I was blown away by the response to the first chapter. Thanks for all the follows and feedback. You guys are great, as always.
Emma hung back, watching the scene unfold from the kitchen. Ruby, who ran the front of the house when she wasn't helping Granny run her diner, greeted Regina Mills with a broad smile and an Aperitif (just a sip of Campari), guided her to her table in the dining room, and brought a small stool for her handbag.
Emma watched through the window as Regina took in her surroundings—the lofty ceilings, neatly displayed black and white photography against pristine walls, and deep red curtains—scratching quick notes for herself on her phone.
There was no question—this woman was completely breathtaking. Everything about her was perfectly put together, but that's not why she looked good, Emma decided. Her natural beauty—raven hair like spun silk, creamy Latina complexion, and the most lithe, feminine body Emma had ever seen in person—was affecting to Emma. She knew she was nervous, but the pounding inside her chest had more to do with this woman's physical presence.
Regina looked around, catching sight of an oversized framed black and white picture of David kissing Emma's cheek on her graduation, and her face seemed to soften. To its right, in a place of honor, was a giant picture of August, Ruby, and Emma clinking champagne glasses at the opening of Saviors. Otherwise, the decor was clean and welcoming, although a little austere.
Emma watched as Regina looked carefully at the pictures, even lifting her phone, zooming in, and taking a shot of the photos on the wall. Then she looked down at her phone, and Emma could have sworn she saw the woman smile. But suddenly, as if feeling eyes on her, Regina looked up, and the moment passed, the woman's normal steely expression settling once again upon her face.
Turning back to the action in the kitchen. Emma scrutinized the food that was about to make its way out to Regina. She dabbed a tiny stray dollop of glaze that had escaped from intended destination on the plate, neatly rounding out the complexion of the dish so it achieved visual perfection.
She knew her food was good. Her years of intense study and a good natural palette had assured that Emma's culinary techniques could rival chefs with much more experience. And she had tasted tonight's menu earlier in the day to make sure it reached its full potential. So if the Evil Queen didn't like her food now, Emma was sure she must have some personal vendetta against her. Five other food critics had proclaimed the restaurant (and the chef) to be revelatory, so she didn't need to nail this one so much as she desperately wanted to. Impressing Regina Mills and getting the written confirmation of the achievement was her goal, and it was in her sights.
Emma tried to busy herself in the kitchen and behind the bar as Regina ate, eventually coming out to the dining room to greet some of her guests. When Regina finished her final course, Emma brought her digestif—a rare single batch Scotch Whisky. She carefully placed the drink in front of Regina and stood a short distance from the table.
Regina looked up at her, eyes sparkling with either mischief or mirth, Emma couldn't tell.
"Why Miss Swan. It's wonderful to see you. Thank you for your efforts this evening.
"Of course Miss Mills. It is my pleasure, and I do hope everything was to your liking."
"Won't you sit down for a moment, Miss Swan?"
"Er, ok," Emma said, nervously taking the seat next to her.
"I won't take up too much of your time. I realize you are quite busy this evening. I just wanted to commend you on achieving so much at such a young age. You are quite driven, and it's very impressive."
Could've fooled me, Emma thought. "Thank you. I wish I could have met your expectations the last few times I've had the pleasure to serve you."
Regina seemed surprised by the statement, which in turn surprised Emma.
"I'm not sure what my expectations were, but you clearly have quite the arsenal of skills in the kitchen and anyone would have to be blind not to recognize your talent."
On instinct, Emma's eyes shot downward, always struggling to take ownership of her success and gracefully accept a compliment. But Regina gently slid her hand under Emma's chin and brought her eyes up to meet hers.
"Truly," Regina said, the word sticking in the air with iron-clad integrity.
Despite herself, Emma fought a shiver, and treasonous tears pricked at her eyes.
"Thank you, Miss Mills. I must be going," Emma said, scooting out of her seat and retreating as fast as she could into the kitchen. She could feel Regina watching her as she left, and she just hoped she hadn't completely blown it.
August looked up as she walked into the kitchen, taking note of her teary expression and wide, vulnerable green eyes. He walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder.
"You ok, Swan? If that devil lady was mean to you, I'll rip her heart out and throw it in my soup."
"No, no. Nothing like that. She was completely respectful and really very kind, actually. I think she just caught me off guard. I'm fine, August. Thank you. And thank you for helping me get through tonight."
"That's my job."
As Emma started to walk away, August grabbed her hand, pulling her back in front of him.
"You are the most naturally gifted chef I have ever met. It was true yesterday and it will be tomorrow. Whatever that ogre in Armani says in the paper will not change that."
Emma reached up and kissed his cheek, whispering another thanks in his ear.
"I'm going to get out of here. I think I need to soak in a bath and just chill out for a while with a glass of wiine. Do me a favor and say a big thank you to everyone for tonight for me, will you?"
"Of course, Swan. I'll see you tomorrow."
Emma grabbed her bag and her leather jacket, headed out to her yellow Bug, and sped off to her apartment. She did take a bath and drank a —few—glasses of a perfectly aged Pinot Noir she had been saving, and passed out on her couch watching a Chopped marathon.
When the sun came through her curtains in the morning, she was disoriented, but images of the night before came hurrying back, and she rushed to her computer to pull up Regina Mills's review online. Normally, it would have been buried in the Food section, but it was actually featured on the newspaper's homepage. She held her breath and started to read, and her heart immediately sunk.
