Slice and Dice (3 page)

“And?” said Bram, elongating the word.

Another deep breath. “They’ve offered me his position — if I want it.”

Bram cocked his head. “Am I missing something here? You have a job, running one of the most prestigious hotels in downtown St. Paul. It already takes all of your waking hours just to handle that. Or is the operative word here ‘waking’? Are you planning to give up sleeping?”

She ignored his sarcasm. “The position at the paper wouldn’t need to be a full-time one. Besides, I’m in the process of cutting down on my hours at the hotel. Things are humming along pretty smoothly now. I feel like I can ease back on some of the reins.”

He gave her a disgusted look. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re not really serious about this. I already have to make a date weeks in advance if I want to have a five-minute conversation with you. I’d never see you if you took a second job.”

“That’s not true,” she said, twisting the wedding ring on her finger.

“Maybe it’s not literally true, but it’s the way I feel.”

“But.. .just give me a chance to explain how it would work.” When he didn’t object, she continued. “I told Yale that I’d think about it, but only on one condition. I want to hire a full-time assistant, someone I can train to do some of the reviewing as well as answer mail, E-mail, and phone calls and take care of the website. And someone who could organize all the menus we’ll be receiving. George stopped keeping them on file years ago. If you ask me, he’s been coasting for a long time, waiting for his magic sixty-fifth birthday. I know I could do a much better job. I adore food, Bram. I always have. I remember my whole life in terms of the food I’ve eaten. And I’ve got the absolutely perfect candidate for the assistant position.”

Bram had all but tuned out “Who?”

“Rudy.”

His head popped up. “You’re going to ask them to hire your son?”

“He’d be perfect for die job. He’s responsible, intelligent, and he’s been cooking part-time in the Maxfield’s kitchen for the last year. Now that he’s graduated from the university, I think it would be good for him to work nine to five for a while. Get his feet under him before he decides what to do next He’s got three major interests — food, theatre, and theology. I don’t have a crystal ball, so I don’t know where he’ll ultimately end up, but I know he’s currently unemployed. And I’d dearly love to work with him, teach him what I know about the restaurant world, pass on my love of food.”

“Doesn’t Rudy have something to say about this? He might hate die idea.”

“He doesn’t,” said Sophie, leaning back as their meals arrived. “I caught up with him at the youth hostel in Venice this afternoon. Explained the entire situation.” Her eyes took on an excited glow. “He
wants
to do it, honey. He’s agreed to work with me!”

Bram cut into his steak, mulling the idea over. “I get it now. This isn’t so much about becoming the food editor as it is wrangling a chance to work with Rudy.”

“Do you blame me? I’ve lost so much time with him, honey. Since he’s willing, how can I turn it down?”

Sophie had been separated from her son for most of his life. The reason why was a long, convoluted, and ugly story. He’d only come back into her life a few years earlier. Working together would give her a chance to get to know him in a way she’d only dreamed about.

“I can see that any protests I might make would fall on deaf ears.”

That hurt. “Bram, listen to me. You have my solemn promise that I won’t let this new position interfere with our lives any more than absolutely necessary. You’ve been nothing but patient with me while I’ve been learning the ropes at the Maxfield.”

“Damn straight I have.”

“As soon as I get Rudy trained, we’ll take a long vacation. Anywhere you want. Just as long as we’re together — and alone.”

“I want that in writing.”

She could tell he’d relented. That he wouldn’t fight her. “I’ll start collecting travel brochures first thing in the morning, right after I have a meeting at the paper with Yale and George.”

“And when does Rudy return from his European adventure?”

“A week from this Sunday.”

Bram was about to make another comment when the sound of a loud crash and angry shouts burst from the kitchen.

“What the hell is that?” he demanded, turning around.

The shouting didn’t let up. If anything, it grew even more hysterical.

“Maybe we better check it out,” said Sophie. She’d recognized one of the voices as Harry Hongisto’s. From the tone of the commotion, she was concerned that he might be in danger.

There was another loud bang.

“Come on,” said Bram, pushing his chair away from the table. “At times like this, I wish I looked more like our honorable governor, Jesse the Body.”

“Worry about your pecs later, darling.”

“That’s the problem,
dear.
I never worry about my pecs.”

“A gun! Somebody just get me a gun.”

When Sophie and Bram entered the kitchen, they found a man in a white chef’s uniform waving a newspaper under Harry Hongisto’s nose. Harry looked shaken, his ruddy complexion even ruddier than normal. His black tuxedo and immaculate white shirt — Harry always dressed formally to meet and greet customers — had been splashed with something red, most likely tomato sauce, and the halo of white hair that surrounded his balding crown, usually perfectly combed, stuck out at odd angles, making him look as if he’d been electrocuted.

“What’s going on?” demanded Bram.

The chef whirled around. “This,” he said, his eyes flashing. He pointed to the paper, then ripped it to shreds and threw it on the floor. “Who the hell does that guy think he is? Auguste Escoffier?”

Sophie eased up next to Harry, laying a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?” she asked, sotto voce.

He grimaced, then whispered back, “No.”

“Of course he’s not all right,” snapped the chef. ‘Tell them what was in the paper, Harry. Tell them!”

Harry cleared his throat. “We got another bad review today.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Sophie. “Who from?”

“Gildemeister.”

“Again?”

“Yes,
again”
bellowed the chef. He was a small man with a long, narrow face, thin sharp nose, and fierce eyes. “He said our food was so bad the last time he was here that he wanted to return to the scene of the crime to see if we’d actually killed anyone with our beurre blanc!”

“Did he really say that?” asked Sophie.

Harry shook his head. “He came back to give us a second chance.”

