Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [37]
“How long have you been working with Adam? I know most of the cooks here have been with him in one capacity or another for years.”
Rob’s mouth turned down in a sullen grimace as he bent to grab an enormous stockpot from the shelf below the counter. “Are you messing with me? I’m an extern. My stint here is a year, total. And the place isn’t even open yet. When do you think I met Chef Temple?”
Great start, Miranda. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to insult you. I thought you might’ve known Adam before you went to the Academy.”
He scowled as he started heaping the bones from the tray Adam had carried over earlier into the pot. “I wish. If I had any pull at all in this kitchen, I wouldn’t be stuck making stock every night, or putting together the family meal.” He shot her a disgusted look, and Miranda easily read the unspoken portion of his gripe: and I wouldn’t have to waste my time babysitting you.
She gritted her teeth. “I’m happy to help, if you just tell me what to do.”
Rob directed Miranda in a bored, irritated tone of superiority that set her nerves on edge. Together, they diced and caramelized carrots, onions, and celery for the mirepoix, the flavor base of the stock. Miranda watched everything Rob did, hoping to be able to replicate it on her own if she were ever called upon to do so.
His movements were quick and efficient as he added the vegetables, adjusting the heat under the pot, but somehow he lacked the precise grace she’d noticed while observing Adam and Frankie working over that pork belly a week before. It was as if Rob merely wanted to get through it all as quickly as possible so he could move on to something that interested him more.
The rest of the kitchen faded to a fast-moving blur of color and sound. There were shouts, calls and responses that were unintelligible to Miranda, as if they were spoken in another language. In fact, some were; many of the line cooks were Hispanic. The Anglo cooks seemed to have picked up enough kitchen Spanish to communicate, resulting in an indecipherable patois of blended dialects and accents.
Adding to the stranger-in-a-strange-land feeling was the fact that half the conversation was in code; metaphorically speaking, as in references to past restaurants and kitchens she didn’t recognize, as well as literally. The dishes weren’t called by their full names, but rather shortened versions of their menu description. Discussion of something called “lockets” was actually about the clam starter, spicy steamed Montauk clams served over crusty bread studded with bacon and garlic.
Even though she desperately wanted to be taking notes like mad, flitting from station to station to catch every detail she could, Miranda forced herself to focus on Rob and his slapdash stock tutorial.
This is important, she reminded herself. Show Adam Temple you can hack it in his kitchen, even for one night, and you’ll at least have outlasted the original terms of that ridiculous dare. And maybe you’ll have won enough respect that he’ll let you actually become part of the kitchen, not just a barely tolerated intruder.
It wasn’t easy, however. Miranda could only hope her sulky babysitter would be more interested in the preparation of the so-called family meal, the meal cobbled together, usually from leftovers and usually by the lowest-ranking kitchen helper, for the staff to eat before service.
Rob grudgingly explained all this while indicating the materials Adam had earmarked for them to work with. Ten pounds of chicken thighs that had been ordered for a dish that ended up being cut from the menu, and a couple boxes of baby artichokes that had been delivered by mistake. In the hubbub of opening-night preparations, Adam hadn’t called his supplier to complain as he normally would have, so it was Rob and Miranda’s job to figure out some way to use the artichokes to feed the servers and cooks.
“We’re going to do a quick pan sauté,” Rob said. “Along with the artichokes, some lemon and garlic, that’ll make an okay sauce for fettuccine. Think you can manage to steam the chokes?”
“No problem,