Turn Up the Heat (2 page)

Social work school was one thing, but I wasn’t sure how Terry’s image went over with his presumably more uptight professors and fellow students at MIT, where he was getting a PhD in physics. Studying at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology clearly put Terry in the category of über-intellectual. More importantly, he seemed genuinely to adore Doug.

Avoiding alcohol out of sympathy for Adrianna, Owen ordered lemonades for the two of them. I, on the other hand, felt the need to celebrate the arrival of spring with a crisp glass of Pinot Grigio.

Leandra reappeared a few minutes later with our drinks. As she set our glasses down, I wondered how she was going to get through the brutally hot and humid Boston summer in Simmer’s required attire. Her heavy cotton short-sleeved black shirt looked like it didn’t allow for much airflow, and the long black dress pants were stylishly tight with a slightly flared boot cut at the bottom. As if to assure a minimum of heat loss, all the servers and bartenders wore long black aprons with Simmer written across the top in white lettering.

“Okay, we need to toast,” I said, raising my glass. “To the appearance of the sun, the end of school, and dinner with good friends,” I proposed cheerily.

“Not so fast.” Doug stopped me before I could take a sip of wine. “You still have finals to get through.”

I sighed. “I haven’t forgotten.” Actually, I
had
forgotten about exams, at least momentarily, until Doug mentioned them. He took great pleasure in humorously reminding me that as a doctoral student, he was superior to me. Finals were going to be a nightmare. I had two long papers to finish writing and three two-hour in-class exams. It was at times like this that I regretted enrolling in social work school. Although I was finding more and more things to like about the experience, I still hid my ambivalence about school from my peers. Most of the other students were avidly devoted to their studies and their field placements (social work speak for internships), and I had enrolled only because of a clause in my uncle Alan’s will that required me to accept an all-expenses-paid trip to the land of graduate school. In my late uncle’s opinion, I needed a master’s degree in
something
. Anything. Only then would I receive my inheritance. I’d been pretty resentful of this manipulative and controlling plan that came from the other side. When I’d originally chosen social work school, the choice had felt as if I’d drawn it out of a hat, but as the end of my first year approached, I was beginning to think that my choice hadn’t been so random after all. The fit between me and the profession was better than I’d expected, and I was finding that social work skills actually applied to daily life. For instance, instead of just seeing Terry as a complete oddball, I was interested in the personality characteristics that pushed him to deviate from the norm. How did he manage to remain independent and unique? Why didn’t he cave in to societal standards?

“Well, we’re going to toast anyway, finals approaching or not.” I raised my glass and clinked drinks with everyone.

I smiled across the table at Adrianna, who, despite feeling ghastly during her pregnancy, was as beautiful as ever. Maybe because she was feeling so terrible, she was making an extra effort to look as stunning as possible. Her hair and makeup were done to perfection, and she was wearing an adorable navy blue wraparound maternity top that hugged her round belly and her full chest. When my sister, Heather, had been pregnant with each of her children, she’d always worn voluminous tops that covered her body and hid her weight gain. Ade was doing the opposite: embracing her body’s changes and accentuating her growing curves. But as much as she was displaying the pregnancy with her usual confidence, she was pretty tight-lipped about the entire concept of motherhood and had yet to express any feelings about being on the verge of becoming a parent. Children had never topped her favorites list; I’m not sure that she’d ever intended to become a parent, and I suspected she was more afraid than she was letting on. At least her fiancé, Owen, was enthusiastic, in fact, sometimes irritatingly so. But unlike Adrianna, he was practical. He had already started shopping for clothes, diapers, and baby equipment. Remarkably, Owen still had the sense to give Ade the emotional space she needed. As to physical space, I had no clue about how they expected to fit all that baby gear into their new apartment.

I did, however, feel sure that Adrianna and Owen would have a beautiful baby. In terms of looks, Owen was as attractive as Adrianna. His black hair, fair skin, and bright blue eyes, coupled with his charming personality, made him a dream. The hitch was his garish taste in clothing. The T-shirt he wore tonight had an arrow pointing to the left and the words, That’s My Kid in There! To make sure that the ridiculous T-shirt would deliver its message with full impact, Owen had been careful to keep Adrianna on the correct side.