“Some second chance,” roared the chef. “It was butchery from start to finish!”

Harry — always the gentleman, even in the worst situations — said, “Bram, Sophie, I’d like you to meet Chef David Polchow. David’s been with me now for almost four months.”

“Four grand and glorious months,” repeated David, eyeing the rest of the kitchen crew with disdain. Unlike the waiters, they were standing apart from one another, in different sections of the room, but each as far away as he or she could possibly get from the chef. “I’ve worked at some of the top restaurants in the world and this is the first time anyone’s ever called my vegetables mushy. Mushy!”

Sophie could see the fury in his eyes. He obviously wasn’t the kind of man who let criticism roll off his back.

“I’m so sick of this bloody expression ‘al dente,’“ he continued, picking up a boning knife and pointing it menacingly at Harry. “The rule is, vegetables should be cooked. Not overcooked. Al dente is the excuse people use for undercooked vegetables. ‘Oh, why, they’re
supposed
to be that way, they’re al dente,’“ he simpered. “Yeah, right.” He paused, nailing everyone with his eyes. “You know what they are? They’re salad. Raw vegetables are
salad
?”

Harry nodded weakly.

The chef continued to glare until he’d assured himself that everyone understood his point. “When will people learn that it’s not against God’s immutable laws to cook a vegetable? That reviewer flaunts his ignorance. He doesn’t know , a damn thing about food or service or dining. Reviews are just a pissing contest, anyway.
Mushy
vegetables. Give me five minutes alone with that guy and I’ll show him a mushy vegetable!”

“Come on, David,” said Harry, trying to sound as soothing as his deep, gravelly voice would allow. “Let’s just get back to work. We’ve got customers out there.”

“How can you bear to have me cook for you? According to the grand George Gildemeister, I’m the cause of this restaurant’s demise. You should fire me! String me up by my thumbs and flog me till the blood spurts.”

The head chef’s personality inevitably sets the kitchen’s Zeitgeist. Sophie couldn’t imagine what it would be like to work for someone with such a hot temper.

“Of course I’m not going to fire you.”

“No?” David’s eyes shot flames. “Then I quit.” He pulled off his
paper
chef’s hat and threw it on the floor next to the review. “Mark my words, Harry. One of these days somebody’s going to see that one of those ignorant idiots meets with a small accident. In a just universe, they’d be skewered on a spit until they were roasted clear through — and I don’t mean
al dente.”

Gathering up his knives, Chef Polchow took one last look at the empty line, then left through the back door, slamming it on his way out.

Once he was gone, everyone in the room heaved a collective sigh of relief.

“Back to work,” ordered Harry, clapping his hands. “Matthew, for the time being, you’re the head chef. Get everyone back to their stations.”

The sous chef nodded. A few seconds later the kitchen once again bustled with activity.

“I need a drink,” said Harry, squeezing the back of his neck.

“Sit with us at our table,” suggested Sophie.

After Sophie and Bram resumed their seats, Harry arrived carrying a snifter of brandy. He looked worn out, his eyes bloodshot. For the first time, Sophie could see the result of the stress he’d been under. She felt more than a little guilty for being part of the crowd David Polchow wanted to fricassee. She didn’t agree with him about critics, but she felt terribly sorry for Harry. First thing on her agenda when she got back to their apartment at the Maxfield tonight would be to find a copy of today’s
Times Register
and read Gildemeister’s review. Perhaps he had crossed the line. If so, Sophie would do everything in her power to remedy it. The problem was, most of the damage had already been done.

“I’ve about had it,” said Harry, tipping the snifter back and taking several swallows.

“Maybe you should take the rest of the night off,” said Sophie. “Go home and watch a movie. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“No,” said Harry, his wide blue eyes clouding with emotion. “You miss my point. I mean I’ve about had it with this restaurant. Being a restaurateur has to be the hardest way in the world to make a living. What am I? Some sort of masochist? We got problems all the time. First we don’t get deliveries on time. Or we get them but the produce is wilted or the fish isn’t fresh. Then it’s an argument with the deliveryman and a fight with the vendor. And finally it’s a mad scramble to find what we need to replace what we didn’t get. I don’t have the energy I used to. I’m tired and I’m sick of dealing with arrogant assholes like Gildemeister.”

“He’s retiring,” said Bram, pushing his cold steak away.

“So? Another jerk will take his place.”

Sophie didn’t say a word. This was a good example of why most restaurant reviewers didn’t develop close friendships with chefs and restaurateurs. It was too painful. And yet, in this case, she didn’t have a choice. She’d known Harry since she was a child.

“You know what it’s like?” continued Harry. “You get a bad review and it hurts business. Customers stay away. So you end up with too much inventory and eventually serve food that isn’t quite up to your normal freshness standards. If you don’t use the food, your profit margin takes a nosedive. But you end up losing money anyway because some of the produce inevitably spoils before it’s sold and you have to dump it. So then you reevaluate your ordering. But because you put out substandard food for a few days, or a few weeks, you lose more customers and the cycle continues. You don’t know how to plan anymore. None of this is David’s fault. He’s a talented chef, one of the best I’ve ever worked with. It’s just that that first review hurt us. And unless you believe in miracles, today’s installment will probably kill us. I can’t fight it any longer, but it makes me so damn mad I could spit nails.” He downed more of the brandy, then went on. “I go home at night and I write letters to the editor at that damn paper. To date, I’ve written seventeen, all of them unprintable. To think that one man could wield such power.”

Sophie might have pointed out that Harry’s current problems were a combination of many factors, though she had to admit that it was probably the review that had tipped the scales.

Harry finished his drink, his anger building.