Can't Stand the Heat (2 page)

 

 

 

N
ot feeling very graceful, sexy, or glamorous at this early hour of the morning, Lauren was in no mood to follow the family rules today. Respectfully, the old family handbook could just go to hell right now.

Damn, it's hot,
she thought after she slammed her car door shut with her hip and made a mad dash across the nearly empty parking lot. Rivulets of sweat streamed between her breasts and down her back in the scorching Virginia sun, causing her T-shirt to cling to her like a second skin, making her silently curse her car's busted AC. Her curvy bottom shimmied as she ran in her khaki shorts.

As sous chef of Le Bayou Bleu, Lauren tried to be one of the first to arrive at the kitchen for prep work for the lunch and dinner service, but she was running a little late today.

“Hey, Lauren!” Malik called out with a smile.

The willowy line cook leaned against the soot-covered brick wall near the doorway. His white short-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a white tank top and a pack of cigarettes tucked inside the waistband of his jeans. He tapped his lit cigarette, spilling ashes onto the concrete.

“What's up, beautiful? You just gettin' in?” he asked.

“Don't remind me!” she shouted back with a laugh.

“¡Oye, mi amiga!”
shouted Miguel, a plump fry chef who sat kitty-corner to Malik. He was hunched on a wooden crate with his squat legs spread wide. A cigarette hung limply from the side of his mouth.

“Hey, Miguel!” Lauren yelled back.

She didn't break stride as she spoke, making her way toward the heavy steel door leading to the restaurant's kitchen. She tugged the door open and stepped inside, letting it slam shut behind her. She was instantly met with the sound of clashing steel, stacking glasses, the steady churn of mixers, oven doors opening and closing, and shouting voices. To her ears, it was more melodious than a Beethoven symphony.

Lauren bypassed the kitchen and went straight to the women's locker room. She usually shared it with the waitresses and the only other female chef at the restaurant, Paula Wakeman, who was a wizard when it came to pastries. But the room was vacant today. It was dimly lit and smelled of old grease and dirty socks.

She opened her locker door and quickly retrieved a pair of jeans, her apron, and a petite-sized chef's coat. She took off her strappy sandals and traded them for a pair of sports socks and scuffed tennis shoes from the bottom of her locker. She put on her jeans and pulled back her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail, securing it with a scrunchie she had worn on her wrist. After tying a red bandanna on her head and buttoning her coat, she was ready to go. She climbed over the locker room's wooden benches with apron in hand and headed to the door. As she neared the exit, she glanced at herself in the room's only full-length mirror and paused, momentarily transfixed. She stared at her reflection.

Seven months ago, she wouldn't have been caught dead in her current ensemble. Instead, she would be wearing a tight-fitting, low-cut dress, towering high heels, and jewelry that cost more than what she could now afford with her current monthly paycheck. She wouldn't be slaving away in the kitchen of Le Bayou Bleu either, but would be one of the restaurant patrons, dining at one of the best tables in the house on her rich boyfriend, James's, tab.

What a difference seven months can make,
Lauren thought.

Back then, she had been the happily “kept” woman she had always been taught to be—going to spas and shopping during the day, pleasing her man at night. That life seemed so long ago and so far away. She had been so scared back then, so worn down by James's constant browbeating that it had taken her too long to realize that . . .

Lauren shook her head, cutting off those dark thoughts.

“You can take your trip down memory lane another day,” she mumbled to her reflection. She hated to wallow in the past, in self-pity. It was time to move forward. “Time to get to work.”

“Mornin', guys!” she said as she rushed into the kitchen seconds later, tying her apron around her waist.

“Morning! Mornin'.
¡Buenos días!”
a few voices answered in return.

Lauren looked around the room. “Where's Phillip?” she asked no one in particular. “Anybody seen him around?”

Phillip Rochon was the executive chef of Le Bayou Bleu. The dark-skinned, jolly, loud-mouthed man was from a small town not far from New Orleans, where he had learned to cook gumbo, jambalaya, and crawfish étouffé at his grandmother's elbow more than forty years ago. He had opened restaurants in New York City, Chicago, and Washington, DC, specializing in a high-end interpretation of down-home Creole cuisine. He had decided last year to open Le Bayou Bleu in Chesterton, Virginia—Lauren's hometown.

“Has anybody seen Phillip?” Lauren repeated, louder this time, stepping farther into the kitchen.

“I think he's in the front of the house,” one of the cooks murmured as he laid a series of thinly sliced potatoes onto a cookie sheet covered with wax paper.

That was an odd place for Phillip to be. Usually he was elbow to elbow with the other chefs, preparing vegetables, dressings, and pasta dough that would be used later that day. He was a James Beard award winner and had led restaurants with Michelin stars, but Phillip was far from a diva. He believed true head chefs still worked the line and shared celebratory drinks with their staff after a hard day of work.

To leave these guys alone to do prep work, something has to be up,
Lauren thought. She walked through the kitchen to the swinging door that led to the front of the house.

Lauren rarely got to see this half of Le Bayou Bleu. Every time she entered it, she would marvel at how beautiful the space was. The tone of the restaurant matched the food that was served there: sophisticated but earthy, cool but classic. The two were a perfect match.

The walls were set with a rich mahogany wood paneling, and over the onyx bar was a huge chandelier dripping with crystal. Along each side wall were booths with cream-colored fabric embellished with a navy blue damask pattern. The back wall of the restaurant was lined with state-of-the-art refrigerators filled with wine bottles that had vintages dating as far back as the early 1900s. At any given time, jazz or soul music would play over the hidden speakers, giving a mellow vibe to the space despite the grandeur of the surroundings.

Unfortunately, Lauren wasn't enjoying those grand surroundings this morning. She was too concerned about Phillip. She found him sitting alone at one of the dining room tables, with a glass of red wine and a half-eaten beignet on a dinner napkin in front of him. Chairs were still stacked on the table around him.

