Can't Stand The Heat Read online

  Starting to feel the pressure of time ticking away, Miranda tucked her towel more tightly under her arms and said, “Does that bother you?”

  “No. You?”

  “Of course not,” Miranda said, surprised. “It certainly doesn’t change the way I felt about him before. As long as he treats you with respect and consideration, I don’t care what he does with his private life.”

  Jess was making such a business out of turning on the shower and getting the water to the perfect temperature that his face was flushed when he straightened and glanced over at her. “You’d better hurry and get dressed. Adam wants staff there by three. Big day, can’t be late.”

  Miranda studied him for a moment, feeling that she was missing something. But when Jess hooked his fingers in the waistband of his boxers and looked at her expectantly, Miranda held up her hands and scurried out of the bathroom.

  Jess was right. She couldn’t afford to be late, today of all days.

  Whatever sense of calm Miranda had managed to cobble together disappeared the moment she stepped into Market’s earth-toned interior. The place was packed with people, all in a frenetic race to get ready for the big night. An army of young men and women, dressed like Jess in matching forest-green organic cotton button-downs and black pants, swarmed around the coat-check station, bar, and two dining rooms in a coordinated frenzy.

  Jess peeled off when he spotted Grant Holloway holding a clipboard and directing his troops like a slender, blond Napoleon.

  Feeling a tad abandoned and trying not to show it, Miranda made for the swinging door at the back of the main dining room.

  Three in the afternoon, Market wouldn’t be open for another two hours, and the kitchen was bustling as though every table in the restaurant were occupied by an impatiently waiting customer.

  At first glance, it looked like sheer pandemonium. White-jacketed cooks stood in long rows up and down the bright steel countertops, chopping and pounding and stirring and measuring. The narrow walkways behind the counters were crammed with people, too, spinning and whirling past each other in a parody of a dance. Every second, it looked as if someone were going to run into someone else, but no one ever did.

  At the center of the whirlwind was Adam. His dark hair stuck out in spikes, as if he’d been running his fingers through it, and his powerful torso strained at the seams of his pristine white jacket as he hefted a large tray of what looked like chicken carcasses onto the counter beside the range.

  A skinny younger man with sharp, bladelike features and a prematurely receding hairline stood by, watching every move Adam made with intense concentration.

  As Adam picked through the bones and held one up to the light, his gaze landed on Miranda.

  Here we go, she thought, mentally hitching up her pants.

  Raised eyebrows were her only greeting as Miranda threaded between a prep cook dicing cucumbers and the round-faced pastry chef, Violet Porter, castigating a trembling assistant for letting the bread dough overproof. Adam looked Miranda up and down, taking in everything from her tightly controlled hair to her unadorned brown leather flats.

  “Going to need a jacket,” was the first thing out of his mouth. He looked down at her feet and smirked. The glance he shot her from beneath his lashes brimmed with cheerful malice. “By the end of the night, you’re really going to wish you’d worn sneakers.”

  Miranda stiffened. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. In any case, no one informed me of a dress code.”

  “Oh, there’s not really a code,” Adam said. “Just common sense. But . . .” He held up a hand to stall her sputtering. “You couldn’t know. After tonight, you will. Eh, Robbie?”

  The thin-faced man hovering at Adam’s side shot back, “Yes, Chef!” Miranda almost expected him to salute.

  Cocking a head in his direction, Adam’s eyes never left Miranda’s. “This is Robin Meeks, our extern.”

  Miranda went through the polite rituals, holding out her hand with a question. “Extern? How does that work?”

  The boy, for he couldn’t have been much older than Jess, stood at rigid attention, mouth clamped shut like a private awaiting his drill sergeant’s orders. Miranda caught the wry twist to Adam’s mouth before he said gravely, “Oh, Rob, here, is a degree candidate at the Academy of Culinary Arts, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, Chef!”

  The shouted reply was less startling this time, but Miranda had to stifle a laugh at the mischief in Adam’s eyes. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was laughing at Meeks’s overzealous adherence to Academy rules—and letting Miranda in on the joke. Maybe he was glad to see her, after all.

  She gave Adam a tiny smile, testing the waters, and he let one corner of his mouth kick up, exposing that dimple in his cheek. “Rob,” he said. “Run down to the office and grab one of the extra white jackets hanging on the back of the door. Quick like a bunny, Rob.”

