Fire In the Kitchen (4 page)

Several chefs applauded his response.

“You think this is a dictatorship?” Dante sighed. “You think this is all about
freedom
? When have I ever stopped any of you from being creative and inventive?”

“When you sacked Carlos because you felt threatened by how well he did while you were away. Profits were higher than ever. You were envious of him.”

“It’s not always about the money. How easily you’ve forgotten about our buying-local ethos, about supporting our community.” He felt the nerves throb in his temples, and his hands formed into tight fists.

“Carlos told us you weren’t paying them on time,” the sous chef said, “and when you did, it was well below market value. Then, before you left, you told Carlos to get them to drop their prices even more. When they refused, Carlos had to go elsewhere. It was all about your huge profits, admit it.”

Dante noticed a pot on the sous chef’s stove needed stirring and pointed to it. The sous chef shook his head and crossed his arms, so Dante cursed under his breath and stirred it himself before continuing their conversation. “Why would I do that? Think about it. You’re all paid very well and always on time, so those accusations don’t make sense.”

Most of them obviously had no idea how many people Dante had been helping. It wasn’t in his nature to brag about his community efforts, and he wasn’t about to justify himself now.

“You’re lying,” the sous chef said. “Carlos said you would distort the facts to make him look bad.”

Dante watched his knuckles turn white as he tried to keep his emotions in check. “Out.” His voice was low and deep. “Get…out.”

The sous chef took off his monogrammed restaurant apron, spat on it, and threw it on the floor. He packed his knives, took one last defiant look at Dante, and left.

“Anyone else think the same and want to join him?”

Dante’s words sounded controlled, almost robotic, but he felt his olive skin turning crimson. He approached another chef who had been deboning the expensive salmon, picked up the fish, and threw it in the bin.

He approached the chef who had applauded his sous chef and was now tapping his foot with impatience. “You?”

The chef took off his apron, too, and handed it to Dante on his way out. Dante threw it over his shoulder.

He approached every chef and asked the same question. Two more quit and he was left with a skeleton team of two.

His demeanor changed as he looked at the remaining chefs. He had known them for a long time. “You cannot buy loyalty. I will never forget this. Thank you for your support.” He walked to them and shook their hands.

“Things have gotten pretty rough, but we can ride the storm together, we just have to stay true to our cooking ethos and try to sweep up the mess my cousin and his misguided followers left behind. If you’d like me to clear up any questions you may have, to ease your minds, I’m happy to discuss them with you.”

“No need. We knew the rumors couldn’t be true,” one of the remaining chefs replied. “Carlos did a lot of things while you were away and said they were on your instructions.”

“Do you think I would take away the livelihoods of those I hold dearest by not looking after them?” Dante walked to him and met his eyes. “My uncles, my cousins, our local friends?”

The chef shook his head.

“Thank you for believing in me,” Dante said, forcing back the strong emotion their support to him had created.

“We’re behind you, Dante.”

“Thank you. Now, it is whispered we have a food critic from
Gourmet
magazine coming tonight. He’s probably really here to report more sensationalism, but let’s give him great food instead.” He pulled out a few folded papers from his pocket. “These are the extra recipes I want you to make, showcasing ingredients currently in season.”

The chefs discussed the dishes, making suggestions that Dante either agreed to or rejected.

“What’s your dessert special, Chef?” one of them asked.

“Citrus torte,” Dante replied. “The recipe’s there, on the back of a glossy piece of paper.”

“I don’t see it anywhere.”

Dante checked his other pockets but stopped abruptly when he remembered Cassidy had snatched it away from him. The girl had fire, he’d give her that. The sort of fire to raise his temperature several degrees.
On a cold day
. If his life weren’t so complicated, he’d have asked her out. But he couldn’t think about that right now.

He recalled the recipe and recited it to his chefs instead.

“Heat the lemons and limes whole,” he reminded them.

His chefs and front of house staff worked hard that night, and he worked alongside them. The evening was a success, with the food critic heavily hinting at a positive write-up.

Loved or hated by the media—why did everything have to always be to the extreme?

Dante walked his workers downstairs with a bottle of Australian sparkling wine in his hand for them to share.

