Author's Note: I am in no way connected with Gabriel fuckin Rucker or anyone else from the restaurants mentioned herein. If you somehow landed here cuz you're part of their PR team or whatever…I'm so sorry. Enjoy your most unhinged media mention ever.
- two: floating -
may .:. bella
The stack of milk crates I'm using as a makeshift desk while I keep an eye out for Billy is decidedly not stable enough to type on.
The whole thing wobbles precariously as I tap on my laptop keys, trying to magic a positive number from this absolutely unworkable budget spreadsheet.
At least the money I'm getting from selling the arcade games will bring the angry red total at the bottom a little closer to zero.
But not close enough.
A sharp rap on the glass makes me start, and I barely catch my ancient Dell before the whole tower topples over.
"Yo Belly!"
I shoot an exasperated look at Jake Black and his buddy Quil, both pulling faces at me through the giant bay windows I'd uncovered sandwiched between the Dive's old vinyl siding exterior and 70s-era wood paneling inside. And thank God for that—new windows definitely would not have helped my little spreadsheet problem.
I spot the Blackheart Farms delivery truck on the street behind them. They must've just finished their morning run.
"Hey, kid."
Billy ambles through the front door like he owns the place, with his employee Eleazar close behind him.
I've always got a big smile for Billy Black. I'm careful not to knock the milk crates when I stand up and let him wrap me in a back-slapping hug.
The kind only a dad can give.
He pulls away too soon, and I have to swallow hard to get rid of the lump that suddenly appeared in my throat.
"Damn," he says, looking around the almost-empty space that had been the Swan Dive for almost three decades. The only things left are the four arcade games and pool table I've sold to a sports bar out on the other side of 205—aside from my makeshift plastic crate table and stool, that is. "How does it look smaller without all the crap?"
I shrug. "Probably a quantum physics thing. What do I know, I dropped out of college."
He laughs, belly-deep and warm.
"Thanks for helping me with the delivery, by the way," I add, dipping into my front pocket for a crumpled twenty I'd stuffed in there earlier. "For the gas."
Billy gives me a stern look and pushes my hand away as I hold the bill out. "Don't be stupid. It's on our way back to the farm, anyway."
I don't try to argue. Lord knows I don't have the luxury of turning down free help.
Jake and Quil burst through the door, Quil leaning back on a dolly that Jake's pushing with way more force than seems necessary for his buddy's much-smaller frame
"Watch it!" Quil yelps as the dolly rattles over the busted transition strip in the threshold, but Jake just laughs.
"Idiots," Billy mutters, but he's smiling. They ignore him in favor of loading up the first of the arcade games on the dolly. "Eleazar brought you a breakfast burrito, by the way. He said you don't eat enough."
The short, stocky man grins at me, holding out a foil-wrapped tube. I roll my eyes but take it with a soft gracias. I know Eleazar understands more English than he speaks—but I like to try, anyway. Mostly in an attempt to resurrect the high school Spanish that's been buried by all my years in France.
The burrito's still warm. I can tell Eleazar's just gonna stare at me until I eat at least some of it, so I rip off the top of the foil and take a bite.
And moan involuntarily.
"Oh, that's good," I mumble around the mouthful of perfectly-seasoned egg, chorizo, and potato. "Where'd you get it?" There's some decent taco joints along 82nd but surely I would remember if one had a breakfast burrito like this.
"Yo lo hice," he says proudly.
"I didn't know you could cook." I'm already shoving in another bite before I've swallowed the first. It's studded with avocado and some sort of chile, too, warm and just the right amount of spicy. Yum. I hadn't even noticed I was hungry until I started eating.
"Ay, Bella," he admonishes, shaking a finger at my full mouth theatrically. "Tan maleducada eres."
I don't understand that word, but I get the gist, so I just smile sheepishly as I chew—but with my lips pressed firmly together.
"He worked at a restaurant in Juarez for a few years," Billy chimes in. His Spanish is way better than mine, and they get a lot of time to chat while they're tending the massive garden plots at Blackheart.
I give Eleazar a curious look, but make sure to swallow my food before I open my mouth. "I thought you were from Honduras."
"Sí. Pero me quedé en México unos años, esperando a Carmen."
His wife, who I've met a few times when Billy's had me out for dinner. I remember now—Eleazar left Honduras without her so he could raise the money for her journey.
"The two of them sell tamales around Canby during the holidays," Billy says. "People go nuts for 'em."
A stream of grunted profanity makes us all look up at Quil and Jake—who are struggling to settle the battered Pac-Man machine on the dolly.
"Hey, careful!" I bark. "That thing's worth like two grand."
