"Fair," he says, still smiling. "But I mean it. The Espelette with the shallot confit and the roe, using that slow-building warmth instead of going the obvious route with chili oil or fresh pepper. It's very smart. Where did the pairing come from, if you don't mind me asking?"
Despite myself, I feel a flicker of warmth at the question. It’s actually a perceptive observation about a menu item that I spent weeks thinking about and that nobody else has commented on.
"AstageI did in San Sebastián," I say, leaning against the opposite counter. "There was a pintxo bar that used Espelette in everything, and I started thinking about how it behaves differently than other peppers. You get the warmth without the sharpness, so it doesn't fight delicate proteins the way fresh chili does. And the shallot confit gives you this low, sweet undertone that the Espelette can build on."
"That's incredible," he says, and he's nodding slowly in a waythat makes me think he actually means it. "I do a scallop crudo at Harbor & Ash that works a similar principle but from a completely different angle. Passionfruit gel with ají amarillo, so you're using tropical acid to cut the sweetness of the scallop instead of citrus, and the ají gives you this fruity heat that sneaks up on you after the first bite."
"Passionfruit and ají amarillo?" I say. "Those are both such big flavors. How do you keep the scallop from disappearing?"
"That's the whole trick." His face lights up when he talks about food, the same way mine probably does, and for a second I forget I'm supposed to be keeping him at arm's length. "The passionfruit is barely there, so you get these little pockets of acid that hit your palate between bites instead of sitting on the protein. And the ají is in a thin vinaigrette underneath, so the scallop is resting on it but not swimming in it. You taste the heat after the sweetness, not during."
I nod slowly. The layering of that dish is quite clever. I need to look more into his Harbor & Ash menus when I get a chance, because if the rest of his food is at this level, my father's assessment of his talent was not exaggerated.
"That actually sounds really good," I say, and I'm annoyed at how much I mean it.
He smiles, looking pleased. "We could come up with some really interesting things if we put our heads together. Two different culinary backgrounds, different training, different approaches. Could be fun."
"Don't push it."
"As you wish, Princess." He holds up his hands in surrender, that dimple appearing again.
I raise an eyebrow. "Alright Westley, just because we had one conversation about technique doesn't mean we're bonding here."
"Ah, a fellowPrincess Bridefan. See, even more common ground." He grins wider.
"Well unfortunately for you, I'm in more of a Buttercup-in-the-fire-swamp kind of mood.” I cross my arms. “Surrounded by rodents of unusual size and deeply unimpressed."
He laughs at that. "Fair enough. I'll let you get back to work, chef."
He pushes through the door back out into the afternoon light, and I stand there staring at nothing for a moment before returning to my prep schedule.
The kitchen is quiet again, just the hum of the walk-in and the distant sound of laughter from the terrace where my team is taking their break. I pull out my phone and look at my father's text one more time.I know better than you what you need right now.
I put the phone face-down on the counter and get back to work.
CHAPTER 5
Alex
The sun is barely up and the terrace outside the kitchen is quiet. It reminds me of Harbor & Ash at five in the morning, before the deliveries start and the prep cooks roll in and the whole machine begins to turn. I've always loved this hour. The stillness before the chaos. A cup of coffee and nowhere to be for another thirty minutes.
I'm leaning against the stone railing watching the fog sit low over the vineyard rows. Back home during this time of year the mornings are usually wet with that Pacific Northwest damp that gets into everything, and you can smell salt off the sound even when you're nowhere near the water.
Here, it's dry. The fog burns off fast and then it's just sun and dust and that baked-earth smell that Napa gets by mid-morning. But I fall in love with it more each time I come here. Something about California, like they say, and Napa Valley is the showoff of the bunch.
The kitchen door bangs open behind me with enough force to rattle the frame, and I turn to see Isabelle storming down theterrace steps toward the parking lot with the single-minded purpose of someone on a mission. She doesn't see me at first, too busy muttering something in rapid French.
She's wearing jeans and a white t-shirt and her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, completely different from her usual slicked-back chef's bun. She also looks absolutely furious, her jaw set and her eyebrows drawn together in a way that suggests someone is about to have a very bad morning.
"Hey," I call out, pushing off the railing with my coffee still in hand. "Where's the fire?"
She stops mid-stride and turns, and for a moment she looks startled to see me, which only lasts a second before the scowl returns.
"Morrison," she says, and she's pointing at me like I might somehow be responsible for whatever Morrison did. "The lamb supplier. He's trying to back out of our agreement because he got a better offer from some restaurant in San Francisco, and now he's not returning my calls. And if I don't have that lamb by Thursday the entire fourth course is ruined and I'll have to completely redesign a dish three days before opening."
"That sounds bad," I say, walking down the steps toward her.
"Itisbad. It's very bad." She's already walking again, heading toward the gravel lot where the estate vehicles are parked. "So I'm driving out there to deal with it in person, because apparently that's the only way to get anyone to take me seriously. Show up at his farm and refuse to leave until he honors our contract like a professional."