Although Adrianna and Owen had not planned on having a baby, the two of them were managing this enormous surprise fairly well. They were moving in together next week and had found a decent two-bedroom apartment around the corner from me in Brighton. To describe their new apartment as having two bedrooms was pushing it, since the second bedroom was actually a walk-in closet, but the tiny room did have a radiator and a small window, so it would work as a nursery, at least for a while. What’s more, although Adrianna and Owen hadn’t set a wedding date—they couldn’t even decide whether to get married before or after the baby was born—they were nonetheless officially engaged. I was just happy that they were together at all, especially since Adrianna had freaked out when she’d found out she was pregnant and had foolishly made out with Josh’s sous chef, Snacker, a number of times in some sort of rebellious denial. On the night the unsuspecting Owen was going to propose, in fact, just as he was about to propose, right here at Simmer, Adrianna had suddenly announced both her pregnancy and her recent history with Snacker. Owen had understandably flipped out, but fortunately, the two of them had quickly worked things out. Owen and Snacker, on the other hand, loathed each other but remained coldly polite, mostly for my sake.

“So what are we ordering?” asked the ever-hungry Adrianna. Despite complaining about heartburn all the time, the girl couldn’t get enough to eat. “The cod with vegetables looks really good. This is a new menu, right?”

“Right. They’ve only been running it for a few days. It’s got all the new spring items on it. Josh had to teach the kitchen staff all the recipes and how to plate the food. I think it looks awesome.” I was bursting with pride at Josh’s food.

I’d watched him sit at my kitchen table, pen in hand, while he brainstormed to come up with the perfect dishes for the menu. I’d also learned how he went about pricing them out. It was fairly appalling to learn how little it costs to make some plates and what restaurants charge for them. The basic rule was that you figured out what the protein portion of the dish would cost, like the steak or the tuna, then you’d estimate the cost of the other ingredients, add those together, multiply by three, and then add three dollars. So, a twenty-four-dollar entrée might only cost the restaurant seven dollars in actual food costs. Josh had explained to me that after following the basic rule, he would then adjust the price depending on how a dish sold. Pasta dishes were great because they sold really well, and the pasta was cheap to buy, so chefs could up the price on those menu items. It was also easy to up the prices for lobster and tuna dishes, which were obvious luxury foods and sold a ton. Chicken, on the other hand, often had to be on a menu to please the occasional customer who wanted it, but it generally didn’t sell well, so a chicken entrée price would stay close to the formulated pricing cost.

Terry put his menu down on his plate. “I’m definitely getting the seared scallops with grilled pancetta, honey parsnip puree, and warm pear chutney. No question. Thank you for inviting us, Chloe. Doug has had such nice things to say about Simmer, and I’ve really been looking forward to coming here.”

“I’m with you on the scallops,” Owen agreed. “And the roasted pork quesadilla with apple salsa.” It was very Josh to do something traditional like quesadillas but then serve it with an unconventional topping.

Leandra came to take our orders. “Everybody set?”

Despite having eaten at Simmer many times, I was still impressed that the servers didn’t write anything down. Order pads were apparently beneath the upper-crust atmosphere of Newbury Street. If I’d been Leandra, I’d have had to run to the register, scramble to remember every order, and immediately enter it into the computer. She showed no signs of strain.

Just as Doug finished telling Leandra the entrée he wanted, Gavin Seymour appeared and welcomed us with the charm that’s so useful to restaurant owners. Gavin was in his late thirties, very handsome, and dressed in his typically and somewhat misleadingly casual style. Tonight he had on soft khaki pants and a simple cotton shirt, but I knew from Josh that Gavin did most of his clothes shopping through his personal dresser and that his clothing all came from high-end shops. The plain shirt was probably from Brooks Brothers. If I ever have the luxury of having a personal dresser, I’m going to instruct my assistant not to waste my money on overpriced clothes that might as well come from Old Navy.

“Have you all ordered?” Gavin asked. We nodded. He took our menus then turned to Leandra. “Why don’t you ask Josh to send out a few extra appetizers for this crowd? They all look especially hungry tonight.”

“Of course, Gavin. I’ll go put these orders right in.” Leandra smiled directly at her boss and smoothly took the menus from his hand. I’d heard that she and Gavin were seeing each other. Gavin was another Simmer male known for his many romantic flings, but according to the wildly active restaurant rumor mill, Gavin and Leandra were having a full-blown relationship and not just making out in the backseat of Gavin’s Jaguar after service. Although Josh said the two did their best to avoid public displays of affection, it was hard to ignore the glint in Gavin’s eye as he watched her walk away from the table.

