Ade helped herself to the last bite of my dessert. “So, Chloe,” she said, “good work. Not only did you find yourself a great job, you also just found a potential husband.”
“What?” I said with irritation. “That man is not husband material. He’s my employer. We are going to have a strictly professional relationship.”
“We’ll see,” she said in a singsong voice. “I think he is adorable and charming and sweet. Maybe this is a sign that it’s time to move on?”
Move on. I’d love to move on, except that I was about to dig myself back into Josh’s culinary world by calling Digger and asking for Simmer recipes. My new job was going to make it harder than ever to shake Josh out of my system.
FOUR
I spent Thursday at my internship, or “field placement” as my graduate school referred to it, at a community mental health center where I provided counseling services to an array of clients. Draining though those days were, they kept my mind from wandering to my romantic troubles. When I returned home, my car slid on wet leaves as I pulled into my parking spot by my condo. November weather stank. It was freezing, with bitter winds and gray skies dominating the forecast for the next ten days. Now, at four fifteen or so, it was already as black as midnight, and I was missing spring terribly. I walked up to my third-floor condo and immediately turned on all the lights and lit a few sugar-scented candles. I was fighting the urge to get into bed and hide, but I was determined to beat this endless Josh hangover. Last night’s conversation about Simmer had stirred up memories of my frequent visits to see Josh at work, the way he looked after a long night in the kitchen, how his once- white chef’s coat would be all dirty and smelly but somehow comforting. His hair would be mussed up and adorable, and his blue eyes were always filled with exhaustion… I had to stop! I refused to let this gloomy day bring me down. My interesting new job would eat up a lot of the time that I’d otherwise have spent lolling around, pining over my chef. No, I corrected myself, not my chef. A chef. Just one more chef. No one special.
I scooped up one of my cats, Inga, and nuzzled her white fur. She’d been terribly scrawny when I’d first taken her in, but she’d gained weight. I was, however, still struggling to keep up with her constant need for thorough grooming. These days, she got the occasional knot and was nowhere close to the matted mess she’d been when Josh had rescued her. I loved having her and loved what a snuggler she’d become. Gato, my shorthaired black cat, was still pissed off that he was no longer an only feline. I frequently came home to rolls of shredded toilet paper that he’d left for me in the bathroom. Gato didn’t fight with Inga, but he clearly had no interest in becoming kitty pals with her, either.
I had no idea what days Digger was off work, or even where he worked, but I decided to give him a call and at least leave him a message. I still had his cell number programmed into my phone, so I flopped onto my bed and dialed.
“Hello?” A woman answered his phone.
“Hi, this is Chloe. Is Digger there?”
“Chloe who? Who are you? What is this about?” she asked suspiciously. “Do I know you?”
Who was this girl, and why was she so rude? “I’m a friend of his. I wanted to talk to him about recipes.”
“Oh, Chloe, right! I’ve heard about you. You used to go out with a friend of Digger’s, right?”
I sighed. “Yes.”
“Oh, okay. Good. I’m Digger’s girlfriend, Ellie. Digger’s working tonight, but you’re interested in recipes? What do you need?”
I explained about Kyle’s cookbook project and emphasized the name Hank Boucher. “I’m sure Digger knows who Hank is. Do you think he’d be interested? What restaurant is he at now?”
“He’ll definitely be interested. Are you kidding?” she said enthusiastically. “He’s about to be the executive chef at the Penthouse. It’s a new, ultra-high-end place that’s opening in a few weeks. I can’t believe he got the job. Well, I can believe it because he’s so talented, but the competition was crazy. You know how it is with chefs, though, right?”
“Yes, I do.” In fact, I knew all too well. Chefs were often wildly passionate about their careers, and good jobs were hard to come by. The testosterone-fueled atmosphere of the restaurant kitchen, combined with the frenetic pace of cooking, gave rise to lots of cursing and hazing. Over the past year, Josh had regaled me with countless kitchen- insider stories. I knew more than I cared to about the politics of the restaurant world. Most of what went on in the industry was entirely crazy: endless power struggles among the waitstaff, the kitchen crew, the managers, and the owner. I was tuckered out just thinking about it.
“Anyhow,” Ellie said, “the chef that Digger beat out for the job is totally pissed off, as you can imagine. I do have to take some credit, though, for my guy snagging this job. All the big-name chefs like Hank Boucher have managers, right? So I took it upon myself to act as Digger’s manager and agent. It puts him in a more powerful light if I call up and schedule his interviews. I’ve been helping him direct his career and position himself to become a major player in the Boston chef circle.”
Ellie sounded more than a little proud of herself. I, however, found her role ridiculous. Yes, nationally known chefs had managers and agents, but those celebrity chefs actually needed people to organize their schedules, make travel arrangements, set up interviews and television appearances, and do general PR. Digger, on the other hand, simply did not need a manager! He was a great chef, but he was by no means a household name. Furthermore, he was the last person on earth who’d enjoy being managed by anyone. He was loud, crass, direct, and confident, and as much as he might have wanted to get a great job, he didn’t strike me as ambitious for the kind of fame and fortune that Ellie seemed to have in mind. He just loved being a chef and didn’t need the spotlight on him to keep loving his work. I couldn’t believe that he liked having his girlfriend take over his career.
“That all sounds great,” I lied. “What type of food is he planning on doing at the Penthouse?”
“He’s still working on the menu and trying out recipes, but he should have that all finalized soon. I have an idea. Why don’t you bring this cookbook guy, Kyle, to meet with Digger and sample some of the dishes he’s working on?”
“That would be wonderful. I’d love to see him again, too. Where is the restaurant?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, it’s not ready. They’re still installing the new equipment and painting. Digger has been doing everything here, from his apartment. I’d let him use mine, but my kitchen is even smaller than his, so you two would have to come here.”
I was disappointed that I couldn’t take Kyle to a more impressive setting than Digger’s home kitchen for our first collaboration. Young chefs like Digger, even at high- end restaurants, earned low salaries; they made far less than the servers did. He probably lived in a cheap apartment. His kitchen was sure to be old, small, and ugly, but it would have to do. Besides, I knew that his food would speak for itself no matter where we were, and Hank would never have to know that his son had sampled Digger’s food in a crummy apartment rather than in a luxurious dining establishment. Once the Penthouse opened, Kyle and I could go there for the full experience.
“That sounds fine. Do you know when he’ll be free?” I asked. Ellie was, after all, Digger’s manager, or so she said. Maybe she was entitled to pencil us in.