The two chucklefucks have the decency to look abashed, at least.
Eleazar gives me a silly little salute and goes to lend them a hand. I watch him speculatively as he guides them through the process of strapping the game down. He's a hard worker, and I've always liked his calm, upbeat demeanor. And if he has experience in professional kitchens…
Billy claps a friendly hand on my shoulder, chuckling. "Better get your head chef sorted before you start poaching my staff."
I snort, shifting my gaze back to him. "I was just thinking."
He's looking older, I realize with a start. His thick black hair is shot through with silver threads, and his tan face, always craggy, is definitely more lined than this time last year. I know he had a few years on Charlie, but still. He's always seemed ageless to me.
"Well. It's not a bad idea," Billy admits. "I'd be sad to lose him, but I don't think he wants to do farm work forever." He cranes over my shoulder to where my laptop is perched. "How's that going?" He motions vaguely, but I know exactly what he's asking.
"The investment proposal?" He nods, and I shrug. "It's going."
Billy crosses his arms over his barrel chest, and I recognize the look he's giving me all too well. It's the same one he and my dad used to gang up on me with whenever I bombed a test, or the time I tried to sneak a bottle from Charlie's private wine stash.
"Carlisle said the reno budget in the first draft you sent him was totally unrealistic. Way too low."
Anger flares. "I know. I'm working on it."
Billy raises a brow, but drops it. Unlike my dad, he knows when to back off. He leans against a support beam—one of the three that's gonna cost a fortune to replace with a header to improve the layout. But as my would-be investor Carlisle Cullen told me in our last meeting, you can't cut corners with these things. Not in fine dining.
"Made a delivery over at Le Pigeon today."
Billy's deliberately idle tone catches my attention.
"Let me guess." I lay the irony on thick. "You think I should poach Gabriel fuckin Rucker from his own restaurant."
Billy laughs. "Well, if anyone could do it, it's you, Bells."
The familiar nickname makes my stomach drop. I avoid Billy's eyes, but I know that he's looking at me with sympathy. I'm sick of that look. Always makes me cry. And I'm determined to be done with the wallowing.
"No, I was gonna say I met their new prep guy." He's watching his son, Eleazar, and Quil tip the pool table onto its side. "Well, he's more of a floater. They've got him bouncing between LP and both the Canard locations when they need an extra hand."
"I thought you just told me not to worry about the line yet."
Billy shifts his weight slightly. "I think you should talk to him for head chef."
That makes me laugh. "Oh, yeah, ok, sure. From dicing onions straight to getting a brand-new kitchen off the ground. Makes sense."
He sighs. "Look, he's not some wet-behind-the-ears kid. He's got exec chef experience. Name's Edward Masen. Ever heard of him?"
I just shrug.
"He just moved out here, been picking up shifts all around town to build his network. Not just for Rucker—Langbaan, Scotch Lodge, St Jack…but word on the street is he's looking for a full-time gig."
It's an impressive list. But even I know working the line is not the same as being in charge.
"Where'd he come from?"
"Chicago, originally. But he worked in New York for about a decade. Got his start at a place called Su Mare—Sardinian, two stars."
That does more than ring a bell. "Isn't that Marco Volturi's place?"
"Yeah. Old man passed the reins to Masen when he retired."
I frown. That's a big name. But something's not adding up.
"So then, what's a Michelin-starred CDC doing floating in Portland?"
Billy shrugs, and I'm immediately suspicious.
"Billy," I say flatly, a demand.
"Rucker said there was some to-do with Marco's nephew." I can tell he's reluctant to tell me. "Aro. He's a money guy, fancies himself a restaurateur—you know the type. He got Masen to quit Su Mare and open his own place, but I guess it didn't work out. He's been laying low in Chicago for a bit, but sounds like he's ready for a comeback."
Uh-huh. There it is.
I wrinkle my nose. "A comeback? Sounds risky, Billy."
I can see him fighting the urge to grab me by the shoulders and give me a good shake. "C'mon, kid. His resume is like a damn Best NYC Restaurants of the Decade list. Aquavit. Blue Hill. Per Se and Le Bernardin, for Chrissake. That's gotta at least be worth a look, even if he did flame out once."
"Just met him today, huh? Impressive that you've got his whole life story memorized," I grumble. I don't want to admit that the list is dazzling.
But nothing will kill my restaurant faster than an unreliable chef.
Billy shows no hint of embarrassment at being called out in a white lie. "Look, I like the guy," he says sincerely. "He really gets it. And just as important, he's gettable."
I feel my resolve crumbling. Billy supplies the best produce to the best restaurants in a town known for its great produce and even greater restaurants. He knows talent when he sees it.
