I'd be impressed if I weren't also mildly concerned she's going to win this argument with her father and I'm going to have to get back on a plane to Seattle tonight.
I could throttle Jean-Pierre right now for putting me in this position and not telling his own daughter I was coming. Thelack of basic communication skills is baffling from someone who runs a multi-million dollar business empire.
My bags are still in the rental car, I haven't eaten since the airport, and what I really want right now is to find my cottage, take a shower, and sit on a porch with a glass of wine. Since all of that seems very far away, I turn back toward the kitchen. Might as well see what I'm working with for the next month, assuming she doesn't convince her father to send me home.
I was here last summer for a collaboration event, and once before that too, but the space is no less impressive the third time around. It's a massive kitchen with more counter space than I would know what to do with, top-of-the-line everything, but it still manages to feel warm and lived-in, like someone's incredibly expensive home kitchen.
The huge windows look out over rolling vineyards that go on forever, rows and rows of vines, and the whole place feels like a magazine spread about why everyone should quit their corporate jobs and move to wine country to make artisanal cheese or whatever.
The pop-up doesn't start for another week and a half, and this isn't the kitchen used for the bed and breakfast guests, so it's peaceful in a way restaurant kitchens rarely are. Just me, the hum of the walk-in, the distant sound of what I assume is Isabelle telling her father exactly where he can shove his babysitter idea.
I open the walk-in and poke my head inside. Immaculate. Labeled containers stacked in tidy rows, every protein dated, every vegetable in its place. I find a bag of coffee beans and a pour-over setup on the counter and decide that I might as well enjoy myself while I wait.
By the time the water is hot and I'm pouring it over the grounds, the terrace has gone silent. I glance over. Isabelle is standing with her phone in her hands facing the hills, still as a statue.
She turns abruptly and makes her way across the terrace, yanks open the door, and looks at me with the kind of expression that makes me grateful looks can't actually kill, because if they could, I'd be a chalk outline on the kitchen floor.
Jean-Pierre must have held his ground. I feel a pang of guilt for how pleased I am about that, but I want this deal. And if that means a month in wine country getting yelled at by his angry, though very beautiful, daughter, I can live with that. I've worked brunch shifts on Mother's Day. I know what suffering is.
In the name of diplomacy, and also self-preservation, I try to arrange my face into something sympathetic. Concerned, maybe. Regretful about the situation. The kind of expression that says, "I'm so sorry your father is an overbearing control freak who ambushed you" and definitely not "I was standing here actively hoping you'd lose that argument so I could keep my funding."
"So." She stops a few feet from me, smoothing the front of her chef's coat with a quick, aggressive motion. "My father has made it clear that this arrangement is not negotiable. You'll be working the pop-up alongside me. Regardless of my feelings on the matter. Apparently my future at his restaurant in New York depends on me playing along with this. So it looks like we're...stuckwith each other."
She says those last words like they taste bad, and she looks me up and down with an expression that suggests I rank somewhere between spoiled milk and a health code violation. I have to fight the urge to smile, because she is—unfortunately for my self-preservation instincts—exactly my type. A bit snobby, openly hostile, and clearly smarter than me.
A combination that’s been my downfall since the eighth grade when Katie Brennan called me an idiot in front of the entire cafeteria and I spent the rest of the year trying to make her laugh. I never did succeed with Katie. But I also never learned my lesson.
She's also stunningly beautiful, which doesn't help. Oliveskin, freckles scattered across her nose, hazel eyes, and the kind of face that makes you stop in your tracks. Jean-Pierre's warning about keeping things professional makes even more sense now.
"Stuck with each other it is," I say. "For what it's worth, I'm not here to get in your way. Your father made me an offer, but this is your show. I'm just here to help with whatever you actually need."
"What Ineedis to run my kitchen without someone reporting back to my father about every decision I make," she says, crossing her arms.
"Well, lucky for you, I'm a terrible correspondent," I say. "My brother has to text me three times before I respond to anything. Actually, I'msoterrible that I mightaccidentallyleave my draft message to your father open where you can read them before I send anything.”
Her eyebrows go up. "Wouldn't that get you in trouble?"
"Maybe. But I'm not thrilled about reporting on someone behind their back. So, you look over what I write before it goes to him. I get my restaurant, you don't get surprised by anything, and your father gets confirmation that his daughter is running a great kitchen. You seem like you know what you're doing, so it's not like I'll be lying." I shrug. "Everyone wins."
Her mouth twitches. Not a smile, not quite, but the ghost of one. "Deal. And I'm sorry I yelled at you. This is just such a frustrating situation. He wants me to becalmand professional about this. Which I'm sure you'll appreciate is a bit rich coming from the man who sent a stranger to supervise me without bothering to mention it first. Professional my ass."
"He told me he was going to tell you about the, admittedly shitty, arrangement. I assumed you two would have already hashed out all the details well before I even got on the plane. So for what it's worth, he screwed us both on this one."
"Yes, well." She exhales. "Welcome to the Jean-PierreBeaumont school of communication and emotional manipulation. Tuition is free. The emotional damage and therapy bills are not."
I laugh at that. Progress. "I am definitely beginning to get a sense of the curriculum. Is there a course catalog, or do you just figure it out as you go?"
"Trial by fire, mostly," she says. "Occasional moments of warmth followed by crushing disappointment. It's very character-building."
"Sounds delightful. I'm sorry you're dealing with it."
“Yah well, thanks.” She lets out another loud sigh. "Ugh, so let's figure out how this is going to work without me wanting to murder you in your sleep."
"I'm open to suggestions," I say. "Especially ones that involve me not being murdered."
"I have a few." She crosses her arms. "Starting with the fact that this ismypop-up, my kitchen, and my menu. I've been planning this for months. Whatever my father told you about oversight or collaboration or whatever word he used to make this sound less insulting, I want to be very clear about the reality of the situation."
"Okay, that sounds fine to me. I love not working harder than I need to,” I say, which is only mildly true. Theo would call me a workaholic when it comes to cooking, and he'd be right, but it doesn't seem prudent to mention that right now.