The Art of Love (19 page)

Chapter 20

"
You can be sure of succeeding in your attacks if you attack places which are not defended. You can insure the safety of your defense if you hold only positions that cannot be attacked."
~ Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

The sleeves are off again, and I’m back to working ridiculous hours in the kitchen as the wedding comes barreling down on us. I thought maybe Trent would try to see me after our moment on his desk, but that apparently isn’t the case. And it’s not like I have time to see him, anyway. Still, I think I’m closer to winning him over than Kiki, as long as the food for the Lake-McHale wedding far eclipses any other aspect of the reception. Plus, Trent encouraged me to get even more creative with the regular menu, and I am taking him at his word.

Just the regular cutlery provided by our knife sharpening service isn’t doing it for me anymore. A lot of chefs have their own personal knives that they bring in to use, but I’ve done one better. I figured out that I’m at my creative best when I’m using some of the Chinese edged weapons that I’ve collected over the years. Hacking off a hunk of meat with an ancient blade somehow makes me feel like I’m unleashing my inner power. It’s not the best way to preserve antique things, but I haven’t brought in my best pieces.

I can feel June watching me as I slice off pieces of roast with my saber. “Um
, Sue? What are you doing?” she finally asks me after I’ve cleaved several pieces.

Her judging eyes were annoying enough without this verbal interruption. “
Creating,” I bark at her. “What are you doing?” I’m trying to imply something here, possibly about all the work that still needs to get done, but she doesn’t pick up on it.

She comes back at me with, “
Watching the temporary chef de cuisine as she slowly loses her marbles. I’ve got to admit, it’s pretty entertaining.”

I line my blade up with the meat and prepare for another swing. “
Well, stop screwing around and get to work!” I take a mighty whack at the meat to emphasize my point, and she hurries away without another word. I think I’ve startled her a little, but I don’t care. Why should I be the only one busting my ass around here? Don’t we have more customers than we’ve had since the late nineties? Haven’t I saved everyone’s job? The least they can do is show a little gratitude by actually working.

With so much new business, I’ve started buying extra things for the restaurant and really reaching for new and creative ways to present the menu. I love sneaking into the dining room and watching as people who’ve never explored the culinary world much past a gourmet burger experience food in a whole new way for the first time. Actually, watching people enjoy their food is the only thing that seems to make me feel happy at the moment.

I slip out to the dining room to spy as one of our waitresses brings out two new dishes I’ve just added to the menu and delivers them to a couple who look like they’re on a big adventure in a restaurant that’s way fancy compared to what they’re used to. I can’t remember the waitress’s name. She’s more a catalog model rather than a supermodel, but still damn pretty.

The couple look up in surprise as their server sets down two inflated silver pillows in front of them. They’re actually made of the same material as when you buy an expensive bouquet of balloons, but in pillow shape and without the helium.

The man and woman spend a moment taking in the pillow that has been placed in front of each of them. Then the man finally gets up the nerve to ask, “What's this?”

“It's an aroma enhancer,” the waitress explains as she balances their entrees on the top of the pillows.

The man cocks a questioning eye in his wife’s direction to make sure this is not some new chick thing that she already knows about. Gauging that she is also confused, he continues with, “An aroma whah...?”

“
What are we supposed to do with them?” The woman has found her voice. She spreads both hands, palms up, in a bewildered gesture over her pillow. “Take a nap?”

“
They’re filled with the scent of different herbs customized to each of your meals,” the server tells them as she releases the valve on each pillow. “They'll slowly deflate as you eat, infusing the air around you with fragrance. It’s using your sense of smell to heighten your sense of taste for a unique dining experience.”

“
Hmmm...?” the woman says as she sniffs her first whiff of her customized pillow.

“
Well, what do you know...?” The man’s eyes are round with disbelief. I can tell by his expression that he’s eager to go to work tomorrow and let his buddies know about his adventurous dinner experience. He’ll be the talk of the water cooler.

It’s almost instantly the day of the big Lake-McHale wedding. I guess when Chandra Lake fired her original caterer at the last minute, she really did do it at the very last possible minute. I’ve barely had time to order the food from Kiki’s printout. She’s been repeatedly adamant that the food has to be perfect. “Of course, it’ll be perfect,” I tell her. I don’t understand why she thinks I’d serve anything else.

I have to wonder, who was the caterer that was fired and why? That’s a risk I probably wouldn’t be willing to take so close to my wedding date. I guess Chandra knew she had enough money to throw around that it wouldn’t make a difference. She’s probably one of those spoiled socialites who thrive on drama in their lives because they have nothing else to keep them busy.

With all hands on deck and the extra help we’ve had to bring in, the kitchen is like a hive swarming with honey bees. We’ve actually had to close the restaurant to the public, and there is security at the entrance to keep the paparazzi from crashing the event.

“
Why are we killing ourselves over this wedding again?” Pedro asks the kitchen in general as he carries in yet another tray of dirty glasses. The Lake-McHale guests have no qualms about making use of the open bar, and the bartenders, who usually handle washing most of their own dishes, are overwhelmed.

“Money.” Aspic explains everything in one concise word.

“Money for who?” Pedro wants to know, setting the tray heavily down on the edge of the sink and causing the glasses to ring. “Is there some for me, or is it all just for Winchell?”

Three guys struggling under three giant bakery boxes show up. “Where do you want the cake?” the guy in charge asks. “And don’t say anywhere because it has to be assembled.”

“Where the hell have you guys been?” I demand. “The reception’s already started. You were supposed to be here hours ago.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell us there was going to be a full body cavity search to get into this dump,” the guy gripes right back at me. “The security outside is insane. I think it’s easier to get a shot at the president.”

