The Lost Recipe for Happiness (15 page)

A flash of a woman, blonde and small, sitting before a fire, came to him. A suggestion of a shape moved behind her, and she turned, hands holding invisible hands, mouth opening to an invisible kiss. She lay back and her blouse, button by button, was undone by invisible hands to reveal—

Julian blinked. Hot.

Commercial.

Ghosts and sex.

Just like that, the weight of Movie was formed. His instincts had never lead him astray. He opened an email and typed in the vision, and addressed it to the group.

And pressed Send.

NINETEEN

P
OMEGRANATE
B
AKLAVA

1
¹
/
₂
cups buckwheat honey

1 cup sugar

1 cup water

2 T pomegranate juice

1 T rose water

Seeds of one pomegranate, divided in half

2 tsp whole cloves

1 tsp ground cardamom

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp grated nutmeg

1 cup slivered almonds

1 cup chopped walnuts

1 cup chopped pistachios

¹
/
₂
vanilla bean, scraped

2 sticks unsalted butter, melted

1 package phyllo dough

SYRUP
: Combine the honey, sugar, water, juice, and rose water in a heavy small pot. Stir constantly while bringing to a boil over medium heat. Remove from heat and let cool, then add half of the pomegranate seeds.

Preheat the oven to 425. Mix spices, nuts, and vanilla bean seeds into
¹
/
₂
stick of melted butter. Butter a 13 x 9 inch glass pan.

On a clean work surface, unroll the phyllo and generously butter one layer at a time and lay it in the pan, then repeat until you’ve used half the dough. Spread most of the nut mixture and most of the remaining pomegranate seeds evenly over the pastry, reserving about one fourth of the mixed nuts and seeds for the topping.

Continue buttering and layering the dough on top of the filling until all the dough has been used. Brush the top with remaining butter and sprinkle the remaining nuts and seeds over the top.

With a small sharp knife, cut the pastry layers into diamonds, then bake for 50–60 minutes until golden, watching carefully to see that it doesn’t burn. Pour the syrup over the hot pastry, and serve when cool.

TWENTY

A
round ten-thirty, Elena could hear people in the dining room. “Somebody put the music on,” she called out, stirring madly. She’d created a pie with pork sausages stewed in tamarind soda, onions, and apples with achiote. It was heady and strange and sweet, and it worked better than she’d hoped. She’d made cold, light pomegranate soup with caramelized corn and onions that turned out beautifully—the red broth and white kernels and the crispness of a sharp base to start the meal. The pie would be served as the main dish, garnished with red potatoes roasted in their oiled and parsleyed skins.

Dessert had given her more headaches than the rest put together. She considered shortbread with rose petals, but discarded that idea in the end—it would be too heavy after such a rich pie for the main dish. She finally settled on tiny bites of butter pastry topped with rose petals candied in nutmeg and honey.

She tried not to pay attention to Ivan, who worked steadfastly and with absolute focus on his projects. He disappeared into his work, a cloak of invisibility.

At ten to eleven, Juan came around. “How are you guys doing? Are you ready?”

“Do we have someone to help us pair the wines?” Ivan asked.

“I’ve worked as a sommelier,” Brent volunteered.

“I’ll do my own,” Elena said. “For the first course, I want a zin. Then for number two, a heavy ale. And for dessert, coffee.”

Juan wrote it all down, and then went with Brent to look at Ivan’s meal. Elena started plating her soup in small white bowls, low and wide. Garnished with fresh mint and tiny rings of scallion and a few more sprinkles of pomegranate, it looked beautiful. “I’m ready.”

“So am I,” Ivan said. He’d made a very pretty salad of corn and rose petals and mixed greens, nice enough, but compared to her soup, it was boring, and he knew it. His face fell when Juan announced her soup to the diners. She licked her finger and made a mark in the air. He inclined his head, mouth smiling, eyes hard as glass.

They served the main dishes next. The diners groaned at the description of Ivan’s shredded chicken and garlic enchiladas in a green-chile hollandaise sauce. “Fancy,” she said, but felt sure her actual food would taste better. Juan described her English-Mexican pork pie, and the diners almost all went for it with gusto.

Elena felt sure she’d kicked some serious ass, but as they went back into the kitchen to ready the final dish, he said, “Just wait.”

“What did you do for dessert?”

He leaned over and against her ear said, “Pure decadence.”

“Chocolate?”

“Not. Even. Close.”

She prepared her tiny pastries and waited anxiously to see what Ivan had done. When she saw it, before she even tasted it, Elena knew she’d lost the round. By miles. “Oh. My. God,” she said, drawn across the room. “What are you calling that?”

