“Barry was two boyfriends ago.”
I wince. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”
“My husband’s name is Mateo. We met on a yacht, ironically.” Owen claps me on the shoulder, his smile like the noon sun. “Let me put in an order for you, and then we can talk. We have an awesome pork mojo on the menu.”
Once he comes back with cold beers, we explain the situation. Poppy takes the lead, reeling him in with her description of the pop-up and the vibe of the restaurant. I talk about the food. Judging by the bright edge in Owen’s eyes, he’s intrigued. The silent approval of the menu I’ve pulled together means a lot. I’d nearly forgotten how much I respected his expertise.
“I know it’s a huge favor,” I say, rubbing my nape, “and I totally get if you tell me to fuck off, but maybe if you know someone else—”
“Who else do you have?” Owen interrupts.
“A solid line cook, Herman. He was at the Sailfish before. Hazel LaRue; we worked together in New York. Poppy’s going to handle dessert for the pop-up.”
“That so?” Owen says around a sip of beer.
“I’ve been giving her lessons.”
He grins at Poppy. “You’re a double threat, Winfield. I’ve been paying attention to your work on Fable’s socials.”
Poppy smiles back, clearly pleased by the compliment. “Will you consider it? We know the timing is tight. Blame Jack for that one.”
“You’ll pay?” he asks. “I’m supposed to be on a yacht heading for St. Croix soon, and my client tips heavy.”
“Absolutely,” I say.
Owen nods, considering that for a moment. “Then I’m in. Only for you, friend.”
“Thanks.” I duck my head, letting out a hard breath of relief. “That means a lot.”
A server approaches with a tray. A dozen oysters on the half shell nestled in a bed of ice, glistening in the sunlight. He sets it down with a flourish. To Owen, he says, “Chef, they’re asking about tonight’s special.”
“Duty calls.” Owen raps his knuckles on the table as he slides off his chair. “Text me about the details, yeah?”
“You have the same number?”
“What do you think?” He gives me a look; he’s not above reprimanding me a bit. I should have gotten back in touch with him ages ago. Trusted that our friendship could overcome a bad client. Still, I’m relieved that I didn’t permanently fuck things up between us. If I’d gotten my head out of my ass sooner, maybe we’d never have gotten distant in the first place. “Enjoy the oysters on me.”
“I like him,” Poppy says. Her foot nudges my shin. “By the way, I have a confession to make.”
“What?”
“I’ve never had an oyster.” She eyes the plate with a shudder. “They look disgusting.”
My mouth practically falls open. “You’re kidding.”
She shakes her head. “No, Chef.”
“With a family like yours? That’s a shame.” I pick up an oyster, dabbing it liberally with cocktail sauce and squeezing on lemon. Poppy’s nose wrinkles as she watches me swallow it. “Try it.”
“I’d rather eat the silverware.”
“They clean the oysters, you know.”
“I refuse to believe that thing was ever alive.”
“They’re delicious. Especially with beer.” I have another, enjoying the burst of brine across my tongue. I’d be able to tell they’re from the Northeast even if Owen didn’t say anything; the way oysters vary by region is one of my favorite things about raw bars. “You’re trying one.”
“No way.”