“Yeah,” one of the other bakers says, “like we’d really go to the trouble of baking this thing just to get a look at some stupid debutant at her wedding.” He laughs. “I’m surprised they didn’t search the cake for a camera or something.”

“Okay… um… Paolo?” I call. He looks reasonably presentable, I guess.

“What you want, Suzannah?” he asks.

“Would you please show these men to the dessert table so they can set up the cake?”

“Sure thing.” The Italian turns to lead them into the dining room.

“Oh, and Paolo?” He pauses, so I slide up next to him and whisper in his ear, “Would you please button your chef’s coat before you go out there?” With the amount of waxing that goes on in wealthy communities, I’m sure quite a few ladies would pass out from shock at such a display of the Italian’s chest hair in public.

Kiki materializes and stalks across the kitchen, hands on her hips. “All the guests are here! Where are the appetizers?” she hisses.

She can see the chaos. She can see it right in front of her eyes, but that somehow doesn’t register. “
Reel it in, Kiki,” I tell her. “They're almost ready.”

Chandra Lake is a beautiful bride in as much as she’s normally pretty good looking and she’s got on a flouncy white dress that I’m sure cost more than a year of the mortgage on my condo. Besides that, she doesn’t really stand out in any way from the standard women you see modeling gowns in bridal magazines. In a weird way, that’s the problem with weddings. Every bride wants her wedding to be special, and they are all special to the bride and groom, but most of them kind of blend together until weddings become this giant mass in people’s memories with nothing to distinguish one from blurring into the next. Chandra’s probably has a bigger cake for her reception than most people’s, and the small gift set at each table setting appears to be some kind of Swarovski crystal figurine, but besides that, I don’t really see anything that will stand out in people’s memories. Okay, I forgot about the battalion of security out front. That actually leaves an impression. The groom is in a classic tux. He has that kind of Prince William look of having formerly been handsome, but he’s now a little toothy and a bit thinning on the top.

I peek out into the restaurant as the hors d’oeuvres first leave the kitchen, hoping to gauge people’s reactions. Chandra is beaming as she chats with her guests, and everything seems to be going smoothly. Donna heads toward the bride with a full tray of finger food, offering small bites to people along the way. After Chandra’s behavior earlier in the week, I’m surprised Donna isn’t on the other side of the room. She finally reaches the bride and with all the pleasantry she can muster says, “Crab puff?”

Chandra’s eyes bulge a little as she snatches a puff off the tray. “What is this?” she demands.

Donna gives her a startled look and says, very carefully, like you would to a man waving a gun around, “It’s a crab puff.”

“I know that! What I want to know is
why are you trying to serve it to me?” the bride all but yells.

Donna is at a loss. “
I'm not sure I know what you mean...”

“I mean, I don’t like crab puffs,” Chandra yells, throwing the food at the waitress. “
I don't eat crab puffs, and I didn't order crab puffs for my wedding!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone running across the dining room. It’s Kiki in a flat-out, high-heeled sprint. “What’s going on?” she asks, skidding to a halt in front of the bride. “What did she do?” she asks, obviously meaning Donna.

“She tried to serve me a crab puff.” Chandra’s voice is shrill enough to draw the attention of the drunkest of guests.

“Okay… I… uh…” It’s obvious that Kiki has lost her place in the script.

“I don’t like crab puffs! In fact, I hate crab puffs! So why the hell are you trying to serve them at my wedding?” Chandra is on the verge of a full bridal meltdown.

             
“What do you mean?” Kiki manages to stammer.

The bride is losing it in front of every single of her two hundred guests who hear, “
My appetizers are paper-wrapped chicken, escargot-stuffed mushrooms, and ginger beef skewers. I never once mentioned crab puffs. Now, why are there crab puffs being served at my wedding reception?”

Donna turns and skulks away from the conflict. It might be a trick of the lighting, but I swear she’s suppressing a smirk.

All the color has drained from Kiki’s face, and she looks a little scared. “I don't know,” she croaks out. “The kitchen must have mixed up the order. I'll go check on it right now.”

“You’d better!” Chandra shouts after her.

One of the extra waiters we brought in to help cover the reception wanders into the bride’s peripheral vision and stops in front of some guests who have been gawking at the bride like a three-car pileup on the autobahn. “Crab puff?” he asks, oblivious to any impending danger.

Chandra
wheels around and points at a guest who is just about to bite into the proffered treat. “Don't eat that!” she bellows.

I hurry back into the kitchen before Kiki catches me outside the swinging doors. She’s hard on my heels and is immediately up in my grill before I get halfway across the room. “What the hell is going on?” she demands.

“We just sent out the first round of appetizers,” I tell her. “They can’t be ready for dinner already.”

“
You sent out the wrong appetizers,” Kiki hisses.

“No,” I tell her, standing my ground. I grab the printout I was given to
coordinate the meal. “No, we didn't.” I wave the paper at her. “It says right here, crab puffs.”

Kiki snatches the printout from my hand and quickly scans it. “
That's supposed to be cream puffs! For dessert!”

The chaos in the kitchen has slowed to a crawl as everyone watches our exchange. Antoine has set himself up with a front row seat, his eyes out on stalks. I think the only way he could be happier is if he had a bag of popcorn.

“This is wrong.” Kiki scans the page, repeatedly shaking her head. “This is all wrong.” She turns her eyes toward me. “Did you make all this stuff?”

“Uh, yeah.” I’m not sure what she’s expecting me to say.

“You did this on purpose!” The accusations ring out as Kiki scrambles for a way to divert the blame. “You did this to make me look bad!”