He grinned, licking honey from a finger. “Sex on a plate? Sex when you get home?”

It was a baklava, layers of very thin pastry with pistachios and walnuts and the buckwheat honey and pomegranate seeds, drizzled with pomegranate syrup and sprinkled with little chunks of powdered sugar. Individual pomegranate seeds, like tiny rubies, were scattered around the diamond-shaped serving. “It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“Thanks,
Jefa.”

“I’m still going to win. My soup was a thousand times better than your salad.”

“Do you want to taste it?”

“Yes.” She came around the pass-out bar and held out her hand.

“Allow me,” he said, and held out a forkful.

Elena would not eat from his hand, not in this kitchen, with her staff watching. With Ivan himself practically afire with his passion. Not pomegranates, which were by legend a dangerous food. She took the fork from his hand and tasted it gingerly.

And even the smallest taste filled her mouth—sharp and sweet, thick and crisp, an absolutely brilliant mingling of textures and flavors and colors. For one second, she closed her eyes.

“God, Ivan,” she said, and took another bite. “You’re a fucking
genius.”

He made a soft noise, a chuckle or a protest, she couldn’t tell, and she looked up at him. He gave her a plate, a full slice of the baklava, and she took another greedy bite. Licked the fork, absorbed the flavors.

“I can’t think of anything that could possibly follow your elk tamale,” she said. “But this could.”

For one second, he looked almost…stricken. Vulnerable. Then it was gone. He rumbled, “Does that mean you concede?”

She snorted. “Not a chance, dude. But we’re definitely putting this on the menu.” She took another bite.
“Man,
that’s good!”

He glanced away, smiled. “You’re something else, boss.” He shook his head, wiped the edge of the plate. “Something else.”

At the end of the meal, Ivan and Elena went into the restaurant with the staff. Elena said, “Hello, everybody! You look happy.”

They clapped and whistled. It was a rough-looking group, long hair and earrings and tattoos, T-shirts and hiking boots and hands scarred by years in kitchens. They’d had plenty to drink, as Elena had known they would, and she’d cover that tab even if it pinched.

“Well,” she said, “as many of you know, I’m now the executive chef at the Orange Bear, and Rasputin here”—an appreciative laugh—“was the master of the Steak and Ale. And we have just had a cook-off. Juan is going to pass out some voting slips, and all you have to do is check off which of the two choices you liked best. The most votes win. Any comments?”

“That baklava is to die for,” said a very heavy woman in jeans. She made a ring with her fingers, kissed them.

Elena nodded.

“My favorite thing was the soup,” said a man in his forties, with weary lines around his pouchy eyes. “It’s hard to get the mix right on a cold soup, and it was excellent.”

There were a handful of other comments as the ballots were passed out. “Take your time,” Elena said, and gestured to Ivan. “Let’s get a drink, huh?”

“Amen, sister.”

She fetched the bottle of high-end gold tequila from the back of the bar and poured two shots. “Salt, lemon?”

He gave her a look. “Not hardly.”

She lifted her shot glass. “To our menu, Rasputin.”

“Salud.”

They knocked the shots back and Elena felt the sharp pleasurable burn of it in her belly. “I want to take Julian some of that baklava. Save some.”

“Tonight?”

She narrowed her eyes. “His daughter is babysitting Alvin.”

He laughed. “A dog that needs a babysitter?”

She lifted a shoulder. “He’s
my
baby.”

Juan called out, “Any more votes?” He lifted a hand. “Thank you. I will add up the votes and come right back.”

She poured another shot, feeling the giddy relief of a long week, a good evening. “Another?”

“Yeah, one more.” He patted his belly. “Shouldn’t Patrick be back by now?”

“Yeah. I’m surprised he’s not. But who knows. Maybe Mia’s flight was late or something.”

Juan came back into the room. “We have a winner.”

Elena drank the shot of tequila, sucked air in over her teeth.

Juan said, “The baklava got the most votes for a single food, and the soup was second. The main dishes were close, but the pork pie won by six votes. You were asked to choose the best flow of the menu, too, and you chose the soup, pie, and rose petal bites. So, I am happy to tell you that you chose the menu of Elena Alvarez.”

Elena grinned and lifted a hand to accept the applause. “Thank you, everybody. Let’s give it up for Ivan, too. Wasn’t that baklava amazing?”

There was a whoop or two. She added, “Thanks for coming over. I hope you’ll all come back for the soft opening, and try the main menu.”

The place cleared out pretty fast. Elena dismissed the staff and told them to go home and get some rest, take the day off tomorrow, and be ready to cook tamales on Monday morning. Only Ivan lingered, cleaning and puttering. Elena thought he was half waiting for Patrick.

