Death By the Glass #2 (2 page)

One of the staffers, a sous-chef from the way he was dressed, came up to Sunny and asked her to please wait at the bar. He disappeared back into the kitchen. Behind the bar was a guy with sandy blond hair and big shoulders who was talking intently on the telephone. Sunny sat down. Cradling the handset on his shoulder, the bartender set up a glass of mineral water with a squeeze of lime and slid it toward her, meeting her eyes for an instant. She watched his hands while he went on listening, occasionally correcting the person on the other end of the line. She sipped the water and looked around for someone else, then went on watching the bartender. He was probably a few years
younger than she was, maybe in his late twenties. He held himself well, like an athlete, and had a smooth, deliberate way of moving. She was just about to decide which martial art he practiced when Andre Morales walked up carrying a large mortar and pestle. He set it down on the bar and wiped his hands on his apron, then greeted her with both a vigorous handshake and a kiss on each cheek. He smelled of freshly ground pepper, spicy and floral and mineral. She fought the urge to grab him and inhale deeply.

“We’ve met before,” he said, “but I’m sure you don’t remember. It was only for a second and you were pretty busy.”

“Of course I remember,” she said. “It was at the Star Route Farm dinner, about this time last year.”

They exchanged the usual pleasantries and small talk for a few minutes, giving Sunny the chance to study him. It would have been difficult to forget Andre Morales. He made quite an impression, and he was making it again. He was a large part of the reason she had agreed to participate in tonight’s event, a benefit dinner called Night of Five Stars, when five well-known chefs came together to cook five different courses. There were certainly more noble reasons, such as supporting the Open Space Coalition cause and being part of the community, but the truth, and she would barely admit it even to herself, was that she’d agreed to do it because she wanted to see him again. He was a well-executed interpretation of the tall, dark, and handsome motif. With golden brown eyes lined with black lashes and hair shoved back from his forehead in graceful waves, he reminded her of a Chilean architect she’d had a crush on once, but Andre had stronger, more relaxed features.

“I can give you the grand tour, if you’re interested,” he said.

“Definitely.” She looked at her watch. “How many are we serving tonight?”

“A hundred and forty.”

“All in one sitting. We sold out.”

He nodded. “That’s seventy thousand bucks for the OSC.”

That’s also one hundred forty plates of hand-cranked fettuccine with wild mushroom sauce, Wildside’s signature dish, thought Sunny. That was about a hundred and twenty more than she was used to making. With a pang of regret, she reflected on her decision not to bring pre-made pasta, a decision that could have gone the other way and made her life, or at least the next few hours, so much easier. Almost no one could tell the difference between really fresh pasta and really, really fresh pasta, anyway.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ve got you set up with more than enough of everything you ordered, and there’s plenty of help if you need it. We have the entire staff on deck.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” she said. She imagined a line of plates a hundred and forty feet long.

He started the tour in the kitchen, a setup that made the kitchen at Wildside look like a hot plate and a mini-fridge. Not only was the place enormous, it was immaculate and filled with state-of-the-art equipment. The granite counters glistened. The twelve-burner range was spotless. She tried not to gawk. Andre introduced her to the covey of staff members already busily at work, then she followed him into the walk-in, a chilly wonderland of ingredients almost the size of the entire kitchen at Wildside. She eyed a shelf of white plastic containers labeled “Nathan’s Salad Dressing,” “Der Wunder Sauce,” and “Nathan’s Fancy Marinade.”

“We have some special needs customers,” said Andre, following her glance.

“Vegan?” she said.

“If only it were that simple. Most of that stuff is for regulars who get attached to a certain dish or dressing and keep asking for it after we take it off the menu. It drives me crazy.”

“I’ve had the same problem at Wildside,” said Sunny. “There are a couple of dishes that I never want to see again, but every time I try to take them off the menu, people get all upset. Tonight’s pasta, as a matter of fact, is the primary offender. Every fall I try to replace it with a slight variation, something just a little bit new so I don’t die of boredom, and all my regular customers make a fuss until I put it back exactly the way they’re used to it.”

“Same deal here, except the biggest offender is an owner,” said Andre. “He has a whole menu of his own, and one of his girlfriends is even worse.”

