“Thought that was you. What are you doing here?”
“I was… I had to run an errand at a print shop down the street.”
He holds the door open. “Come on in. I hope you weren’t going to leave without stopping by.”
I make a show of pushing back my coat cuff to look at my watch. “Actually, it’s getting late and—”
“Come on.” He pushes the door open farther. “We close from three to five to prep for dinner, so I can show you around.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your work.”
“You won’t.” He tilts his head toward the inside. “I did say you could stop by anytime.”
Something knots in my stomach, but I walk past him into the restaurant. The interior is elegant, quiet, with perhaps forty linen-draped tables and booths, soft lighting, leather seats. Muted paintings line the walls beneath ivory-colored crown molding. A few servers walk around setting the tables.
“It’s beautiful,” I say truthfully.
Tyler smiles. “Thanks. I like it. Come on back to the kitchen.”
The hum of voices and clank of pots and pans rises as we walk to the back of the restaurant. Several chefs bustle around, checking simmering pots, peeling potatoes, scaling various cuts of fish. They give me nods of greeting when Tyler introduces me, then return to their tasks.
“We change the menu according to what’s available or in season,” Tyler explains. “Tonight we’ve added king salmon and grass-fed beef tenderloin.”
He hands me a menu. The food is impressive and mouthwatering, including seared scallops, wild mushroom salad, slow-roasted veal, and fresh apple tart.
“Sounds delicious.” I put the menu on the counter. “I’ll have to come here with Dean sometime.”
Saying my husband’s name aloud eases a little of my tension. Tyler studies me for a moment, then nods to a table near the kitchen.
“Sit down. You can sample some of what we’re serving.”
“I really can’t…”
“Come on, Liv. Aren’t you hungry?”
Well, yes, I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch, and it’s four in the afternoon, and I likely have a dinner of microwaved pizza in my near future.
I take off my coat and look at my watch again. “I can’t stay long.”
“It won’t take long.” He moves to pull out a chair at the table, then stops. “Wait a sec. I have another idea.”
He disappears into a backroom and returns with a chef’s jacket. He holds it out to me.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“Come on. I’ll show you how we make a few things.”
“Tyler, you don’t have to—”
Instead of arguing with me, he goes behind me and puts the jacket around my shoulders. “We’ll make the salmon so I can show you how to fillet it.”
He returns to the kitchen. I watch him for a second, then push my arms into the jacket sleeves and button it up. The name Julienne is embroidered on the lapel. I fish in my pocket for a rubber band and fasten my hair into a ponytail, then go to wash my hands.
This is fine. I’m not going to sit there while he cooks for me. I’m going to watch what he does and learn something. Exactly like in class, just a different venue. Totally fine.
I go to where Tyler is standing. There’s a whole salmon lying on the counter in front of him, and he patiently explains all the different parts, then demonstrates how to scale and cut a perfect fillet. His movements are so fluid it’s like he’s cutting through butter.
“Your turn.” He flips the salmon over and hands me the knife.
“I’ll destroy it.”
“Liv, stop thinking that everything you try will end up a disaster,” Tyler says. “Don’t saw at it. Keep the blade tipped toward the backbone.”
I have no idea how much a salmon like this costs, but I don’t want to be the reason Tyler’s unable to serve it. Nervous again, I make the first cut near the tail.
“Don’t go through the backbone. Tilt the blade.” He puts his hand on mine to guide it. His handling of the knife is far more confident than mine, and we slice the second smooth fillet from the fish. It’s a good feeling.
Tyler shows me how to remove the bones, then preps the fillet for sautéing with braised lentils. Another chef is working on a mustard, crème-fraiche sauce, and Tyler sends me over to him. Although the other chef is working fast, he doesn’t seem bothered by having to stop and explain the technique to me.
When I return to Tyler, he shows me how to season and sear scallops.
“The less you mess with food, the better it is,” he says, stepping aside and nodding for me to put the scallops in the hot pan. “Don’t put too many in, and don’t move them around until they’re ready to be turned.”
He doesn’t coach me when to flip them, but I’m very aware of him watching as I slide a spatula under the scallops. To my relief, they’re a lovely golden brown. I know from class that it’s easy to overcook scallops, so I take them from the pan about thirty seconds before I think they’re completely cooked.
Tyler hands me a clean dish and we plate the scallops with celery-root puree, fava beans, and arugula.