Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [17]
He’d apologized privately for his part in this fiasco to Frankie and Grant. They were his partners in crime, his friends. But even though Adam preferred a collegial atmosphere in his kitchen, he wasn’t about to have subordinates second-guessing his judgment. Flawed or not, it was his damn kitchen. He had to be in control.
Restaurant brigades were like nothing so much as a pirate crew; any hint of blood in the water could incite a mutiny. A lot of his employees lived rough lives around the fringes of normal society. That was why most of them worked in restaurants; the insane hours, the intense pressure, the adrenaline rush of service—only a misfit could thrive under those circumstances. Adam ought to know.
Benevolent pirate king that he was, Adam knew everyone’s name, from grill cook to dishwasher, and the names of their wives and girlfriends and kids—but if any one of them screwed up during service? They got the full, sharp edge of Adam’s temper.
Screwing up outside of service, away from the restaurant—well, Adam liked to know about that, too. In the interests of being prepared. If someone didn’t show up for work, the whole kitchen scrambled to make up the difference.
Keeping on top of that was Frankie’s department. Somehow, some way, Frankie knew everything that went down with their crew. He could find out any information on anyone in the restaurant business, through shady, circuitous means best known only to himself. He was Adam’s first mate. His strong right arm, the sword arm. Adam would be lost without him.
All of which made Frankie’s occasional dickishness easier to swallow.
“Do you want to go get cleaned up, boss?” Grant asked, wrinkling his nose at the duck fat.
Adam caught Frankie’s glance and smiled slowly when his friend winked, eyebrows arched devilishly.
“No way, man,” Adam said, letting the familiar sounds and smells of the kitchen wash over him. “Let her come talk to me right here, see what it’s all about.”
See what I’m all about, he thought. Because this was him. Messy hands, busy mind, every sense trained to seek perfection. This was where he lived. And no snotty little magazine scribbler, gorgeous red-gold hair and feisty spirit or not, was going to change that.
There was something strange about a restaurant before opening. Like a classroom after school was out, familiar surroundings where every item has its place and purpose, but none of it’s meant for you at the moment.
Miranda hadn’t noticed much about the décor last night, but by day Market was a welcoming little place. She glanced down the tree-lined Upper West Side block, noting the cozy, bustling feel of the neighborhood even at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning. There was a school across the street, the large, fenced-in paved area in front entirely taken over by the weekly farmer’s market she assumed had given the restaurant its name.
Young families mingled with old ladies carrying cloth shopping bags, all of them poring over fresh produce. The air had a beguiling warmth to it, the first harbinger of New York’s sultry summer heat.
Claire had called, as promised, and delivered the exciting news that the magazine’s editorial board had arranged matters with Market’s financial backer, a woman named Eleanor Bonning, and Miranda would be spending an entire month in the kitchen there. A whole month! And that was just to start. Claire had mentioned something about the Cooking Channel being interested. The possibilities were endlessly exciting.
Jess whistled, low and appreciative. “Sweet setup. I like this neighborhood.”
“Location isn’t everything,” Miranda said. “Let’s see if the inside lives up to the promise of the exterior.”
Bursting with anticipation, Miranda pushed open the front door and led Jess into the dimly lit restaurant. The soft gold-green of the walls and burnished golden wood of the bar glowed in the late afternoon sun. And wow, how far gone was she last night that she hadn’t even noticed the lovely, open flow between