“Ok. I can do that.”
When the plates start coming, Willow transforms. Whatever was on her mind all morning is gone now as that burning passion and wisdom about food starts to show itself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about her in the short time I’ve known her, it’s that the path to her heart is through her stomach—only it’s more like a bullet train than a path.
“Can I see a menu?” she says, after taking a bite of an appetizer salad.
“Sure, I’ve got a printout right here,” I say, pulling the sheets from my briefcase and handing them to her.
She flicks a sheet, sees what she needs to see, then shakes her head.
“Yeah, ok,” she says, pointing at the salad. “Maybe this is just me, but I would not use this dressing. The orange zest is overpowering. It’s amazing, but if someone orders it and then orders the fish with the mint-roasted potatoes the flavors are going to clash horribly.”
It takes only a half second for me to understand what she’s getting at, insight so clear I almost kick myself at letting it pass. I scribble down a note as Willow pushes aside the salad to try something else.
“Oh,” she says, eyes lidding over with pleasure. “This salmon mousse…”
“You like?” I say, enjoying her expression.
“I love.”
“So do I.”
She looks at me for a beat, a slight moment of wild, inarticulate tension passing between us, before the presence of the watching waiter and the obligation of the job at hand pull us back to reality.
“You know, maybe a dash of something red to make the color pop. Paprika? Saffron?”
“Slow down,” I say, scribbling in my notebook. “You’re critiquing faster than I can write. And we’ve got a long way to go.”
Willow doesn’t slow down, though, and for the next three hours she runs through ideas, impressions, and opinions that would put a dozen food critics out of business. We argue over the Escoffier sauce, agree completely on the wild game dish, and both teach the other something when it comes time for the eclairs. I go through about seventeen different emotions with her during each course, swinging from offended and contemptuous of her American-style ideas, to marveling at the utter brilliance with which she seems to cut through to the heart of what makes great food.
Tongues alive with the onslaught of flavors and textures, bodies humming with the satisfaction of a thousand different ingredients, minds almost working as one by the time we reach the final dessert, I find myself realizing something very singular: This woman is absolutely incredible.
She slouches back in her chair, hands on her stomach as if it were potbellied and not as perfectly toned as the rest of her, and sighs happily.
“Is that it?” she says.
“That’s it,” I say, slapping my notebook shut.
“That’s a hell of a menu.”
“You just made it a hell of a lot better.”
She looks at me with a curious smile.
“I doubt you’re going to take any of my advice anyway.”
“Is that because of a lack of confidence in yourself? Or in me?”
Willow tilts her head slightly.
“In you, of course.”
I laugh along with her and check the time.
“We should get going,” I say, standing up.
“Aren’t we going to talk interior design?” she asks.
“Soon. For now I’ve got something more important I wanted to show you.”
Willow squints at me, trying to decipher my half-smile—and then my phone rings. It’s my second in command, so I need to take the call.
“Give me a moment,” I say with an apologetic expression, taking out my phone and walking out of earshot. “Hey, Martin.”
“Hi, boss. Just wanted to give you an update on the guy I mentioned—the one working at the Italian spot down on Mateo. Now he’s pretty happy there, and I’m still not sure he’d move to Vegas, but I honestly think if we make an offer that—”
“Martin, stop,” I say firmly. “I’ve changed my mind.”
He doesn’t talk for a second, and when he does he sounds completely perplexed.
“What about? I don’t understand.”
I look back at Willow, sitting and chatting with one of the chefs, making him laugh, the guy looking like he’s already as besotted with her as I am.
“I’m gonna do what you suggested; move Michelle up here to Vegas.”
“Really? Ok…well…yeah. That’s good. But we’ll still need to find a replacement for her at Knife.”
“We’ll need a replacement—but not for the head chef.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I think I’m gonna offer the position to Willow.”
There’s a pause. “Willow? The one I just hired as a line cook?”
“Yeah.”
Martin’s disbelief sounds like a cough, spluttering for words.
“Cole,” he says, his voice taking on a soothing tone as if he’s talking me off a ledge, “she’s worked there for a couple of weeks. Plus she had hardly any experience before that.”
“She’s a phenomenal cook,” I say, looking back at her again and winking when I catch her eye. “Why would I hire somebody else when one of the best chefs I’ve ever seen is already working for me? She’s got the skills, the training—and she’s got instinct. You can’t learn that.”
“Yes. But…well…she’s never been a head chef before. It’s one thing to be a great cook, another to lead a whole kitchen. It’s a big step. Most people spend years and years—”
“Give her one week and I guarantee you she’ll make that kitchen her bitch.”
“I don’t know,” Martin says, and I can almost hear him rubbing his brow. “The crew won’t like it. The new girl suddenly being their boss after a couple of weeks, getting a job that any one of them probably feels more qualified to do. Will they take orders from her?”
“I didn’t hire them to be advisors.”
Martin sighs, and I can tell he’s mulling it over. “Leo will probably quit on the spot, you know—I don’t think he likes her.”
“Good. It’ll save me the trouble of firing him.”
“Cole…”
“Like I said, I’m only just now thinking about it. I haven’t actually made a move yet. We still need to talk to Michelle about Vegas, anyway. So why don’t you go ahead and carry on with the shortlist, and we’ll talk more when I get back.”
“Yeah. Ok.”
“Great. See you then.”
“Wait!” Martin says, a split second before I hang up. I wait, but all I hear are throat-clearing sounds as Martin struggles to get his thoughts out. “Is this…never mind. Forget it.”
“You want to know if this is because I’m fucking her.” Martin coughs as if the very idea offends him, but I save him the trouble of protesting. “The answer’s no. You should understand where I’m coming from, Martin. Hell, you’re the one who hired her. You’ve seen what she can do in a kitchen.”
He lets out a nervous laugh.
“Sure, sure. I know she’s good. It’s just a question of whether she’s good enough. I mean, I know you have faith and all, that’s obvious, but do you really trust her that much?”
I look back at her again. She’s at the bar now, leaning over on it and sipping martinis with the cooks.