What Love Tastes Like (25 page)

Tiffany wiped away a bead of sweat from her brow as she gently shook the small stainless steel skillet. She sautéed scallops in garlic-infused butter even as she stirred the spinach wilting in another pan. Once finished, she plated the scallops atop the greens and drizzled the remaining butter over the dish. “Order up!” she said, pleased with the presentation. She immediately called out for two live lobsters before searing a prime cut of beef.

“Do you want me to drop them, Chef?” Roger asked as he brought the snarly crustaceans over to the stove. Tiffany nodded. A hiss soon followed as he submerged the lobsters in a pot of boiling water. He nudged Tiffany playfully, happy to act as sous chef as Tiffany was once again allowed to cook for her dad. “So, do you think your old man's gonna stick around this time?”

Tiffany cut a mean look in Roger's direction. He'd hit a nerve, especially since she'd just been thinking about the last time she took dishes out to an empty table. Her father had apologized, and offered an explanation for his hasty departure. He didn't have to. She knew—business.

“Whoa, sorry!” Roger said. “Didn't mean to push a sore spot with you, Chef.”

“Don't worry about it,” Tiffany replied. “It's hard to avoid sore spots where my dad is concerned.”

Roger walked close to her and dropped his voice. “Look at it this way, Tiff. At least you still have a dad to get angry at. Me and my pops were at each other's throats all the time, up until he died two years ago. I'd give anything just to hear him yell at me just one more time.” He said nothing more, just walked over to the food processor, dropped in some ingredients, and turned it on.

Tiffany pondered Roger's words as she cooked, having never given thought to her father being permanently removed from her life, dying.
How would I feel with Daddy gone for good?
She removed the steak from the fire and set it on a board to rest, then reached long tongs into the large pot and pulled out the cooked lobsters.
I know we have our differences and I know he hasn't been the best father, but I still love him.
She placed the lobsters on a cutting board, chopped off the claws, and split open the tails. After plating the herbed spinach pasta she'd made from scratch, she took seasoned melted butter and placed it in a ceramic creamer to be used tableside. She began slicing the steak for plating, noting that the meat was cooked to perfection. Even though the restaurant was near capacity and there were orders to fill, Tiffany reached for the plates holding the food she'd prepared. Roger's words had hit their mark. Tiffany decided that she, and nobody else, would be the one to serve her father.

 

Keith admired the restaurant's décor as he sipped his Chardonnay. The perky waitress had been right—it was the perfect complement to the succulent scallops he'd enjoyed before the palate-cleansing celery soup. It was hard for Keith to believe that his daughter had actually prepared these dishes. Over the years, he'd eaten in his share of five-star restaurants, and couldn't remember any dish that had surpassed what he'd experienced so far at Taste. The service, the understated elegance of his surroundings…Keith had to admit that he was impressed. And he didn't impress easily.

As he watched the people around him obviously enjoying their meals, Keith sat back and searched for memories of Tiffany, the little girl turned woman whom he hardly knew. Smiling, he remembered her as a baby. She was a small newborn, yet feisty and full of life. Her eyes used to light up when she looked at him, and when she grabbed his forefinger, she held on for dear life. The toddler years were a blur. He'd traveled so much during that time—as a salesman, then a project manager, and later as sales director for a commodities firm. He'd been so focused during those early years, determined to shut up the naysayers: racist jerks, jealous coworkers, and the voice of a father who said he'd never amount to anything. He did remember one birthday, though, when Tiffany was five years old. Her birthday landed on a Saturday that year, and Keith was home. Janice had a party and invited the neighborhood children. Keith went to the mall himself, a rare occurrence, and picked out a big, brown teddy bear for his little girl. When Tiffany unwrapped it, Keith remembered her eyes widening in amazement. “I wuv it!” she'd shouted. The stuffed animal was almost as big as Tiffany, but she refused to part with it, even for a minute. She dragged it around as she played the games. Keith chuckled aloud as he remembered that after Janice served the cake, the bear had as much cake frosting on his face as Tiffany did.