“One of?”

“I can’t keep track. Anyway, she doesn’t eat dairy, seafood, pork, or duck, and when she eats chicken it has to be accompanied by her special sauce or else Nathan comes into my kitchen and looks for it himself.”

“Skinless breast of?”

“What else?”

Andre led the way back out through the kitchen and dining room, then down a flight of stairs.

“Now for the complement to any great meal,” he said, pulling on the handle of a heavy wooden door. It swung open with a sucking sound and they stepped into the cool, underground air. “This is the secret of Vinifera. A true cellar. We don’t air-condition or control humidity. It stays between 58 and 62 degrees on its own. We have a walk-in for whites that keeps them at precisely 52 degrees, but other than that it’s completely au naturel.”

The room was as big as a gymnasium and filled with wine. There was wine in boxes, on racks, and even in barrels along one wall. About half of the open space was taken up with stacked cases of wine in cardboard boxes; the other half held standing racks of bottles. Lights in wire cages stuck out from the rough walls at intervals, providing puddles of dim yellow light. Otherwise the room was dark, a tableau of cement gray, woody browns, and deep bottle green. On three sides, alcoves blocked with metal grating receded from the light. Andre walked between the racks. Every few steps he extracted a bottle and turned the label for Sunny to see.

“This is the wine that’s on the list right now, or most of it,” he said, gesturing to the general area where they were standing. “We have about twenty thousand bottles in circulation, and about the same number laying down until they’re ready to drink.”

“Is that what’s in the alcoves?”

“That, and the rare wines that the sommelier handles. Some very old vintages, cult wines like Screaming Eagle and Harlan Estate, a bunch of terrific old Sauternes, older Burgundies. Anything too valuable to leave around where somebody might trip over it. And some exotic stuff. He has a case of hundred-year-old Venezuelan rum that’s about the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wine collection this extensive,” said Sunny.

“There’s nothing to compare with it on the West Coast. There are places in New York that have legacy stock that is harder to find, and certainly there are places in France with cellars that make this look like a closet, but they wouldn’t have any of the California wines.”

They heard the door open and turned to watch a man walk toward them with brisk steps. He was slender, with taut, slightly
hawkish features and slate gray hair. He stopped a few feet from them.

“Can I help you find something?” he said.

“Speak of the devil,” said Andre. “Remy Castels, this is Sunny McCoskey. I was just telling her about our wine collection.”

Remy stepped forward and placed his hand in hers. “Pleased to meet you.”

They stood in the half light without speaking. After a moment, Andre said, “We were just on our way out.”

Remy gave them a clipped smile and they walked toward the door in silence. Sunny felt his eyes follow her. She and Andre climbed the stairs and emerged into the dining room, its high ceiling and warm light a welcome change from the cellar. Andre cleared his throat and gave her a look.

“Are we in trouble?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. Besides, I can’t be in trouble, I’m the boss, kind of.” He gave a smile of false modesty, lacing his fingers and extending them to crack his knuckles. “However, Remy can do pretty much whatever he wants. He’s one of about forty Master Sommeliers in the country. That’s pretty good job security.”

“Is he always like that?”

“You mean the human iceberg? He’s been more aloof than usual lately. We had a weird thing happen last week. A magnum of Champagne burst in the cellar. Good stuff, too. I’ve never heard of it happening before. Remy said it’s bad luck, like when a mirror breaks, only worse because you’re out the Champagne.”

“What do you mean it burst?” said Sunny.

“It built up pressure for some reason and the cork blew. There was Champagne everywhere.”

“What would cause that?”

“An impending brush with evil, according to Remy.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “He doesn’t really believe that, does he?”

“I don’t think so. Or at least I hope not. But he has definitely been grouchier than usual lately. He’ll warm up when he resurfaces. The cellar brings out the inner wine troll.”

They stood quietly, Andre ruminating on some thought, Sunny watching a haze of dust motes roll in the afternoon light.

“He’s not all bad,” said Andre at last. “He’s incredibly knowledgeable. The guy can tell Côtes-du-Rhône from Côte de Brouilly from fifty paces without reaching for his corkscrew.” He looked behind him to see if Remy was there. “He’s just overly territorial.”

