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The sixty-four thousand dollar question. “No bloody clue.”
Tony smiled. The bastard actually smiled. “I see.”
Jack wasn’t sure what had happened here, but the relief at being able to express his feelings publicly made him giddy. Pity he’d wasted it on the one guy who thought Jack and Lili were the worst idea since New Coke.
His balls were still hiding somewhere up around hip-level, but Jack no longer gave a toss. He was too busy trying to keep a foolish grin from conquering his face, but it slowly built and he turned away so Tony wouldn’t see. He wanted to shout how happy he was and tell his future father-in-law—he’d come to that stunning conclusion as well—that he envied Tony his life and his family, and he wanted to make something like that with Lili.
He settled for, “Celery.”
Tony grunted and handed the remaining stalks over.
Thirty-Five
Once it had been his favorite place in the whole world, and as Jack crashed through the doors of Thyme on 47th, he waited for the familiar magic to wash over him. Opening it ten years ago had signaled his arrival in New York, a kick to the establishment that said French food couldn’t be simultaneously high concept and accessible. Now the only thing stopping that elusive third Michelin star was his spotty presence over the past year, or so he liked to think. Chefs had their fair share of conspiracy theories.
Laurent sat at his usual table in the corner glued to his laptop, espresso cup at his wrist. Jack assumed he was planning a menu, and knowing his friend, it would be the winter menu. In the middle of July. Jack strode over, only to be practically sacked by a man who sprang like a mountain lion from behind the bar.
“Jack, it’s great to see you,” the stranger said in an Irish-lilted trill. He pumped Jack’s hand and held on. Tall and lean with dark brown, messy hair, Irish had the hungry look of an apprentice though he had to be at least mid-twenties.
“Have we met?”
“Ah, no, we haven’t.” He released Jack’s maligned hand and looked over at Laurent as if he might find support from that quarter. Jack caught Laurent’s smirk. No help there, rookie.
“I’m Shane. Shane Doyle. I just wanted to say hello.”
The new pâtissier. Laurent mentioned he’d hired him after the guy had sent his resume once a month for the last year. Five years as a pastry chef in restaurants in Ireland and the UK. A stint at Lenôtre, the culinary school in Paris. Eighteen months with Anton Baillard at Mason Rouge on the Upper West Side. He was more than qualified, but Thyme hadn’t had an opening for years until his junior pâtissier, Marguerite, went on maternity leave a month ago. Add to that the work visa hassles for non-US citizens. But the guy had been adamant about working here and not at Jack’s place in London.
“Hope you’re settling in,” Jack said, trying to put the poor guy at ease just as he realized the kid didn’t need it. His eyes sparkled, making Jack wearier. Damn, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so excited to meet a fellow chef.
“Yeah, everyone’s been wonderful,” Shane said with a cocky eyebrow lift for good measure.
“Well, it’s great to meet you.” Jack nodded over Shane’s shoulder to Laurent. Move along, kid.
“Oh, yeah, sure.” He held Jack’s gaze and smiled, wider now and with a touch of insolence, before heading out to the street. In under sixty seconds, Shane had gone from newbie eagerness to brash cockiness to something along the lines of ‘huh’. Maybe the great Jack Kilroy hadn’t lived up to the iconic image in the younger chef’s head. Jack slumped into a chair beside Laurent, his muscles duller because of Shane’s whatever-the-hell-that-was.
“Viande fraiche,” they said together. Fresh meat. Jack hadn’t spoken to Laurent in a while. The Frenchman hadn’t been his sous for the last few episodes of the show, preferring to get back to his duties in New York, so it was a relief to fall into their usual easy camaraderie.
“Remember when we were that young?” Jack asked.
“Younger. That one’s ambitious like you. He’s already making suggestions.” This last statement was underlined with disapproval; Laurent was old-fashioned and preferred the green horns to be seen and not heard for at least a year.
During the early days of his apprenticeship in Paris, Jack had barely known béchamel from caramel and thought a mother sauce was some weird French street slang, but he fronted it out with a nice line in chat and a cocksure grin. Back then, he’d never met a situation he couldn’t talk or screw his way out of. If only it were that easy now.
“I was an arrogant little bastard,” Jack said wistfully, feeling pleasantly warm at the memory.
“True, but you could back it up. Running stations by three months with hardly a word of French to your name. Your accent is still merde, by the way.”
That pulled a laugh from deep in his belly. He’d missed his friend.
“I didn’t expect to see you today,” Laurent said. “The charms of Chicago have lost their appeal?”
“No, still charming as ever.”
“So this is it. The great Jack Kilroy brought to his knees by the cloud of big hair and the cute nose wrinkle.” A sigh escaped his lips. “And she could so easily have been mine. We were getting along very well in that bar until you swooped in.”
“You snoozed, mon ami.”
Laurent narrowed his eyes. “So where is she today? I thought she would be with you.”
