Holy shit it was getting hot in here, Roxana thought as she wiped her face with the crisp white towel and then tossed it on the table with a sigh. Even though it was starting to freeze outside, her kitchen was scorching. Absently, she hoped that the pipes wouldn't burst again, which had already happened twice this winter.
All the food was prepped and ready for the guests that evening, she went through and turned up all the ovens so they'd be set by the time everyone would begin to arrive. Roxana glanced at the clock and then looked over the menu once more before grabbing her jacket and walking out back to smoke a cigarette.
"Well this cold weather can kindly fuck right off." She grumbled, fighting the wind to flick her lighter. After a few more clicks and curses, she succeeded and took a long drag. She exhaled slowly and closed her eyes for a moment, leaning back against the back door.
It had been many long years of busting her ass to get to where Roxana was today: the proud owner and executive chef of her own thriving restaurant. She should feel carefree as usual. But there was just something off about this night, she couldn't help but to feel on edge all day long and when she brushed it off earlier, she was unable to shake the intensity in which it grew.
Thus the cigarette. Roxana usually tried to moderate her vices, but she'd be lying if she said she didn't chief down almost an entire pack already that day.
"Bitch I thought you quit smoking!" So much for a moment to herself.
Roxana turned to see her sous-chef walking towards her, all bundled up so that no inch of skin showed, and he was shivering quite dramatically all the while glaring daggers at her. "Look at you being on time! Guessing the streetcar froze up and left your cheap ass with getting a cab?"
"Ha fucking ha." He burrowed even further into his down jacket and impatiently waited for her to move away from the door, "That streetcar was packed up tighter than Cooter's on a game night, baby, I nearly had to fight someone's granpaw to get up in there. Honestly now, what could be so urgent? He ninety. Well? Are you gonna fucking get out the way or what, Rocks? I'll be no use to you with frozen fingers, I'll tell you what!"
She chuckled and tossed the butt in the trash before gallantly opening the door. He wasted no time rushing in and placing his hands close to the ovens. Al Patrone had been her kitchen partner at their previous job and if it had not been for his endlessly entertaining sass, she would have never made it in that horrid place. They became thick as thieves from years of bickering back and forth over the fires.
So it was no surprise that when Roxana told Al her plans to start her a new restaurant, he immediately pick up his knives and followed her out. Even though he had been with the establishment for nearly a decade, Al didn't bat an eye when he gave them the finger and left. The owner was a xenophobic and misogynistic piece of shit anyways. Fuck him.
The idea was presented to her, Roxana somehow ended up in the right place at the right time, because that's how these things usually happen. While she was throwing back tequila shots at the Monteleone, she met some famous actor - not that she gave the damn, his name was Tom…or was it George? - they chatted the evening away. The next day she invited him to the restaurant she had worked to show him some local cuisine.
Even though he was positively salivating over her seared pompano, the man constantly bemoaned to her about the lack of small and intimate restaurants in New Orleans. He wasn't wrong. Most of the fancy to-do joints all sat three to six hundred people a shift and seemed to have a turnover rate higher than a pornstar.
The guy basically wanted a butler and in-home chef, but not actually be at his home. To all the peasants working in the food industry, the idea was laughable.
"Oh and how would I keep up the bills with serving just one table a night, huh?" She had huffed and signaled for another round of shots. "Seems like some whimsically ludicrous pipe dream to me."
He had looked her dead in the eye, suddenly sober enough for the moment, "If you can cook the way you do in this shit hole, then darlin' I can only imagine what you could whip up when you've got nothing holding you back. I know people who would pay the building's rent in a single night after eating just one of your meals. I'm fucking serious."
Who was she to deny that sort of opportunity?
Roxana had gotten a steal of a deal on the building and simply fell in love with the neighborhood. It was in the Irish Channel down closer to the river with a breathtaking view of the Crescent City Connection bridge. The property was an old Spanish colonial styled building with dark red stucco that faded in areas revealing the old brick beneath. High white arches lined the front entrance, the gas lanterns flickered shadows against the ceiling and danced when the large canopy fans spun lazily.
It seemed to almost slink into the darkness of the night, hiding in plain sight amongst the other homes on the street. The large and ominous oak trees stood guard out front, their branches were natural curtains and their roots fenced in the broken sidewalks like a front yard.
The interior was a stark contrast with light gray brick walls with natural reds scattered across, aspen wood flooring, and industrial piping that lined the walls with vintage light bulbs. Very bright and open in a comforting coffee-shop sort of feel.
