I joined her at the machine, making sure the speed of the paddles remained at what I’d recommended. I’d mixed the custard four hours prior, using my time-tested recipe with heavy cream, whole milk, sugar, vanilla beans, egg yolks, and just a pinch of kosher salt. Tova and I stood together, watching it come together in the chilled bowl. I looked at my watch.
“Should be done soon.”
“We have some of this in the freezer, you know.” Tova pointed to the walk-in. “You made it yesterday, so isn’t it still fresh?”
I tossed a sheet pan of pistachios with a drizzle of maple syrup, readying them to toast for the next round of gelées. “It’s fresh, yes, but I want freshest for tonight. Plus,” I reasoned, “it won’t matter anyway. He’s not going to want the ice cream.”
Avery delivered McGuire’s order himself. He gripped the metal shelving next to the threshold. “He wants the ice cream sandwich.”
I was already halfway to the refrigerator to retrieve the gelées. I turned on my heel. “What? What do you mean he wants the ice cream sandwich? After the asparagus soup, the peach salad, and the snapper, he wants two chocolate cookies with cherry-bourbon ice cream in between?” My hands were starting to shake at the wrongness of it all. “That’s too rich! It will ruin what’s left of the meal on his palate.”
Avery shook his head. “We can’t tell him what to do, Charlie. The man knows palates and he knows food and he wants the sandwich. And no one else at his table even ordered dessert.” He was already walking away.
I stared at the beautiful gelée in my hand, bursting with fresh strawberries and sweet wine and ready to be christened with maple-syrup-kissed pistachios.
Tova tsked when I moaned. “Charlie, the Jell-O is good, but that ice cream sandwich is wicked.” The timer on the ice cream maker beeped. “Done!” Tova said and handed me a scoop.
I sighed. “Not yet. We’ll bake the cookies and make the cherry bourbon mixture, then scoop.” My nose at counter-top level, I sliced a half-dozen thin cookies from the log I’d chilled in the walk-in and put them in the oven to bake. Four extras, in case of breakage. I could feel Tova watching me as I gently stirred the pitted cherries into a saucepan of sugar and water.
“A splash of bourbon when this is done,” I said, though she knew I wasn’t asking her to do the splashing. Tonight was all on me, and we felt the division of labor as strongly as though there were a rope dividing her half of the kitchen from mine.
I watched the oven timer while doing my best to keep us out of the weeds as other orders kept piling in. Avery popped his head into our space four times in the space of fifteen minutes.
“I’m going as fast as I can!” I finally snapped, shaking a dusting of confectioner’s sugar over a tart. “Back off, Malachowski.”
He grunted and walked away.
“What did you call him?” Tova asked, but I ignored her, too. The cookies were out and cooled enough to handle. Carefully folding in the cherry mixture, I formed the ice cream into a precise square and gently settled it between two cookies. A garnish of mint and a thin line of chocolate on the side of the plate and I stepped back. Avery came out from his lurking position and whisked the plate away from me.
“Looks perfect.” He was out the door before I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“Nice work,” Tova said, her eyes admiring. “You really know how to work under pressure, even when you’ve been discarded by the man you love only a day before.”
The thought of Kai, even a fleeting one, made me want to emotionally eat, and I reached for a spoon. The extra ice cream from McGuire’s sandwich beckoned me in ragged stripes left on the chilled bowl. I handed another spoon to Tova.
“To us.” I pulled a generous tablespoon’s worth off the edge and put it in my mouth. After the initial coldness softened, I felt my eyes grow big. I spit the ice cream out of my mouth, some of it landing just below Tova’s chin.
“No!” I ran out of the pastry kitchen, past a line of cooks and hot stoves and out the swinging door to the dining room. I heard Mike the cameraman hustling behind me.
After a quick sweep of the restaurant, I spotted him. I jogged through the packed tables to a cozy four-top in the back corner. Keeping my gaze trained on McGuire as I ran, I watched him laugh with one of his dining partners and then lift a heaping spoonful of ice cream sandwich to his lips. Just as he opened his mouth, ready to gather cookie, ice cream, cherries, and bourbon into his mouth, I lunged for the table and swatted the spoon out of his hand. A perfect little scoop of ice cream rocketed away and, by the mercy of a loving God, did not hit anyone before landing on the wood floor with an unceremonious splat.
McGuire, his spoon mid-air, stared at me. I thrust my hand into the space between us.
“Hello, Mr. McGuire. I’m Charlie Garrett. Pastry chef here at Thrill.”