SUTTON
I peekat my phone to check the time. I need to leave in the next hour to catch my usual Sunday afternoon flight to Sterling Springs. But I don’t want to leave before we get our coffee delivery, which should be any minute.
Tucking my phone away, I slide the bowl of pasta across the counter to TJ. He leans over the dish, inhaling the aroma. The homemade pasta with hot Calabrian chilis and Italian sausage, made with local elk meat instead of the traditional pork, is the kind of dish we’re known for. Combining traditional recipes with fresh, locally sourced, made-from-scratch ingredients is exactly how Grandma Gloria taught my mom—and then Slade and me—how to cook. She always insisted that any man worth a damn knew how to cook, and that lesson has served us well.
“Wow. I think you’ve outdone yourself again,” he says, shaking his head.
I grin at him. “My version of a mountain bolognese.”
He nods. “I dig it.”
Basically since we opened, he’s been coming into Gloria’s and sitting in the same stool at least once a week. When wedesigned the restaurant, Slade and I wanted the place to be open. My personal touch was the chef’s tasting counter.
The counter runs along the back wall of the restaurant, almost the entire length of the main room. Most of the seating is for the bar, but the far end has a handful of stools reserved for diners wanting a different experience. That end of the bar is right in front of the open kitchen, with a full view of the beautiful chaos that is Gloria’s on a busy night.
With this setup, I can serve and talk about the dishes myself. With TJ, I use it as a chance to experiment because he happens to be one of the least picky eaters I’ve ever met. This tradition has worked great and hasn’t really changed except for one small detail lately.
He reaches for the dish with his fork before his hand is batted away.
“Ladies first. You know the rules,” his wife says from the stool next to him. “I swear you were raised by wolves.”
He laughs. “Again, former foster kid.”
Grace twirls a bite of pasta onto her fork and points it at him. “I know, but still no excuse for bad manners.” She makes a kissy face at him and takes her bite.
I don’t miss the little breathy, almost inaudible moan that she makes when she tastes the food.
“Oh my god. That’s so freaking good,” she says mid-bite, bringing her hand to her mouth while she chews.
I chuckle. “Glad you like it.”
“I don’t like it. I love it.”
This is exactly why I enjoy cooking for TJ, and now Grace. Getting live, real feedback on my ideas has been so helpful over the years I’ve spent working in this industry.
Also, I have to admit I’m beyond happy for the two of them. Seeing how much direction TJ has now, with Grace in his life, has made me consider what I want the next chapter of my life to look like.
“If you make my wife moan again, I might have to kill you,” he says gruffly.
I laugh to myself, but he glares at me in a way that almost convinces me that he’s serious about that threat.
“Oh shut up, Tommy. You know he’s too young for me anyway,” Grace chides before turning to me, giving me a playful wink. “So, will this be on the Seattle menu?”
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, making a noncommittal sound. “Not sure yet. You know we like to go with a somewhat local theme, and the Pacific Northwest has a decidedly more seafood vibe to it. Maybe we’ll make it seasonally.”
“When do you think you’ll be moving up there?” TJ asks. I can tell from the look in his eyes that he has the same concern as me.
"Because when you do, I’m not sure he knows how to feed himself.” Grace gives her husband a playful flick of her eyebrows.
The question is innocent enough, but it still raises the thought I’ve been fearing the most.
We both know Slade pushes himself too hard. I’m not much better, but even I know my limits. I always help the people close to me, just like I help Sly too.
The restaurant in Seattle feels different though. I know Slade wants me to take on more with that restaurant. But the truth is, I’m not like him, I thought I was earlier in my career. I still want to earn my own star, like every other committed chef. I still love cooking and experimenting and giving people memorable meals, but I’m not obsessed with growing our reputation and pushing myself to the breaking point like he is. It’s also further from home than any of our other restaurants.
Maybe—more importantly—it’s also further from Jackson than I want to be. I like it here. Over the last two years, this little mountain town has stolen my heart. It feels more likehome than Sterling Springs, or Denver, or any of the other places I’ve lived. I don’t know if I could just leave this place.
Thinking of Sterling Springs, I check the time again. Damnit. I only have about fifteen minutes before I need to leave for the airport.