  “Yes, Chef!” The boy appeared embarrassingly happy to be given the task; Miranda wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d licked Adam’s hand like a puppy as he passed by on his way downstairs.

  “So here you are,” Adam said.

  “Couldn’t stay away,” she returned, and caught herself up short. That sounded a little too flirtatious, under the circumstances.

  The circumstances being that Adam hated her guts, and was probably cursing her presence in his kitchen at this very moment.

  Only, he didn’t look too murderous right now. More contemplative than anything else.

  “I meant what I said,” he told her, his face serious. “You’re in my kitchen, you’re cooking. There’s no room in here for anybody to be standing around with their thumb up their ass. You’re going to be on stocks and family meal with Rob. Rob’ll show you the ropes; just listen to him and don’t mess anything up or get in anyone’s way, and we’ll be okay. I’m going to be working the pass; I won’t have time to bail you out. Ditto everyone else. If you fuck up, you’re out of here, I don’t care what anyone says.”

  “I understand.”

  And she did. This was her chance to prove herself. She wouldn’t put it past him to defy his financial backer and cancel the whole deal if Miranda gave him the slightest excuse. He was obviously no more resigned to her presence in his kitchen than he had been three days ago at the Union Square Greenmarket.

  Failure was simply unacceptable. She wouldn’t have it.

  Adam must have read something of her determination in her stance or her face, because he gave her a sharp nod and strode back to the front of the kitchen where he’d spend the rest of the night expediting. Miranda had done her research; she knew what the head chef’s job was.

  During actual service, the executive chef of a restaurant as large and ambitious as this one didn’t do much cooking. Instead, he was like the conductor of an orchestra—he called out the orders, kept the cooks at different stations moving and working toward the goal of having plates ready for each customer at a table simultaneously. He would inspect every piece of food before it went out, tasting for seasoning where possible, because it was his name and reputation on the line if something wasn’t prepared properly.

  At least, that was the role a good head chef took in the kitchen. Miranda eagerly anticipated the opportunity to observe Adam Temple in action, in his element.

  And speaking of eager anticipation . . . Rob Meeks, her guide for the evening, came panting up, red-faced and clutching a white jacket.

  As soon as he saw that Adam was at the pass, his manner changed. “Fuck,” he grumbled. “Guess I shouldn’t have bothered to sprint on the stairs. I almost broke my neck. Here.”

  He thrust the jacket at her. Miranda fumbled her way into it. She had to turn the sleeves back several times, and it engulfed her completely, but she still felt slightly less like a fish out of water with it on. It was like donning a costume for a play; she put it on and instantly felt more like a cook.

  Interesting.

  Wishing she could take notes, but not wanting to flout Ad
am’s “kitchen time is my time” edict quite this early in the game, Miranda turned to her companion with a smile.

  “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,” Miranda said, projecting a breezy confidence she certainly didn’t feel. “Just point me toward the right equipment . . .”

  Rob stared. “Pot. For water. A couple inches will do it.” He pointed. “Steamer basket. The chokes go in there. The water boils, steam rises, cooks them. Shit.” He stomped over to the sink to fill the pot, ignoring Miranda’s outstretched hand. “Do you even know how to trim the artichokes?”

  Miranda froze, and a cook behind her cursed loudly and had to dance sideways to avoid bashing her with the tray he was carrying. Miranda ducked her head, avoiding Adam’s sudden laser glare, and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.

  It was going to be a long night.

  TEN

  Adam was stoked, hyped up to a level usually reserved for just before orgasm after a long, drawn-out, sweaty bout of sex. Only this feeling had been sustained for more than four hours straight.

  Market was a full-on, high-def blast.

  The customers surged in, more than they had reservations for, until they were standing three deep at the bar, waiting and hoping for a table to open up. Grant had popped his head in to inform him, ecstatically, that Samara, their new bartender, was handling the pressure well. Grant liked to hire people he didn’t know, so he could crow about it later when they turned out to be awesome. And maybe he knew something Adam didn’t, because Grant’s hires almost always panned out.

  Even that kid, Jess. Adam had to admit that Jess Wake had more than pulled his weight over the past week. His demeanor when he came to the pass to pick up his tables’ orders was intent, but calm. Focused speed. A quick peek into the dining room, though, revealed him laughing and charming the customers with that wide, bright smile, and Adam liked that.