Sunny was in the locker room
at Vinifera buttoning up her chef’s jacket when Rivka Chavez walked in, her cheeks flushed with the cold. She was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a suede welding jacket that didn’t look very warm. Rivka didn’t like winter and never seemed to dress for it, as if ignoring it might make it go away. Two long braids hung down her back from underneath a navy blue bandanna. Rivka had been working at Wildside with Sunny since she graduated from culinary school a couple of years earlier.

“Fancy,” Rivka said, looking around at the sage green lockers and the row of gleaming shower stalls. “I’ve been to spas that didn’t have dressing rooms this nice.”

“It’s okay,” said Sunny. “It doesn’t compare to changing in the office at Wildside, of course.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Rivka dryly. “It also doesn’t compare to hosing off in the garden when it’s thirty degrees out.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

“Is that supposed to sound like a perk?”

“Cold water is good for the circulation. The Inuit have known that for years. Helps prevent varicose veins.”

Rivka snorted and perused the rest of the amenities. There was a long mirror with a counter in front of it arrayed with an
arsenal of blow-dryers and hair products. There was even a pitcher of ice water with slices of lemon floating in it. Rivka picked up a blow-dryer and held it like Angie Dickenson aiming a pistol. “Freeze, scumbag! Hair police!”

Sunny gave her a look.

“Have you seen the resident stud, I mean chef?” said Rivka, putting the dryer down and taking off her backpack.

“Affirmative.”

“And?”

“Three words: total monster babe,” Sunny said, trying not to blush.

“I like the sound of that.”

Rivka stepped out of her jeans and took a pair of ugly cotton pants printed with a black-and-white houndstooth pattern out of her backpack. She swirled her hands, amassing imaginary thunderheads. “The clouds are gathering, I can feel it. The great McCoskey love drought is about to end.”

“It’s about time. I’m pretty tired of doing the rain dance.”

“A bit of advice. Don’t wait six months before you kiss the guy this time. Remember the Charlie Rhodes phenomenon.”

“I know, we’ve been over it,” said Sunny. “Besides, that was different.”

“The man was different but your style stays the same,” said Rivka. “You are a notoriously slow mover. The guy gives up from exhaustion before you give him the green light. You’ve got to let things happen more quickly. On the other hand, I wouldn’t sleep with this guy right away. He’s obviously an overachiever hotshot type. This is a man who likes having the best of everything, and he knows the best doesn’t come easy. He wants to work for it.”

“I don’t think we need to worry about that quite yet,” said Sunny. “I hardly know him.”

“You’ve known him for a year.”

“I’ve known
of
him for a year.”

“You’re being defensive. That’s a good sign. For tonight, I recommend the middle course. Have a good snog and say goodnight. It’ll be like you’re sixteen again.”

“Hello? Rivka Chavez? If you’re still in there, stamp your foot twice. Sleeping with him tonight is not an option. Snogging with him is not an option. As far as I can tell, I’ll be lucky to have coffee with him.”

“Whatever you say,” said Rivka, giving her a knowing smirk.

“I can’t hook up with him tonight, anyway. I need time to get comfortable. I have trust issues,” said Sunny.

“You have mortality issues,” said Rivka. “You’ll be seventy-five by the time somebody passes all your tests. Trust me, Andre Morales is a good guy.”

Sunny looked around to make sure the locker room was empty. “What do you know about Andre Morales?
You’ve
never even met him!”

“I know he’s been on your radar for months, and he’s the chef at the snazziest joint in town, and Monty worships him.”

“What? I didn’t know Monty even knew him.” Monty Lenstrom was a local wine merchant who had been a mutual friend for years.

“He doesn’t. But that doesn’t stop him from going on about how Andre Morales was at this party and Andre Morales was on television and Andre Morales says cauliflower is today’s most underrated vegetable. He even told me about seeing him playing tennis at Silverado and how he has
just the right amount of hair on his legs,
” said Rivka, making air quotes and blinking meaningfully.

“He said that?”

“Could I make something like that up? Only Monty would analyze the amount of hair on a man’s legs. Sometimes I wonder why he doesn’t just go ahead and turn gay. It’s not like it would surprise anyone.”