Once they’d gone, he decided to celebrate in his own way, by cooking himself a meal for one.

As he entered the commercial kitchen, he heard a noise.

He wasn’t alone.

Not one to be on guard in his own domain, he stood still and listened. It couldn’t be any of his remaining staff, he’d sent them all home. It could only mean one thing.

Trouble.

Cassidy’s body responded involuntarily as she conjured an image of Dante in her mind. Early morning shopping for fresh fruit from Fremantle Markets hadn’t helped to erase him from her thoughts for long. She’d bumped into him there as well. He may have been there to shop for fresh produce, but seeing him again so soon surprised her, and her physical reaction to him hadn’t been undesirable. He’d offered her a cup of coffee from a vendor using locally sourced beans, but she declined. She’d been too concerned about her mother and the day’s work ahead to consider it, and the sting of his recent rejection was raw. She also had a lot of questions for him about their first meeting, which hadn’t ended well, but hadn’t felt up to it. Things on the home front were still too fragile.

She inserted the key into the back door of the café. The familiar click of the lock followed and she turned the old handle, entering the place where she felt most comforted. Its familiarity distracted her from worrying about her mother and thinking about Dante.

The café always welcomed her, as if she were breathing in the love from her dad, even if he was now only there in spirit. She swore at times she could smell a waft of his cigar smoke drifting in from the alley, where he used to sneak a puff during quieter moments.

Cassidy dragged her feet to a booth and slid inside. It felt as though her tired eyes were filled with grains of sand. She took off her sunglasses and rubbed her eyelids, making them feel worse. She felt surreal, as though she’d taken a hallucinogenic pill and couldn’t get a fix on reality. The early morning cars outside sounded louder than usual and the reflection of the sun on the mirrors felt like razor blades slicing her forehead. Feeling dizzy, she dropped her head between her arms and surrendered to the overwhelming feeling of helplessness.

A familiar hand squeezed her shoulder.

“Hi, Amy,” she said without looking up. “I didn’t hear you come in. What are you doing here so early?”

“Cassidy? Why are
you
here?” Amy’s voice was full of concern, but it also had a note of urgency, tinged with annoyance. “Why didn’t you call? How is she? What’s happening?”

Cassidy let out a long, exaggerated breath and rubbed her temples.

“Water. Aspirin. Please. Hurry.”

Amy went to get what she had asked for and then stood beside her, popping the tablets out of the packet.

“You’re really scaring me now,” she said, handing them to Cassidy, who tossed her head back and gulped them down with water. “How serious is it?”

Cassidy shook her head. “You won’t believe it. I still don’t believe it.”

“Try me. How bad?”

“Mum’s pregnant.”

“No way.” Amy sat in the booth opposite. Even though they were alone, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “How old is she? She still had eggs left to cook?”

“It’s no time to be crass. She’s not too old, obviously. She’s forty-five going on twenty-five, like me.”

“Far out. She’s okay, though, isn’t she?”

“Sort of, if she has lots of bed rest.”

“Isn’t that what got her in this mess in the first place?”

“Don’t joke. Mum didn’t even know she was pregnant! I have so many emotions running through my mind they are all playing hopscotch inside my head.” Cassidy reached over the table and grasped her friend’s arm like she was trying to pull it out of its socket. “Do you have any idea how stressed I was when I thought I was going to lose her unexpectedly like when I lost Dad? My beautiful mum, it was unbearable waiting to hear from the doctor. To say I was relieved to learn she’s having a baby is an understatement.”

“So stop worrying. She’s fine,” Amy said. “Just focus on the renovations to keep your mind on other things.”

“Forget the renovations. I’ll be struggling to even keep the doors open without Mum’s help. They told her she can’t work for the rest of the pregnancy, and I’m going to make darned sure she doesn’t. But it’s going to be tough. I can’t afford to pay anyone else besides you.”

Amy pried her fingers off one at a time. “We’ll be okay.”

“I don’t understand how this happened.”

“It’s not rocket science. Tab A went into slot B…”

Cassidy put her hands over her ears to block the words out.

“Shut up. Inappropriate visuals. It’s just you and me now. I’ve got to come up with a plan to keep this place open with limited funds. Fast.”