  Keep the punters happy and you can’t go wrong, as Frankie was fond of saying. Adam shot the sous-chef a glance, amused as always to see him manning the grill like a gunner on a battleship. Frankie’s wild-man act was toned down a bit, in deference to the steady flow of work, but nothing could shake him out of his intensity when he had meat on the grill. And he undoubtedly set the standard for the rest of the kitchen.

  The crew looked to Adam for orders; they looked to Frankie for cues. Tonight, they seemed to have gotten the message, big-time. No playing around, this is not a drill, make or break.

  Cook like your heartbeat is connected to the movement of your hands, like it’s life-or-death every second.

  The orders flew in, so fast Adam could barely shout them out quickly enough, and the food, when it came up to the hot plate, was superlative. The pile of tasting spoons next to the sink was a testament to his crew’s dedication to seasoning. Warm pride swelled in Adam’s chest.

  Even his little scribbler hadn’t performed too badly. Aside from a near-collision early on, Miranda had kept out from underfoot, and hadn’t seemed to slow Rob Meeks down. Family meal had been adequate, if uninspired. Adam planned to do something about that as they went forward. Restaurants that served shit at the family meal usually ended up serving shit to customers, too, as kitchen morale took a nosedive and cooks stopped caring.

  It was nearly ten o’clock and they were down to the last few tickets. The rush was over, and the kitchen was slowing, the fever pitch tapering to a low hum of activity.

  That’s when it happened.

  He’d called a fourtop order, three asparagus salads and one soup. The apps came up, all at the same time. The salads looked good: fresh, unbruised lettuce with just the right amount of dressing, raw asparagus stalks sliced on a precise bias. He reached automatically for a spoon to taste the soup.

  It was a cold soup in deference to the warming weather, a variation on the classic vichyssoise. It used parsnips and shallots for the purée, instead of the more familiar potato and leek, but the base of the soup was still chicken stock.

  Adam inhaled as the spoon reached his face, and frowned. Something was off. He opened his mouth and breathed in again as he tilte
d the soup onto his tongue, tasting the scent as well as the cool liquid. It was close to what it should’ve been . . . but not quite. Seasoning was fine, the vegetables tasted normal. It was something about the stock.

  He rolled the soup in his mouth, and identified the problem as it coated his tongue and the roof of his mouth unpleasantly. The stock hadn’t been skimmed enough, there was too much fat, rendering the finished soup’s mouthfeel thick and disgusting.

  “Milo!” he bellowed. “Get up here, now.”

  The garde-manger station was in charge of cold appetizers, including the soup, and if Milo couldn’t identify what was wrong with this vichy, they were going to have a serious problem. Connected or not, Adam would kick Milo’s scrawny ass back to Trenton.

  Milo was at his side in an instant, looking a little pale under his olive complexion. It was never a good thing to be called up to the pass.

  “Taste,” Adam said, shoving the spoon toward him.

  Milo closed his eyes and took the spoon into his mouth, drawing his brows together in concentration. “The seasoning is . . . I think it’s fine, Chef,” he said helplessly, and Adam could feel a rumbling roar building in his chest.

  But then Milo frowned again, smacking his lips together, and said, “Wait. Is that . . . the stock is too . . . something. Oily?”

  “Is that an answer, or a question?” Adam responded, hearing the silky warning tones in his own voice.

  “Answer. Chef.” Milo was uncharacteristically subdued. “I apologize, Chef, I only tasted for the seasoning and I missed the texture. It won’t happen again.”

  Adam relaxed out of full battle mode and said, “Damn right it won’t. You’re fucking lucky the other apps are all salads and won’t be ruined by the delay. Now get back to your station and open up a new container of stock. This is the goddamn reason we make it fresh every day. Use the fresh stuff.”

  Milo nodded and turned to go, but paused. “That was the fresh stuff. Sorry, I . . . I was using the leftovers earlier, to get them out of the walk-in. That’s what we did at my last . . . Okay, not here!” He interrupted himself, holding up his hands in surrender when Adam took a menacing step toward him. “I just mean, that last bowl? It’s the stuff that was made today, because we finally went through yesterday’s stock.”