “Come to the best restaurant in Ashland where we serve everything processed and nothing fresh.”

Mom chuckled. “Maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Mindy's death touched him, and he's sharing that on camera.”

I gave her a hard look. She held my gaze for a minute and then stuck out her tongue and wrinkled her nose. “Or maybe not.”

At that moment Carlos walked past the front window. My breath caught in my chest. Mom noticed. She caught my eye and winked, then she waved at Carlos. He returned her greeting with genuine enthusiasm. His dark eyes sparkled with delight at seeing us. He gestured with his hands, pointing at himself, then us, then nodding, as if to let us know he was coming inside. That was obvious.

I watched as two women chatting in front of the bubbling fountains in the center of the plaza elbowed each other and stared at Carlos as he strolled inside, completely oblivious of their lusty gaze. I couldn't blame them. Carlos looked good. Really good. His tight jeans emphasized his firm derrière and muscular legs. He wore a baby-blue button-down shirt and causal loafers. The look was very European. Definitely not Ashland.

“Good morning, beautiful ladies,” Carlos said, kissing Mom and then me on both cheeks. “It is busy today, no?”

“This is slow. You should have seen it an hour ago.” Mom scooted past Carlos and stood on her tiptoes to try to reach the top shelf of a cupboard. Even in her clogs she could barely reach the bottom shelf.

Carlos stepped in to help. “Helen, what do you need? I will get it for you.”

She touched his sleeve. “Thanks, you're such a dear. Can you get that box of lights down for me?”

He obliged and stretched his arm out with ease to pull the box from the high shelf. I inherited my height from my dad. When I met Carlos I was attracted to his good looks and witty charm, and also to the fact he stood a few inches taller than me. Being tall had been a pain when it came to meeting guys. Aside from dating Thomas in high school, I hadn't dated much in culinary school because most guys were too intimidated to ask me out.

“I'll leave the kitchen to the two of you.” Mom took out a string of twinkle lights from the box. “I'm going to work on getting everything set up in the dining room for our Sunday supper now that the rush should be done.”

Carlos scooped the box from the counter. “I will take this for you, Helen.”

Mom protested. “It's not heavy.”

Carlos insisted. “Where do you want it?”

He followed Mom to the front with the box in his arms. I wiped down the counter and island. It was time to shift gears. We had forty guests coming for a three-course meal in just a few hours.

Sterling and Carlos began assembling the tapas. After much deliberation I decided to make two desserts. The lemon olive oil cake and a simple almond cake. Spanish desserts tend to be much less sweet than American desserts. The almond crumb cake would be an understated yet delicious finish to the elaborate tapas that Sterling and Carlos had planned, and the lemon olive oil cake would offer a tangy citrus to cleanse everyone's palate at the end of the feast.

I started with the bag of almonds. I shook them into the food processor and ground them into a fine powder. That way we could offer a gluten-free option to customers. Non-gluten-based cakes and pastries were all the rage these days. Next, I creamed butter and sugar together and added in a splash of almond extract and eggs. I beat everything on low in our industrial mixer and then sifted in almond flour, the ground nuts, and a little salt.

The cake baked in round pans and would be served in single-layer slices. I reserved a handful of almonds to use on the top of the cake. Since my theme was simplicity, I would dust the top of the cake with powdered sugar and arrange sliced almonds on the top once it cooled.

The batter smelled incredible as I spread it into cake pans. Carlos looked up from the shrimp he was deveining. “That is smelling very good,
mi querida.
”

“Thanks.” I slid the cakes into the oven and began gathering everything I needed to make the lemon olive oil cake.

Carlos taught me how to make the cake on the ship. It's made with an extra-virgin olive oil, giving it a more pronounced and fruitier olive flavor. It was a staple on the ship. We would serve it with fresh berries and mascarpone cream. I was excited to re-create that for our guests tonight, taking them on an excursion to the Spanish seaside all while being very landlocked at Torte.

