Either she was waiting for some cue from production, or it was pure luck, but a black woman in chef’s whites and a toque strode through the door right then, hands clasped in front of her. “Welcome. I’m Renata Dixon, I’m the chef here.” She waved wiggling fingers at Rita before continuing. “So, I don’t know how much you got filled in on, but tonight you can consider this the chef’s table. I have six courses for you, and my pastry chef has two to finish off your meal.” A waiter walked in, notepad in hand. “So, I hope you really enjoy seeing what I and my kitchen can pull off. And we’ve got enough to keep these poor intrepid camera people fed. It wouldn’t be fair to make them stand there all night watching you eat.” She sighed, and then smiled broad and bright. “Your first course will be on its way shortly.”
And it was. Henry was impressed with the service to be certain. They’d obviously been working on the meal, because as soon as Antonio dropped off their drinks—Henry ordered what turned out to be the best whiskey sour he’d ever tasted—in came the opening plates. They each had a thick card with the contents of the dish scrawled in royal blue script. Native whitefish ceviche with seeded puff pastry crisps. The ceviche was... well, ceviche. And the crisps looked like the beginnings of mille-feuille, rectangular shards of puff pastry but studded with a mix of sesame, poppy, and caraway seeds: an earthy, nutty accompaniment to the briny seafood. When Henry took a bite, the fish was saline and pungent, barely kept in check by the acidic lime juice. But the meaty texture of the fish with the incredibly thin, flaking layers of puff pastry was incredible. The whole thing practically fell apart in his mouth.
And like Eli had said, it was worth watching Sylvia. Her eyes widened at the first bite, and they seemed to stay that way through every course. The three little soup dumplings filled with classic French onion soup and served with gruyere and parmesan toast. The vampire-killing levels of garlic in the cubic Caesar salad. The three perfectly seared and perfectly seasoned lamb chops with champagne beurre blanc. The deconstructed carbonara, with lightly dressed pasta and fried guanciale. When each new course was delivered, Henry eagerly watched Sylvia to see her shock and involuntary laughter at the new flavors.
When the very clean plates from the last main course was taken away, Sylvia leaned back, hands above her head. “Do you people eat like this every day?”
Dexter shook his head. “If we ate like this every day, none of us would be able to fit through the doors in the morning. But every now and then is always welcome.”
“I think people should eat gourmet at least once a year, if they can swing it.” Tristan seemed to have relaxed considerably, though he was still talking comparatively little. “Just pick a day out of the year, set aside money for it, and then go all in on a real, high-class meal like this. People deserve to know what real, good food tastes like.”
“Agreed.” Rita held out her glass for a toast, and Tristan clinked against it. She swallowed the last bit of Riesling from said glass. “You must have access to all kinds of good food. I love eating in Seattle. There’s something so special about it.”
“Well, I have to agree with you on that one.” Tristan chuckled. “Although I’m biased, and we probably lose any objective comparison to New York City.”
Willa laughed at that. “Oh, you can’t boil down the spirit of a food city like NYC or Seattle or New Orleans into a nice, digestible rating of quality. New York does what New York does and Seattle does what Seattle does. I mean, I wouldn’t expect to walk in downtown Seattle and stumble on a Gray’s Papaya, but I also don’t expect to narrowly avoid flying fish back home.”
Henry smiled and took another drink from his second whiskey sour.The studio can afford it, after all.“Pike Place is a beast all its own, I have to admit. Fresh seafood, tons of restaurants, the best little spice market. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
“Two of you from Seattle, I don’t know.” Eli finally slipped off his jacket, let it hang over the back of his seat the same as Sylvia. “I had preconceived notions about what I’d see from you guys. I thought you’d do a lot of stuff the same. And, well, you know, it would have made for more exciting TV if you’d brought a little history. We knew you ran in similar circles.”
“No need to be coy, Eli,” said Dexter. “We heard scuttlebutt that there was a little rivalry there and were hoping it might show through. Alas, seems the rumors weren’t true.”
Tristan rolled his eyes. “Maybe we were fighting when this whole thing started. But we got over it.”
“You got over it?” Eli leaned in. “Do tell.”
Tristan flashed a sideways glance to Henry. “Even in Seattle, the baking and catering circuit is only so big. We knew about each other. And perhaps there was a little rivalry going on, but... I mean, look at what he can do with chiffon cake and royal icing. How can you stay mad at that?”
Henry took a quick drink so that his inevitable blush could be blamed on the alcohol. Then he felt able to jump back into the conversation. “What I can do with royal icing? Whathecan do with flavors. It’shisfault that we’re not sniping at each other anymore.”Him and his stupid delicious mint cake.
As a cap to that, Renata came back out along with Antonio, both carrying long, rectangular plates. They passed them out as she spoke. “Now, this is the last of my contribution. The last two courses are all Destiny’s work. But I hope everything was as perfect as possible.”
She scurried off and left them with their cheese plates. Henry checked over the card that came with it. Half a dozen small tasting samples of gouda. Different ages, preparations, and origins. Served with thin slices of apples and different citrus, plus water crackers. It was damn ingenious. Low work and high concept, minimal financial output, but big impact.
Henry sat there and soaked up the night. There, overlooking San Francisco Bay as the sky blackened, surrounded by other chefs, eating a fine meal that he didn’t have to pay for. There was a magic and electricity in the air.
Quietly, so that no one else would notice, Henry reached under the table and took Tristan’s hand. And crazy as it was, as though the universe was approving, a spark gleamed on the edge of his vision.
Fat and happy, Willa, Henry, and Tristan unloaded from the car. Tristanmighthave had more than an appropriate number of Manhattans, but the food had been sofuckingexquisite, he’d fallen into the trap of decadence. He rarely got to indulge so much. For all his “gourmet food once a year” talk, he didn’t come anywhere close to pulling that off. Most of his meals were quick, throw-together one pots or baking-sheet dinners, unless he was at an event. Then he ate whatever the guests did, but in the tent.
Even the dessert fare had been incredible, and Tristan knew how stressful that had to be, serving desserts to six professional pastry chefs. But the crème brûlée with the pomegranate molasses had been to die for, and the white chocolate mousse with powdered olive oil and balsamic vinegar had been a brand-new experience. Tristan had little interest in participating in the molecular gastronomy craze. He’d adopted a couple of techniques here and there—sous vide zabaglione was a damn sight easier than using a water bath and ramekins—but the powders and chemicals and liquid nitrogen weirdness wasn’t working for him. So the fact he’d scribbled outtapioca maltodextrinon some scrap paper so he could track it down was a testament to that dish.
Tristan watched the car drive away, then sighed and smiled at Willa and Henry. “Good food. Good company. Good night.”
Henry nodded. “See you two in the trenches again tomorrow.” But the look in his eye told Tristan there was more in store for the pair of them that night. Naked, tangled, sweaty time.Thank God I’m not the only one thinking about it.
“Let’s not cut the evening short quite yet.” Willa set her hands on her hips and stepped away from the two of them. Not inside, not toward the doors, justaway. Her eyes narrowed, and Tristan’s spine immediately straightened. That wasn’t a friendly face.
“You know, you two are looking awfully close, lately. I saw your hand-holding act under the table, in case you thought you were being subtle.” She pulled her phone out of her purse and waved it at them. “Even snapped a little evidence when you weren’t paying attention. I know what’s up. Caught something in the air between you, and now I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
Henry spoke softly, but his voice was full of venom. “The flash... you bitch.”
Tristan jerked his head around. “What flash?”
“When I grabbed your hand. I thought it was a reflection off a glass or something.”
Tristan nearly swallowed his tongue, and his palms went clammy.