SAVIORS HAS ALL THE INGREDIENTS, BUT THERE'S STILL SOMETHING MISSING
By Regina Mills
Nothing you will eat at Saviors—not a single spice or ingredient—is anything short of superb. The layout is airy, and the restaurant's inner workings feel purposeful and not steeped in tradition for tradition's sake. But while the decor and atmosphere are stylish and warm, it's also somewhat stark. But fortunately, the food has star billing, and it is marinated in ingenuity.
My salad was a clever and careful composition of compressed figs and young red beets, Hakurei turnips in wheat berry reduction, red ribbon sorrel, and a coulis of pine nuts, which brought unexpected bursts of flavor. The sumptuous torchon of Élevages Périgord moulard duck foie gras, served with celery-branch batons, candied walnuts, frisée and juniper-balsamic vinegar was the food equivalent of silk sheets—utterly decadent. My server—a fresh-faced girl named Belle—instructed me to spread it thickly on brioche toast, which she kept replacing every few minutes, since (she said) it should only be eaten warm.
Finally, I dined on pan-roasted Massachusetts cod, with applewood smoked bacon, sage-dusted littleneck clams, pickled garlic, over massaged kale. The ingredients—all locally sourced and coaxed into an array of flavors.
There was just one problem—the food at Saviors won't tell you anything about the chef. This was my third time dining at a restaurant run by the prodigious local star, Emma Swan, and while her food was nothing short of dynamic, complex, and creative, diners will leave her restaurants utterly unsure about who Emma Swan is under her shock of long blonde curls and behind the steely green eyes because her food is uninformative and is therefore uninspired. The overall experience is akin to hearing a symphony of spectacular musicians who each aspire to play at their own tempo, leaving the audience unsure of what they are hearing.
Ultimately, the restaurant hits all the compulsory marks, but neglects to stick the landing on the artistry.
If you happen to know what inspired Emma Swan's love of food or where in the culinary arts her passion lies and why, you likely didn't learn it from eating a meal at Saviors (or Charmings, for that matter). But I'd love to know the answers because she's certainly whet my appetite.
Emma read the entire review a second time through, trying to make heads or tails of what she just read. Then a third time. But by the fourth time, she felt pretty low and supremely frustrated. The woman was saying her food was technically sound but didn't convey passion for food or personality. She paced back and forth in her apartment, cultivating a nervous energy that was building to a crescendo. Then she felt her cell phone buzzing in her back pocket. David.
"Hi."
"You're upset? I thought it was great."
"David, seriously."
"I'm totally serious. She is the toughest food critic in the Northeast, and she thought your food was spectacular."
"Yeah and passionless. And that it didn't convey shit about who I am."
"Emma. Listen to me. You are young. It takes time to speak through your food. You'll get there."
"Oh, you agree with her? What the hell, David? You might have told me my food was technically sound but emotionally bland. God, I wish I could just go over to her house and wring her neck. But she probably lives in a penthouse in Boston somewhere?"
"Emma, are you serious? You didn't know she lives in Storybrooke?"
"What? How have I not seen her? This town has like six people in it."
"I've heard she's a little leery of new people. But she actually lives in that big white mansion on Mifflin Street."
"How do you even know that?"
"Her family is legend in this industry. They've owned that house forever. Her father, Henry, was a restauranteur and her mother, Cora, well, she sort of burned the proverbial house down. You know, her life hasn't been much of a fairy tale either, Emma. Cora Mills pretty much single-handedly ruined Regina's chance to become a head chef, which is how she ended up as a food critic. Jeez, Emma, I would have thought you would have researched your nemesis. Keep your enemies close and all that."
"Well aren't you the Regina Mills expert? And yes, if I knew she was going to become such a consistent adversary, maybe I would have done a little more digging. But I've been a little busy. However, I'm on the case now. God, she was actually nice to me last night. I'm such an idiot. She totally has my number. She lulled me into a false sense of security and then nailed me with an uppercut. She really is the Evil Queen."
David was quiet.
"Hello? I thought this was a pep talk."
"No, I was calling to congratulate you. This is the big-time Emma. She said a lot of wonderful things about you and your food, but if you want to focus on the negative, that's up to you."
"You know what? I need to blow off some steam. Thanks for the kudos, but I'm going for a run."
"Later sunshine. Talk to you soon."
"Bye."
Emma hung up and threw on some running clothes, laced up her sneakers, and grabbed her headphones. She started to run at a bruising pace, driven by anger at the fact that she'd had every door flung in her face since birth. Couldn't anything ever come easily? Just once. Before she knew it, Emma had run across town and found herself in a wealthy part of Storybrooke she'd never visited before. She was about to pull up Google Maps when she saw a familiar name on a street sign. Mifflin Street.
"Holy fuck."
Emma slowed to a jog and began looking at each house, trying to determine from the outside which one belonged to Regina Mills. She came to an enormous estate at 108 Mifflin Street, and a dark-haired boy—maybe 15—trotted outside holding a basketball. He caught Emma's eye and offered her a friendly smile.
"Hi."
"Hey, do you live here?"
"Yup. But you don't. I've never seen you before."
"No, I'm kinda new here. I'm looking for someone. Maybe you know… Do you happen to know where Regina Mills lives?"
"Ha, yeah. I know pretty well, actually. She's my mom, and she lives here," he said, gesturing to the house.
"Oh shit. I mean, um, wow. Ok, good to know, thanks," Emma said, turning to leave.
"Well did you want to see her?"
"Umm…" Emma looked down at her sweaty shirt and swiped a hand across her matted ponytail.
"Come on, she's here. What did you say your name was?"
"I'm Emma Swan."
Suddenly his eyes lit up, as if he knew her, which Emma thought was odd.
"The chef?"
"Oh, uh, yes. How did you…"
"I'm Henry Mills. Come inside."