He scratches his beard. “Thanks.”
“No problem. The booths were an awesome idea.” I point at the cured meat. “What’s this?”
“Ibérico ham. It’s Spanish.” He holds out a piece on the end of his knife. “Try it.”
The meat practically dissolves on my tongue, rich and perfectly salty. “Oh, wow. And what’s the cheese?”
“Brie. Triple cream, which amps up the buttery notes.”
“I could eat this for a whole meal. Maybe the restaurant should just be different kinds of charcuterie. That’s the concept.”
“Absolutely not.” He looks scandalized.
I grin. “Are we cooking today?”
He nods. “With an actual protein this time. Chicken.”
I make a face. I’ve been shying away from any lessons that involve meat. I just know that someone like Jack won’t buy pre-packaged chicken breasts. “Fine. But can I film it?”
“Ready your workstation, Winfield.”
Great. We’re back to Winfield. That seems to be his default, followed by Princess when he’s annoyed. If I get a Poppy, that means I’ve surprised him.
“Please? It’s been a few days.” I bat my eyelashes. “You can pretend to be charming for a few minutes. I have faith in you.”
“I thought I had on grandpa glasses.”
“That’s what makes it perfect! You look so approachable.” I amend myself. “Well, sort of approachable. More than usual. Maybe you can tell me what some of your tattoos mean while we cook? I promise people will eat it up.”
“They’re tattoos. I wanted ink, so I got them. The end.” He gestures to the other end of the table. “Go. Now.”
I frown. “Is everything okay? Did something happen with the permits? The liquor license?”
He pinches his nose, eyes sliding shut. “No. It’s all fine.”
“Because I can talk to people instead, or you can ask Herman. You nearly made that one lady cry the other day, remember?”
“It’s fine.” He stalks to my side of the table, watching as I take out what he calls mise en place. Butter. Oil. Salt. Pepper. Bowls for herbs and spices. A fresh stack of hand towels. Spoons, plus a jug of water for rinsing. When he uses it, it’s an extension of his arm; he doesn’t even need to look to know where everything is. I have to admit, it’s impressive.
He doesn’t say anything about my placement, but I assume it’s to his satisfaction, because after inching my bottle of oil to the right, he brings out a cutting board and slaps a whole chicken on top.
I gulp. “Please tell me you don’t have another for me.”
“Oh, I do.” He’s got a smug gleam in his eyes, as if he wrote “gross Poppy out” on his to-do list for this morning and is happy to get it out of the way. I try for a neutral look, even though I want to take a step back. At least this one is already prepped for butchering. Knowing him, he’d gut a live chicken without a second thought. “Watch me first. Take notes.”
“For the record, I think it’s possible for me to promote the restaurant without personally demolishing a chicken.”
“Noted and rejected.”
“I could be working on updating the website, or pitching to media outlets, or answering partnership inquires,” I continue, rattling off less than half of the things on my to-do list. “You won’t let me touch the menu anyway, so what’s the point?”
“This was the deal.” The look in his eyes, a particularly verdant shade of green behind his glasses, brooks no argument. “And maybe if you showed more enthusiasm for the back of house, I’d let you pitch ideas for the menu.”
“That’s so unfair.”
“Life is unfair. It’s not my fault you never learned that.”
I swallow my protests at his very pointed jab. “Fine.” I grab the newest addition to my mise en place, a lavender notebook with a pink pen, and open to a fresh page. Jack insisted on going analog to cut down on distractions. “Go on, Chef.”