The music was loud rock and roll in the kitchen, and they were drinking beer as they worked. When it was pristine, everything in its place, Ivan took off his apron. “One for the road?”

She hesitated. Something about him made Elena feel comfortable. They were the same in many ways—both of them walking that fence between worlds. And yet, a headache nagged at the back of her skull, the pressure of work the next day. “I think I’ve had enough.”

“Just one,” he said, and gave her a crooked grin, bloodshot eyes a blazing shade of blue that was almost mesmerizing. “For the sake of bonding.”

Elena rolled her eyes. Gave him a half-grin. “All right.”

He ambled over to the bar. “What flavor?”

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter.” Her voice was getting raw. “Half tomato juice.”

“Where’d you learn to drink tomato and beer?”

“I grew up in New Mexico.”

“Yeah, whereabouts?”

“Just south of Taos. Espanola.”

He shot her a surprised look from beneath heavy lids. “No kidding.”

“You know it?”

“A little.” He brought over bottles of Bud and cans of tomato juice and set them down on the table. “Mind if I smoke?”

“You can’t smoke in here!”

“Come outside then, I need a cigarette.” He put on his coat and tossed Elena her sweater. Elena got to her feet reluctantly, feeling the freight train coming up her spine. She swore under her breath.

He offered a hand, and Elena waved it away. “Kicks your ass sometimes, doesn’t it?” he said.

“I’m all right.”

She followed him out, bringing her beer with her. Snow floated out of the sky. She leaned on the railing while Ivan lit up. “What’s your story, Rasputin? Why are you still in Aspen?”

He shrugged, blowing smoke into the night. “I keep trying to get out, and keep falling right back here. It’s like there’s some anchor on my ass that won’t let me go very far.” He took a drag. Looked at her beneath long lashes. “How’d you get out of New Mexico?”

A little drunk, Elena leaned on the wooden post. She sipped her beer, made a soft noise as she mulled the possible ways to answer.

Chose.

“I was in a car accident that killed everybody but me. It was a small town, and you know…it was just weird there after that. Nobody really wanted me around. It was too hard for them. So, one of the nurses at the hospital helped me find a job in a restaurant in Santa Fe. It kind of just went from there.”

He lifted his cigarette and inhaled, blew it out again. “That’s why you limp?”

“Do I limp?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s embarrassing.”

“Nah.” He shook his head, came over and sat on the railing beside her. “You’re one strong bitch, you know it?”

“Why do I think I’m about to get hustled?”

He met her eyes. “Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” He took a drag on the cigarette, blew out a small stream of pale blue smoke. “Scars, that is.”

“What are yours from?’

He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and abruptly pulled up his shirt to show his belly. “Polka dots,” he said, and she could see the faint white circles all over his thin belly.

Cigarette burns, very old. Elena couldn’t help reaching for the scars and touched the ruched edge of one. He’d hate it if she cried, so she didn’t. “How old were you?”

“I don’t know. Five. Four. My mom got rid of him eventually. Funny that I smoke now, huh?” He mimed burning himself with the red ember.

To hide her face, she stood up and turned around, pulling her shirt up in the back to show him the worst part of her own worst scar, the thick ugly pink part that still looked gruesome. “I was in a ditch for a few hours before they found me.”

“Pretty ugly,” he said.

And kissed it.

Elena froze. His tongue was hot, a vivid contrast to the cold night. A bolt of need moved in her body, through her breasts, between her legs, and she desperately, desperately wanted to fuck. It didn’t even matter who. It wasn’t about love. It wasn’t about roses. It was about pure, physical hunger, like an empty stomach, like grainy eyelids, like gasping for breath after being underwater.

But not Ivan. His game was seduction, male or female, it didn’t matter. He had the pheromones to get the job done, too, and she was just drunk enough that it was very, very difficult to remember why she should not do it. What would it matter?

She willed herself not to react to the lips moving on her side. Took a swallow of beer. “You like boys, not girls, remember?”

He was standing behind her, his breath on the highly vulnerable back of her neck. “I keep telling you you’ve got it wrong.”

She turned around. “Quit it,” she said without heat. “I’m exhausted.”

“And horny,” he said, grinning with half his mouth.

And just like that, Elena was transported. The mingled scents of smoke and tequila and tomato juice, probably something about his skin, and she was looking at Edwin, not Ivan. It wasn’t that she was having a flashback, or she didn’t think so, though it sometimes happened. It was as if Edwin stepped over the body of Ivan and somehow became him. She closed her eyes, putting up a hand. “Don’t,” she said, and didn’t know if she was talking to Ivan or Edwin.