I whipped egg yolks and sugar in the mixer until they became pale and thick. Carlos instructed Sterling, “No, not like that. Watch. Do it like this,” he commanded while slicing tomatoes at lightning speed. In a flash the tomato was diced into perfect tiny squares.

Sterling's jaw hung open as he watched Carlos. There was no denying that Carlos had talent, and insane knife skills. “Man, Carlos, you're good. There's no way I can do that.”

Carlos handed him the knife. “
Sí,
you will practice and you will improve.”

I appreciated that, in spite of Carlos's innate ability in the kitchen, he was always willing to help mentor young talent. He'd done the same thing on the ship, staying late after his own shift was done to help a new line cook or sous chef improve their skills. I often wondered if Carlos would find his way into one of the top culinary institutes. He'd make an excellent teacher.

“Watch that thumb!” Carlos cautioned as Sterling attempted to dice a tomato. “Wrap it under. We do not want any thumbs chopped off.” Carlos placed his hand over Sterling's thumb and showed him how to tuck it safely under his hand while using the knife.

Educating young sous chefs and line cooks on safety procedures was imperative. Carlos didn't take the responsibility lightly. He stood over Sterling's shoulder and watched until he was satisfied that Sterling's technique would keep all his fingers intact.

I was surprised that Carlos didn't break out one of his usual kitchen pranks. When he trained new staff on the ship he would put on a thumb tip and fill it with fake blood. Then he would demonstrate the wrong cutting technique and pretend to chop off his thumb. It made for a messy and entertaining session. The trainees would scream as fake blood squirted out of Carlos's hand.

Carlos played it up. He would squeeze his thumb and keel over in pain. Fake blood would ooze on the spotless stainless steel countertops as the staff members rushed around in a mild panic trying to find towels to stop the bleeding. Once Carlos finally revealed his hand with a full set of fingers and intact thumb everyone would laugh and sigh with relief. The prank worked. It wasn't just for fun. No one ever lost a thumb—or any other body part—in Carlos's kitchen. The only person who ever cut himself in the kitchen was Carlos, but that was another story.

I smiled at the memory and glanced toward the front. The brunch crowd had thinned. A few customers lingered over their coffee in the front booths. While Mom topped off their cups I heard her say, “Stay as long as you like. I'm going to move some tables around for our Sunday supper tonight, but don't feel like you need to leave anytime soon.”

She swayed to the beat of the Latin jazz playing overhead as she pushed the small two- and four-person tables together into one long table. It was draped with a white linen tablecloth. She placed vases with single red roses and votive candles in the center of the table.

“Have you seen the red napkins anywhere, Juliet?” she asked, returning to the kitchen for a stack of brilliant white plates.

My hands were covered in lemon juice. I nodded to the office. “Have you checked in there?” We keep a stack of fancy tablecloths and napkins on hand for special occasions. Like our food, we keep our designs simple and elegant. We have napkins, dish towels, and tablecloths in our Torte cherry red, teal blue, and white. Mom keeps a stack of chocolate-brown napkins and towels on hand too. It all blends together well and gives the space a bright and welcoming vibe.

Mom opted for white plates on a white tablecloth with red roses and red napkins as an accent. She found the napkins in the office and went back to work setting the table.

“Do you need any help up there?” I called as I folded the egg mixture with olive oil and lemon juice.

“Actually, if you have a sec I could use a hand with these lights.”

I looked toward the dining room to see Mom standing on one of the dining room chairs. A string of twinkle lights was wrapped around one hand. Another strand was looped partway through the hanging chandelier.

“What are you doing, Mom?” I ran to help her.

“Nothing, honey.” Her big brown eyes twinkled.

“Get off that chair.” I used my most serious voice and pointed to the concrete floor. “I'll do that for you.”

She climbed down.

I reached for the lights, but couldn't quite get them to twist through the chandelier. I guess I was going to have to give the chair a try too.