Taste: A Love Story (2 page)

Logan shrugged because there was nothing he could say that would ease the constant uncertainty of the restaurant business.

“Oh come on, we both know you’ve thought about it.” Travis turned, leaning on the counter now.

Logan sighed. “They never found their groove, I guess.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he felt like he was jinxing himself, speaking ill of the unlucky. Because it was luck, wasn’t it? He considered Marco Polo’s demise as he broke down the box he’d brought in and the three others up against the wall from last night’s wine delivery. No, he didn’t believe in luck. Hard work—that’s what he was raised on and he had to believe it’s what separated his from the hundreds of other restaurants trying to succeed. Hard work, good energy, and great people who knew more than he did—those were the keys.

Travis was still looking to him for comfort.

Logan let out a steady breath. “Their parking lot was too small and the valet company they used kept screwing up. They lost customers because it was a bitch to even get in there. Their bartenders were inconsistent, and they had almost fifty percent turnover with their wait staff. I don’t think their clientele ever felt like they knew the place.”

Travis smiled, so Logan finished strong.

“And Pam’s sauce was too sweet, too many carrots.”

“There he is! I knew you had a list, my fearless leader. I feel better already.” Travis wiped his brow with his forearm.

Logan smiled, walked into his office, and returned with two pages torn from a yellow pad.

“That being said, here’s my punch list for this place.”

He handed the pages to Travis and watched his ego deflate.

“The top ten are ongoing overall issues. Makenna is taking the lead on most of those, but I need you to deal with the last one. The left walk-in is a mess. I’m not sure what system you’ve got going on in there, but it needs to be redone.”

Travis glanced toward the huge refrigerator taking up most of the wall behind them and nodded.

“The other fourteen items at the bottom are things I observed last night. When we all meet later, I’ll go over those, but I wanted to give you a heads up. Most glaring, the eggplant on our bruschetta was overcooked, and I’m not sure what’s going on with the grater, but the shreds of white cheddar on the spinach salad are too big. It’s overpowering. We need to figure that out and tone it down by lunch today.”

Travis read the list with wide eyes that traveled to Logan and then back to the list. He didn’t say a word and Logan laughed at the look on his face.

“Okay, so back to work.” He patted Travis on the back. “We don’t want to be next.” Logan left to turn the floor lights on. He’d cut some new flowers for the giant vase standing among the round tables. It was a tall copper pot really, and they tried to change out the flowers every few days. The last ones were all wrong, so Logan replaced them and noted which windows needed to be recleaned once Summer, their hostess, arrived in a few hours. He heard bins being dragged around and the opening and closing of cabinets back in the kitchen, along with Travis cursing. That was always a good sign that work was getting done.

Chapter Two

K
ara was already in the office, tea brewing, by 7:15 the next morning. She was looking forward to trying the new white tea she’d picked up last weekend while she was at the beach. She was not, however, looking forward to sorting through the e-mails now on her screen. Her review of a new Thai restaurant in east Hollywood was trending, according to the all-caps title of an e-mail from Olivia Palm, her editor. Just as she clicked on the e-mail to read further, the woman herself was standing in the doorway of Kara’s office.

“So, look at that, people are just as fond of your ‘happy sunshine’ reviews as they are of your always popular ‘you suck’ reviews,” Olivia said, chewing her quinoa breakfast bar.

“Apparently.” Kara tried for enthused as she sipped her tea, but truth be told, she hated that she was hailed for saying ugly things about people trying to make a go of it in the restaurant business.

“Was it painful being nice?”

“No, I can be very nice.” Kara smoothed the blotter on her desk and glanced up as Olivia raised her perfectly waxed brow.

“Fine, maybe not nice, but I’m honest. They had fantastic pork belly, the place settings were immaculate, and the wait staff were perfect. Hands down the best Pad See Ew I have ever tasted and we both know I’ve done a lot of Thai in the last few years.”

“True.” Olivia chewed the last bite of her bar. She moved toward Kara’s desk, threw her wrapper out, and took a seat, crossing her flawless stocking-clad legs. “So how’s that piece on panettone coming?”

“Finished it this morning.” Kara pulled the article up on her computer and pivoted her Mac screen so Olivia could see.

“Oh, that’s a great shot.” Olivia leaned her silk-covered arms on Kara’s desk for a better look. It was a picture of the sweet holiday bread, fresh out of the oven. “Did Jeremy get those?”

Kara nodded.

“I’m telling you the man has a way with a lens,” Olivia sighed in a way she really should have kept to herself.

Kara was again at a loss for a response. Olivia and Jeremy had a sort of friends-with-benefits relationship a few months back. The entire office knew about it, but Olivia never said a word. She just made suggestive references every time Jeremy or his work was mentioned. Whether Olivia knew she was doing it was anyone’s guess. According to Braxton, their copyeditor and fact-check master, her sexual subconscious was likely at work.

“Yes, he does take great pictures.” Kara turned her monitor back around. “I’m e-mailing this to you right now.”

“Perfect. I want it polished and ready to run right after Thanksgiving. I’d like to do something each week leading up to Christmas and Hanukkah. Did you see Ed’s review of that new English pub?”

Kara shook her head.

“Christ, it was god-awful. I understand that the kid is fresh off his hometown newspaper, but nowhere—never—do I need to see a picture of someone actually eating fish and chips. And who the hell describes tartar sauce as chunkalicious? Not a word.”

Kara laughed and Olivia let out a dramatic sigh.

“Damn small-town amateurs.”

“Olivia, Ed is from Chicago.”

“A suburb—and did HR ever actually verify he hails from Chicago? Because I don’t believe it.”

“So, what did you tell him about the article?” Kara asked, pouring more tea.

