“I appreciate that, Ruth,” I say, my mind already racing. Spicy. Truffle. Fifteen people. “Let me put together a few options and I’ll email them to you for approval. I want to make surec’est parfait.”
“That sounds lovely. Thank you, Knox. We’re all so excited. It’s been too long since the whole family was together.”
“We’ll take good care of you, Ruth. I’ll be in touch.”
I hang up the phone, staring at the notepad. Fifteen is a large group for a Friday night service, but it’s doable.
It’s an honor, really. Ruth is a pillar of the community. If we impress her family, it could lead to more catering gigs.
I pick up my pen and start brainstorming.
Appetizers: Spicy lamb meatballs with a yogurt mint sauce to cool the heat? Or maybe a blistered shishito pepper tempura. No, let’s go with the meatballs. It feels more familial.
Pasta: Truffle is tricky. Real truffles are out of the question this time of year, but a high-quality truffle oil infused with porcini mushrooms could work. A fresh pappardelle with a porcini cream sauce, drizzled with white truffle oil. Rich, earthy, indulgent.
Main course: We have that fresh halibut coming in from Fallon’s trip. We could do a spice-crusted halibut with a mango-habanero salsa. That hits the spicy request and feels celebratory.
Dessert: Eli has been working on a dark chocolate and chili tart. That would be the perfect finish.
I sketch out the menu, my mind shifting into the strategic mode I love. The logistics, the flavor profiles, the timing. This is what I’m good at. This is where I am in control.
I look up at the closed door. Amber is out there, washing dishes. The kitchen smells like jasmine.
I force myself to look back at the paper. I’m a chef and a businessman. I’m not a man who gets distracted by a pair of hazel eyes.
I underlinehalibuttwice.
Focus.
I’ve been at the desk for an hour, refining the menu for Ruth Evans until the ink on the page begins to blur. The layout is taking shape.
I’ve decided on a trio of appetizers to start—spicy lamb meatballs with a cooling yogurt-mint dip to balance the heat, blistered shishito peppers with sea salt, and a delicate arancini.
For the mains, the porcini pappardelle is a lock, and I’m confident the halibut will work if I source the habaneros carefully.
The back door swings open, letting in a gust of chill air and the distinct rustle of paper bags.
“Knox! You have to see these peppers.”
Eli breezes into the office, his cheeks pink from the cold, his arms loaded with grocery bags. He sets them down on the floor with a heavy thud and immediately starts unpacking, pulling out a bag of vibrant red jalapeños and a basket of ugly, delicious heirloom tomatoes.
“The market was insane this morning,” he continues, his energy filling the small room. “I got into a shouting match with a woman over the last bunch of fresh basil. I won, obviously. I wasn’t leaving without it.”
I lean back in my chair, watching him. His enthusiasm amuses me. It’s good, having that energy in the pack.
“I’m drafting a menu for a dinner for Ruth Evans and her family,” I tell him, sliding the notepad across the desk. “Take a look.”
Eli abandons the basil and picks up the pad, his eyes scanning my handwriting. He chews on his lip as he reads, nodding slowly.
“Lamb meatballs,” he murmurs. “Good. Smart. The protein will stand up to the spice.” He moves down the list. “Porcini pappardelle with truffle oil. Knox, this is… it’s rich.”
“It’s what she asked for,” I say. “The niece likes truffle and heat. I think I can make the chili oil in-house to ensure it’s fresh.”
“And the halibut?”
“Spice-crusted. Mango-habanero salsa.” I tap the pen against the desk. “It needs acid. The salsa will provide it, but I’m thinking about serving it on a bed of citrus-braised fennel.”
Eli looks up, grinning. “You’re showing off. But I like it. It’s balanced. And for dessert?”