There was just one large black table that severed the room in half. The chairs assembled around the exterior of the rectangle while the inside had a long walkway down to the front. Similar to hibachi-style but instead of the large grill top, there was an empty space that allowed Roxana and Al to personally serve each dish directly.
In the back, the kitchen gleamed and sparkled, the burners all neatly arranged on the large island in the middle of the room reflected the lights above and glimmered like diamonds. Roxana would meticulously scrub everything down every night before finally closing so it would always remain spotless.
It was simple and elegant, intimate and relaxed. She put her blood, sweat, and tears into the remodel and hoped beyond all hope that it wouldn't all have been for nothing. Roxana had a strange sort of optimism about the project, something she had never felt before, and so she decided on naming her restaurant Sanguine.
True to her friend's word, he made a few calls to some of his famous friends and told them to come down. One thing led to another and it blew up. These prominent and wealthy clients started to come in droves, they craved the exclusiveness, and they would happily pay beaucoup money for it. It all worked out flawlessly.
They decided on hiring just a hostess and valet, while Al helped Roxana run the kitchen and service. She took good care of her employees and in turn they treated her with the utmost respect, making sure that everything was impeccably done and ran smoothly.
That was three years ago and business was still very much booming.
"Are you gonna stop daydreaming and help me whip up these fucking cakes?" Al shouted over the music that he insisted on blasting full volume as soon as he put on his white double-breast chef jacket.
"Oh calm yourself before your sweat ruins my recipe."
Al's eye grew wide in offense, "My sweat would give this bland shit some real flavor, honey."
Roxana barked out a laugh and grabbed a bowl. The two friends began to work together in easy synchronization. Shortly after, the hostess named Angeline peeked into the kitchen to tell them that the guests had begun to arrive and then returned to start seating.
Al finally turned down the tunes to a reasonable level for a restaurant, but there was still a ringing noise echoing in Roxana's ear. She shook her head and pulled the amuse-bouche out of the oven.
They were having a smaller table than normal this evening with only five people, some local politicians that she had served before - the mayor, his wife, his popular defense attorney buddy, and two other names that she did not recognize.
While they put all the finishing touches on the first two courses, the chefs could hear the absent chattering and boisterous laughter of their guests. However, one voice, in particular, caught their attention with its luscious baritone.
"Well hello there." It was slightly muted behind the walls but the British accent was unmistakable. Al looked over to Roxana and waggled his eyebrows, she laughed and waved him off.
"Good evening, sir, you must be Mr. Balaur. We've been expecting you, please come in!" Angeline's cheerful voice lilted at a slightly higher pitch than normal.
Al elbowed Roxana, "You know what that means, baby girl, we finna have a looker!"
She wiped away a smudge on the plate before nodding in satisfaction at the finished product, "What about that frenchman with the yacht last week you were schmoozing?"
"Rocks, please, that boy was twink-city-slams and should've stayed over at Tulane by them frats." Al finished decorating with a little dusting of paprika on the remoulade and sighed dramatically, "I have moved on to bigger and better. Just need to pop down to Oz and find myself a daddy."
"What you need is therapy."
"I already have a therapist." Roxana rose a brow, her smile crooked goofily at her eclectic friend's antics. Al popped a hip and gave her a look over his shoulder, "And her name is tequila, baby."
She laughed openly and smacked him on the arm, "Alright, alright, let's get this dinner going, you scoundrel."
They filled their arms with plates and made their way towards the dining room.
With every step, the ringing in her ears grew louder and louder. Roxana frowned and tried stretching her shoulders to shake it off, but no avail. The two turned the corner and placed the plates down in front of each guest, then took a step back to politely let the clients quiet their conversations.
As the chatter died down, Roxana could still only hear the roaring sound that permeated the cavity of her brain. Her arms lit up with goosebumps. What the actual fuck is happening? Her mind was frantic as she looked around at the faces of those dining, a chill crept up her spine in anticipation, and the hairs on the back of her neck shot straight up when her eyes met the sight before her.
Then everything was silent. Save for her heartbeat, which suddenly spiked as if she took off for a marathon. Thump, thump, thump, thumpity.
"Oh fuck." She didn't even hear herself whisper.
But it caught the man's attention and drew it from the woman seated next to him, his head tilted and ears perked at the sound of the beating drum within Roxana's chest.
Slowly, he turned his gaze towards her with a lazy smirk that almost immediately slipped from his face as hers came into focus. His jaw dropped slightly, gaping like a fish out of water for a moment before his eyebrows furrowed and his dark eyes softened in wonder. "Agatha?"