“I told him to try again, to which he replied, ‘What do you mean by that?’” Olivia sat back. “I’m on my way to his cubicle after I leave you.”

Kara sipped her tea.

“Oh, did you notice Marco Polo finally bit the dust?” Olivia asked, checking her manicure.

“I . . . I did see that. Probably just as well.” Kara tried to make sure her stupid heart was back where it belonged. The food section of the
LA Times
was no place for humanity.

“Agreed. It’ll be a great location for a serious restaurant that knows what it’s doing. Your review was spot-on, by the way.” Olivia stood and smoothed out her leopard-print pencil skirt. “Well done. Now,” she sighed again and brushed the ink-dark bangs off her face, “I’m off to give a hands-on ‘try-again’ demonstration to Ed from Chicago.” She gave a dismissive wave over her shoulder as she sauntered out of the office.

Kara refilled her teacup and began reviewing the rest of her e-mail. Her phone vibrated with a text from her mother:

Reminder
–
you’re expected at the Volunteer Thank-You this Wed.

Please dress appropriately, preferably raspberry. It’s your signature color! :) :) :)

Kara was pretty sure her brother had taught their mother to text. She would be sure to thank him for that “little slice of heaven,” as their Nana would say. Texting had given their mother twenty-four-hour access for her passive-aggressive hinting. There was nothing the woman wouldn’t say and now she could follow it with happy faces.

It was an election year, which meant the Malendars were expected to be out in full force and on their best behavior. Her parents had even hired a PR babysitter for her brother. Kara hadn’t met Kate, the babysitter, yet, but judging by the way her brother talked about her, Kara was pretty sure that relationship was going from professional to complicated any day now. All Kara’s mother had said about Grady’s new keeper was that her name was too close to Kara’s and it was confusing. As if a mother would confuse her daughter with someone else because her name was similar. “Does that happen?” Kara had wanted to ask her mother with more than a little sarcasm, but she hadn’t because she was the obedient daughter, the one who followed the rules. Grady was the wild child of the family and while her brother was one of her favorite people, she often envied his courage. Instead of bold and brave, Kara had a chip on her shoulder she couldn’t seem to shake. She decided a while back that being a bitch and distancing herself was easier than feeling. Feeling only reminded her of Paris and what was stolen from her.

Kara opened her desk drawer and pulled out the stack of envelopes she had labeled
Campaign
. They were all dated in the right-hand corner, with a black dot if they required formal attire. Wednesday’s invitation was still unopened. Kara usually waited a couple of days before reading any political event invitations. That cut down on the time she had to second-guess and dread. Running her pearl-handled letter opener along the sealed crease of the envelope, she pulled out a single card.

Let’s Celebrate You!

Kara rolled her eyes.

Senator and Mrs. Patrick Malendar would like to thank each and every volunteer,—

blah, blah, blah.

We will be hosting a happy hour and buffet-style dinner at—

She stopped reading and set the invitation down. After what her best friend, Jake, called a “deep cleansing breath,” she picked it up again. Nope, nothing had changed—it still read the same. Her parents would be hosting their thank-you party at

The Yard, a cool new local restaurant we’ve been hearing great things about.
The Yard is owned by hometown chef, Logan Rye.

Well of course
, Kara thought, tossing the invitation back into her desk drawer.

The one person from her past who probably hated her to the core. Kara had heard about Logan’s restaurant when it opened three months ago, but she had done a very good job avoiding everything concerning The Yard or Logan Rye up to this point. She’d left that entire mess behind in Paris.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” she reminded herself every time she crammed some ugly thing to the back of her mind. She’d recently added the Marco Polo review to her mental back drawer, but now Logan Rye, a long-time back-drawer resident, was moving to the front of the class. Thanks to her parents.
Damn it!

She replied to her mother’s text:

I’ll be there with bells on!! :) :) :)

Christ, she actually nauseated herself sometimes. Kara let out a slow breath, took a sip of tea, and turned to her computer monitor. She tried to focus on proofing her review of Two Guys Taco Shop, but she kept reading the same sentence over and over again, so she accepted that focusing on anything other than the invitation was a waste of time.

The weekend crowd flow was still a little patchy. Friday had been dead, but they were slammed on Saturday, which was strange because there was a local football game Friday and Logan assumed people would have—
Aw hell
, he thought, none of it made any sense.

He simply needed to do the work, keep getting their name out there, and make kick-ass food, as Travis liked to put it. Logan poured himself a cup of coffee behind the bar.

It was Monday morning, the start of a new week. He had spent yesterday in his garden, trying to clear his head and cultivating his own little farm. Although his father and brother would laugh their asses off if they heard him call it that. They ran a
real
farm—that’s what they would say, and they would be right—but Logan’s little piece of earth was still pretty impressive. What had started off as a garden had grown into something much more. Logan loved working the land and growing food. It seemed so vital, essential to who he was, and when most of his week was filled with Makenna barking at him to post more content to The Yard’s Facebook page or figuring out why most of his servers were either stoned or obnoxiously enthusiastic, his garden was a refuge.

The carrots had come in beautifully and he now had more kale then he knew what to do with. He’d started some seeds for his next planting, and it seemed in another week or two, Travis would have the rutabaga he’d requested back in June. Travis had made Logan pork tenderloin with cider jus and rutabaga for his birthday and it was nothing short of amazing, so of course Logan wanted it featured on the fall menu.

Almost every thought in Logan’s waking life was consumed by food—either planting it, sourcing it from somewhere that made him proud, or cooking it. He allowed a few hours for sleep, and then the rest of his “free” time was spent with his family, discussing, arguing, or doing his part at Ryeland Farms. He supposed it was a good life, but he was tired.