Amy reached into her bag and pulled out a letter.

“About your plan, sweetie. You’ve had a bit of a hiccup.”

“Do I really want to know?” Cassidy bit her bottom lip. “I like the life I used to have. I love the café and I loved working in it with Mum. I don’t want hiccups, I just want things the way they were before.”

Amy handed an opened letter to Cassidy.

“I hope you don’t mind me opening it—it was with the rest of the mail I normally take care of.”

Cassidy shook her head as she reached for and then read the document.

“Our tax bill…It’s massive. I thought having a few good months was supposed to be a good thing.” The room suddenly felt cold and she rubbed her arms to smooth the goose bumps. Her voice came out of her mouth as if it had come from far away.

“Well that’s just the icing on this week’s lousy cake, isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily.” Amy got up and switched sides of the booth so she could put her arm around her best friend. “How badly do you want this?”

“Now’s not the time for trick questions, Amy. I’m not in the mood.”

“How badly do you want to keep all this?” her friend repeated, swirling her index finger around the room as if it were a magic wand.

“Badly enough to stop nagging you every time you get a new tattoo.”

“Excellent, you’re back.”

Amy grinned and pulled a small corner of paper from her apron pocket so it was just visible.

“Okay,” Cassidy said, “I’ll bite. What’s that?”

Amy pulled out the rumpled piece of paper and handed it to her.

“Salvation,” she replied as she got up and walked to the counter. “Think about it while I get the espresso machine ready for the morning rush.”

Cassidy unrumpled the paper and struggled to read it.

“Where did you get this?”

“I picked it up off the floor last night, after you left with your mum in the ambulance.” Amy shrugged. “I nearly threw it out.”

“It’s just a recipe Mum put in Dad’s recipe book yesterday. She asked me to look at it. Her friends are always giving them to her for me to try. What’s the big deal?”

She leaned closer to read the unruly handwriting.

“Wow, I see what you mean. It looks awesome. Unusual technique, heating the lemons and limes whole first.”

“What?” Amy sounded confused as she looked at what Cassidy was reading. “No, silly, turn it over and read the other side.”

Cassidy ignored her as she walked into the kitchen and turned on the oven.

“Interesting dessert,” she said.

Amy sighed. “Nowhere near as interesting as what’s on the other side.”

Cassidy indicated a customer approaching the counter. Amy went to serve him, leaving Cassidy alone with her latest cooking experiment. After she measured butter and flour, she selected her fruit. She rolled a lemon and lime in each hand over the bench, inhaling their aroma. The day passed quickly as she experimented with the recipe in between cooking the day’s orders.

Amy came into the kitchen, taking a rest from the late-morning rush. “Where were we? Let’s talk about that competition.”

“Not now. It’s my third attempt, but I think I’ve finally got it. Some of the measuring was off.” Cassidy took another look at the recipe and then put it down her bra to prevent Amy from discussing what was on the other side of the piece of paper. “Grab me six eggs please.”

“Only if you let me crack them over your head.” Amy plunged her hand down Cassidy’s top and removed the piece of paper. “Have you read the other side of this?” She waved it in Cassidy’s face.

“Of course I have. It’s a TV cooking competition for chefs to compete against each other. They’ve been advertising it every five minutes. Looks good, can’t wait to watch it.”

“The cutoff for auditions is noon today,” Amy said slowly.

“So?”

“So I think you should go for it,” Amy replied as she handed her the egg carton.

“Are you insane? I don’t have the qualifications.” She cracked the eggs into a bowl.

Amy grinned as she threw the shells into the bin. “I’ve read the fine print. It’s not just for qualified chefs—and you’re better than most of them anyway.”

“Says you. They’d eat me alive with Tabasco sauce.”

“Not true. Be honest, Cassidy, the prize money would help you to make this place spectacular, not to mention keeping the tax man from closing you down.”

Cassidy felt wrinkles appear between her eyes. “How much are we talking about?”

“If you make it to the finals, you win a hundred grand. The winner gets five times that.” Amy raised her arms in the air like she’d scored a goal. “It’s worth the punt, and I can manage for you here with a friend or two who will work for free coffee and cinnamon buns. We won’t be bored, but I know we can do it.”