Keith rubbed his brow as another scene came to mind. This one happened much later, when Tiffany was twenty-three years old. She'd just gotten her master's degree from UCLA, and since Keith didn't see a husband or children anywhere in her future, he'd laid aside his chauvinistic views and made big plans for his only child to follow his footsteps into the business world. He'd taken her out to a fancy restaurant, much like the one he sat in now, and along with introducing her to his latest wife, laid out his plans for her future.

“Dad?” Tiffany asked cautiously, aware that her father was deep in thought. When he looked up, his eyes were misty. Tiffany placed his dinner in front of him. “Dad, are you all right?”

“You were right and I was wrong, Tiffany,” he muttered, anguish evident in his voice. “I was wrong to squash your dreams of being a chef, of trying to force my idea of success on you.”

It was the first time Keith Bronson had come anywhere close to an admission of wrongdoing, much less an apology. Tiffany's heart swelled at the sound of his words, but she knew if the conversation continued on its present course, she'd break into an ugly cry. And as the sous chef of a five-star restaurant in one of Los Angeles's premier hotels, that would not be cute.

“Let's talk about that later,” she said, forcing a cheerful sound to her voice. “We don't want your food to get cold.” Tiffany donned her professional hat, explaining the food she'd prepared for her father. “The butter has been infused with ginger, smoked paprika, and lemon zest,” she concluded, “and can be either poured over the lobster or used for dipping. Bon appétit.”

Keith looked at his daughter another long moment before spearing a chunk of the lobster, dipping it in the butter, and placing it in his mouth. The spices immediately tickled his palate, even as the lobster almost melted in his mouth. He closed his eyes, chewed slowly, and savored the taste. “It's absolutely incredible, Tiffany,” he said when he'd finished. “The best food I've ever tasted.”

Tiffany tried to swallow the lump that leaped into her throat. “Well, enjoy, Daddy,” she said hurriedly. “I have a few more orders to get out, but I will come back and join you for dessert.” Without waiting for an answer, she rushed out of the restaurant, bypassed the kitchen, ran into the bathroom, and burst into tears.

Forty-five minutes later, Tiffany watched her dad scoop up the last of his apple dumpling, which had been served warm atop Tiffany's caramel ice cream. When she'd returned to the table and her father had tried again to apologize, Tiffany had cut him off. “Let's have this talk later, Dad. You'll make me cry, and that's not professional.” Her father's smile was bittersweet as he'd simply nodded and changed the subject. The time they spent talking during Tiffany's fifteen-minute break centered on family and politics, specifically the presidency of Barack Obama, which next to business was Keith's favorite subject.

“When it comes to worldwide diplomacy, Obama's been walking a tightrope for the last two years. No matter which country we're talking about, he's damned if he does and damned if he doesn't.”

“I think he's doing a fabulous job,” Tiffany countered. “And Michelle is the perfect complement, tackling issues important to women everywhere. Wow, what I wouldn't give to fix them dinner…just one time. And speaking of, I'd better get back to work.”

Keith wiped his mouth and placed the napkin on his cleaned plate. He leaned back, crossed his arms, and stared at his daughter. “The food was simply amazing, Chef,” he said sincerely. “I love you, Tiffany.”

Tiffany stood, once again tamping down her emotions. “Me, too, Dad. Catch you later.” She leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and left.

Keith eyed his watch. Dinner had taken longer than he'd intended, but he'd enjoyed every moment. So much so that he thought about taking the evening off. Maybe he'd pick up Angelica and do something casual—maybe take in a movie or go to the beach. He'd just reached for his BlackBerry to dial her, when it rang. “Bronson.”

“Hey, Keith. It's Stan. We've got a situation, and we need to act fast. How far are you from Bel Air?”

“I'm in Malibu.”

“Shit. Well, your source was right. While we were watching out for a meeting here in Los Angeles, those bastards were having it in Vegas. We need to act fast.”