“It's a little early for wine, isn't it?” Lauren asked with a wry smile as she walked toward him. “Is it starting off to be
that
kind of day?”

He didn't respond.

“Phillip,” she said as she drew closer. “Phillip!” She patted him gently on his plump shoulder, making him jump in surprise. He quickly looked over his shoulder at her.

“Aww,
chérie
, what you doin' sneaking up on me like that? You damn near gave me a heart attack, gal!”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.” She took one of the chairs off the table, setting it beside his. She sat down. “I called you a few times. Guess you didn't hear me.” She scanned his face. “Hey, are you OK?”

His brow was soaked with perspiration. His eyes looked sunken and haunted. He seemed to be breathing hard through his parched lips.

“I'm . . . I'm fine,” he said with some effort. He swallowed loudly and wiped his forehead with a linen napkin. “I'm just . . . I'm just feeling a little peaked this mornin'.”

“You look more than a ‘little peaked.' You look like you need to go to a doctor.”

“Naw,
chérie
, it ain't nothin' like that. Just . . . just give me a few minutes to get myself . . . together.”

She stared at him, sensing that he was vastly underplaying how bad he felt. He didn't look like he could stand up for very long, let alone spend several hours in a steaming hot kitchen.

“Why don't you go home, Phillip? We can handle the prep work. Come back for lunch service in a few hours.”

“Cain't do that.” He shook his head, sending his slicked-back ponytail flying. “You know how those boys are. If I ain't there to crack the whip behind them, who knows what kinda mess is gonna come out of that kitchen. Everything on those plates has my name on it.”

Lauren held back a smile. She and Phillip knew that the line cooks were capable of handling prep work on their own. They didn't need anyone to supervise them, but it made Phillip feel better to believe that his presence brought order to the kitchen.

“I know, but let
me
crack the whip, OK? You're no help to anyone if you're sick. Just go home, get some rest, and come back later. We can handle it.”

He gazed at her warily, looking as if he wanted to mount another argument but couldn't work up the energy to do so. “OK,
chérie
.” He slowly rose from his chair. “I'll head home.” He pointed a finger down at her. “But you make those boys mind. Everything on those plates—”

“—has your name on it. I know.” She nodded and smiled. “I've got it covered, chef. We won't let you down.”

She watched as he walked toward the center aisle. He gave one last uneasy glance over his shoulder at her before heading to the restaurant's front door.

 

“Phillip! Phillip!” Nathan, Le Bayou Bleu's floor manager, shouted as he sashayed into the kitchen.

Despite his shrill cries, everyone ignored him. They were firmly in their dinner rush mode, and besides, no one was particularly fond of Nathan. He looked down on most of the restaurant staff, particularly the line cooks and dishwashers. Now that he had stepped into their domain, none of them was about to give the condescending bastard the time of day.

Nathan peered through levels of stainless-steel shelves lining the front of the kitchen. He stared at the faces that darted from counter to stove top and back again.

“Phillip!
Phiiiiillip!”

He suddenly narrowed his eyes at Lauren. She was cleaning the edges of a plate of risotto with the corner of a dinner napkin.

“Hey!” He snapped his fingers in her direction. “Hey!”

“My name is not ‘hey,' Nathan,” she replied, placing the finished plate on the top shelf. “It's Lauren. Miss Gibbons, if you're nasty.” She then gave an impish smile. “Black-eyed pea risotto with bacon ready to go!”

A food runner shoved Nathan aside, walked to the counter, and grabbed three plates, including the risotto dish.

“Watch it!” Nathan snapped.

The runner ignored him. Nathan let out a beleaguered sigh, like a king who has been forced to leave his castle and socialize with the peasants.

“Lauren, where in the hell is Phillip?”

If Lauren hadn't enjoyed tormenting Nathan so much, she would have told him Phillip wasn't there. He hadn't returned since the morning. At the start of lunch service, she had gotten a call from him saying that it looked like he was going to have to bow out for the day.

“Not gonna make it,
chérie
,” he had drawled tiredly into the phone. “Gonna have to hand my baby over to you. Treat her well.”

Lauren had immediately told him she could handle it, but the instant she hung up the phone, she stood in the kitchen, paralyzed with fear. She had never taken over a service by herself before. What if she screwed up? What if the service fell apart?

After all, when Phillip had hired her, he'd admitted that, of all the candidates for the job, she was the least qualified on paper. All she had was a degree from culinary school; no professional experience behind the burner. There were several other cooks who wanted to work as one of his line cooks who had better résumés than she, but Lauren wouldn't take no for an answer.

She didn't use her feminine wiles to win Phillip over. (That was an old crutch that she had given up for good when she left James.) Instead, she did her research—reading old
Food & Wine
and
Bon Appétit
articles about Phillip—and showed up at his home one day unannounced with a platter of his favorites. She put the dishes in front of him, hoping he would focus more on her plating technique than her cleavage. He was surprised by her presumptuousness but also impressed. After sampling each dish, he said he'd try her as one of his line cooks on a trial basis.

“We'll give it a few weeks,
chérie
,” he had said as he shoveled another forkful of creamy shrimp and grits into his mouth, smacking his lips. “We'll see how you get along.”

She had “gotten along” well, quickly falling into rhythm with the diverse, rowdy group of cooks. Despite her greenness, the others respected her and admired her natural talent.

When the first sous chef Phillip hired left two months after the restaurant opened to take a higher-profile job in New York, Phillip shocked Lauren when he told her he wanted her to fill the position until they could find a suitable replacement.

“It'll be a few weeks. Not much more than that,” he had assured her. “Think you can handle it,
chérie
? Help me out in a pinch?”