With all the love in the air, it really felt like spring. Doug and Terry, Adrianna and Owen, Gavin and Leandra, Snacker and whatever girl of the week, Josh and me. Things with Josh were great, but looking around the table at the happy couples, I found it hard not to miss him. Visiting him at the restaurant was the best chance I had of catching a glimpse of my chef—that or the late-night visits at my place. Not that I was complaining about that department. But I wanted him with me for dinners like this, too. Josh had repeatedly assured me that his crappy schedule would ease up over time. But Simmer had opened on New Year’s Eve, and I was still waiting.

Best friends are good at reading thoughts. “I’m sure Josh will come out again when he can,” said Adrianna in an effort to comfort me.

“I know, I know,” I said. “I’m happy it’s so busy tonight, but it also means Josh might have to stay late.”
Again,
I thought.

Josh was working at least ten, if not twelve to fourteen, hours a day. He caught me one morning covertly trying to apply cold cucumber slices to his exhausted eyes while he slept. I hated Josh’s schedule, but he wasn’t the least bit surprised by the hours he was putting in. Josh felt strongly that Simmer’s success rested on him. Gavin might be the owner, but it was Josh who seemed to feel the most pressure to have the restaurant succeed. The majority of restaurants fail within the first six months, and Josh was determined that Simmer wouldn’t be one of them. Now that he’d finally found the ideal place to showcase his culinary, artistic, and managerial talent, he was giving Simmer everything he had. The menu was all his, which didn’t happen at every restaurant, and Josh had complete control over every dish that was served. Gavin had been really great to Josh, too, and promised him that the better the restaurant did, the better Josh would do in terms of both hours and pay. Right now Josh’s salary was almost laughable, but Gavin just didn’t have the money to pay him what he deserved. The start-up costs involved in opening any restaurant are astronomical. I wanted to believe Gavin’s promises, even though it seemed odd that an executive chef working on Newbury Street didn’t get a decent salary, never mind a fat paycheck. In spite of everything, though, I was thrilled for Josh and convinced that Simmer would be the place he’d really make a name for himself in the competitive world of Boston restaurants.

TWO

LEANDRA
arrived, followed by two young Hispanic busboys, all carrying plates of food. “Here we go,” she said, delicately placing her plates on the table. “I’m sorry these took so long. We’re having problems with this new computer system Gavin is trying out. All the orders have to be entered into this elaborate program, and then, theoretically, they’re magically sent to the kitchen, but we keep having trouble. Anyhow, we got your orders through, and then Josh sent this out for you, too.” Leandra set an oval platter in the center of the table. “Tempura lobster tails with a sweet chili sauce.”

Oh, wow! Lobster was one of my absolute favorite foods. I took this additional dish as a sign of love from my chef.

“You know what I pay for these?” Owen said, reaching across the table to help himself to one of the golden servings. “And you know what I sell them for?”

“You probably pay nothing and sell them for a lot more,” I guessed.

Owen had recently quit his position as a puppeteer’s assistant to work as a seafood purveyor for a company called the Daily Catch. Before he’d found out that Ade was pregnant, he’d bounced from one quirky occupation to another. After hearing the news, he’d miraculously taken it upon himself to look for a somewhat traditional job.

“That’s right, Owen.” Doug jumped in with interest. “I haven’t seen you since you started with the fish thing. What’s that like?”

Looking proud of himself, Owen said, “I’m what’s known in the business as a seafood
purveyor
. I work for a company called the Daily Catch. We sell seafood to restaurants. So I get up by six, check my cell phone for orders from chefs, write those down, and then write up a price list. See, every day I get faxes from the companies we buy the seafood from with their prices. We buy from them and then sell to the restaurants. I’m kind of the middleman, so I mark my prices up based on what we’re going to have to pay. Then I take my delivery truck and drive down to the seafood district in South Boston’s waterfront, where I put in my orders, load up the truck, and I’m off to deliver everything. I’ve only been with them for a few weeks, but I’ve already got a bunch of great accounts. And Josh even dropped his old company for me!” Owen beamed with satisfaction at having persuaded Josh to switch purveyors. Simmer had decent-sized orders for Owen almost every day, but Josh knew enough not to let Owen overcharge him. Josh had explained to Owen that he’d better be careful who he tried to screw over with prices, because when chefs caught on, they’d drop him. “I bet that’s my cod right there!” Owen pointed his fork in the direction of a cod fillet that had been baked in foil with tomatoes, squash, zucchini, red peppers, scallions, fresh oregano, butter, wine, and garlic.