On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [88]
Tucker did the gagging noises he loved. “Sick!”
“Not green, sugar pop,” Lilah explained with the exaggerated patience of someone who’d made this explanation more than once. “Greens, with an ‘s.’ Collard greens, to be exact. With bacon, apple cider vinegar, and caramelized red onions.”
“And you intend to do what with this toxic mess?” Devon inquired in his politest tone.
Lilah narrowed her eyes at him. “This delicious and nutritious dish is for tomorrow’s family meal. Billy has a late doctor’s appointment, so we’re filling in.”
Evidently misinterpreting Devon’s appalled look, Lilah rushed to add, “Don’t worry! I’ll make a quick buttermilk cornbread to go with it. And the greens will actually be better tomorrow. Like with a stew or soup—the flavors develop and deepen overnight.”
Devon shared an “ugh” face with Tucker. “Yeah, but why would you want to develop any flavor that smells like that?”
Lilah pointed her wooden spoon at Tucker, who stopped cackling immediately. “You. Don’t knock it till you try it. Have I steered you wrong yet?”
By tacit agreement, Lilah had done all the cooking at the apartment after Devon’s disastrous attempt at breakfast. He didn’t care if it made him a coward; he hated the idea of scraping another plate of food he’d prepared into the garbage because his son couldn’t choke it down. No plate sent back to the Market kitchen from an unsatisfied customer made Devon feel like half such a failure as the memory of that breakfast.
Still, he thought Tucker and he might be on the same page this time.
“Come on, Lilah Jane,” Devon wheedled. “Don’t inflict the Sludge of Death on us.”
Shooting him an irritated look, Lilah went back to stirring. “What do you care, anyhow? It’s not like you’ll eat family meal with us.”
Devon drew back, stung. Sure, he had too much to do most nights before service to sit down with everyone, but that’s what it meant to be executive chef. Before he could defend himself, though, Lilah continued.
“And it’s not like you’d taste it even if you did take a bite.”
Devon blinked. “What do you mean by that?”
Lilah blew a damp curl out of her eyes with an aggravated huff. “You hardly eat. And when you do, it’s so rushed you can’t possibly taste anything! It’s as if you don’t even like food.”
The floor shifted under Devon’s feet.
He wanted to deny it, but with a shock that tightened his stomach, he realized he couldn’t actually remember the last thing he’d eaten and enjoyed.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said, clearing his throat and attempting to steady himself. “I’m a chef. Liking food is in the job description.”
Her hand slowed in its circular motion around the pot. Devon felt time slow down with it, as if his entire life, his whole future, hung on this conversation.
Lilah faced him fully. Her green eyes were wide and mossy, soft with something like compassion. Devon flinched under it like a blow.
“I watch you when you’re up at the pass sending out plates to the customers,” she said. “And I can tell you’re not really tasting those sauces and foams and whatnot.”
She spoke softly enough that the hustle of service kept the rest of the crew from being able to overhear, and yet Devon felt as if every word were being trumpeted through a bullhorn.
He made an instinctual gesture of denial, and Lilah put a hand on his arm to stop him from stepping away. “Oh, you put the spoon in your mouth, you go ‘hmmm,’ ” she said. “But do you really taste it? I don’t think so.”
Shit. Cold sweat prickled along his hairline. Was she right? Had he lost his palate?
For a chef, a good palate was a must. The ability to discern individual flavors and the ways ingredients played off each other could make or break you in this business, and Devon wanted to shout and rage that he never could’ve become so successful, come so far from where he started, if he’d had a shitty palate—but he said nothing.
He stood there in his borrowed kitchen in dumbfounded, horrified silence.
The rumors, the vicious gossip—it was all true. Devon always knew the show