"So what, he complimented your spring greens?" I joke weakly.
"The fiddleheads, actually."
I roll my eyes. A futile last stand against the unrelenting tide of Billy's enthusiasm. But I know I'm already caving.
"I'm not asking you to hire him sight unseen," he wheedles. "Just talk to him. I think you'll be impressed. But if you're not, no harm, no foul. You'll be in the exact same spot you're in now."
I break. "Ugh. Fine, you win. Tell him to email me."
Billy slaps my back, grinning. "Great! He'll be here for an interview tomorrow at noon. Resume's in your inbox."
"Unbelievable," I seethe, but he just laughs.
"Try to remember to put on a clean sweatshirt, at least," he calls over his shoulder as he walks out the door.
I peek out after him and see the four of them climbing into the cab, Jake and Quil squashed in the back and Billy and Eleazar up front. They must have finished loading while I was distracted by our little conversation.
"Check your email," Billy mouths at me through the glass. Then, with a wave, they're off.
I look around. The room is empty. Nothing left but the original pine floorboards, desperately in need of refinishing and a massive patch job where the old bar had stood. Even the walls are bare, stripped down to the cracking plaster. The building's over a hundred years old, hasn't been touched since my dad bought it in the 90s—and even then it wasn't much more than a few coats of paint over the previous owner's 1970s overhaul.
Why did I ever think I could do this?
The panic is settling in around me, a familiar suffocating cloak. But I can't afford it right now.
WIth a great effort, I shake it off and return to my perch on the milk crate. Deep breath. Let it out.
And then I open Gmail, where sure enough, a message from Edward Masen boldly dominates the top of my inbox.
Hi Bella,
Hope you're well.
I've been talking with Billy Black about your new restaurant project and I had to make sure I got my resume in front of you early. I find the wine-focused concept really intriguing, especially with your background in the industry. It would be great to hear more about it direct from the source.
Billy mentioned you might be available for an interview tomorrow at noon—if so, I'd love to drop by for a chat. If not, just say the word and we can reschedule.
Looking forward to seeing you again soon.
Cheers,
Edward Masen
Again? I rack my brain. I don't think I've ever met anyone named Edward—and it's an uncommon enough name that surely I'd remember.
Maybe he's got me confused with someone else. Or maybe he's just a weirdo. Wouldn't be the first in the restaurant industry.
I open the PDF attachment.
Billy wasn't exaggerating—not even a little bit. It's two pages filled wall-to-wall with some of the heaviest hitters in New York haute cuisine.
Well, mostly.
I smile a little when I see the first entry from 2005: a dishwashing gig at the Golden Nugget Bar & Grill in Cicero, Illinois. I'll take a wild guess and say no Michelin Guide inspector has darkened that particular door. But I like that he keeps it on the resume—shows he gives the role its proper due.
Honestly, I like it all. With the glaring exception of the very top of the first page, the most recent two entries.
Ten months running a place called Vellum in New York—a glittering flameout funded by Aro Volturi, reading between the lines of what Billy said—followed by three years as the catering chef at the Renaissance Chicago O'Hare.
I know what that means. Wedding banquets for 300. Lunch service in the boardroom for the midwest regional sales team. Chicken Kiev and pasta primavera.
Not a bad spot to lick your wounds, I guess.
But hardly the kind of precedent I want to set for Cygnet.
I don't reply to the email.
Author's Note: Thanks for all the comments on the first chapter! I loved seeing all your questions and theories, as always.
Apologies to the Renaissance O'Hare catering team. I'm sure you serve lovely meals. Bella's just being a bit of a snob.
Footnotes:
Yo lo hice: I made it.
Ay Bella, tan maleducada eres!: Oh, Bella, how rude you are!
Sí. Pero me quedé en México unos años, esperando a Carmen: Yes. But I stayed in Mexico for a few years, waiting for Carmen.
Gabriel Rucker is the chef and owner at Le Pigeon and Canard, both very highly rated restaurants here in Portland. He's a James Beard award winner and one of the biggest names in the PDX restaurant industry.
CDC: Chef de cuisine. Head chef in the French kitchen brigade system. Executive chef, head chef, chef de cuisine are all more or less the same thing (though with some nuance around size of kitchen, number of locations, etc etc).
Langbaan, Scotch Lodge, and St Jack are real Portland restaurants of the high end and highly celebrated variety.
Aquavit, Blue Hill (now called Family Meal at Blue Hill), Per Se, and Le Bernardin are all real Michelin-starred restaurants in NYC.
Cygnet, Vellum, Su Mare, and the Golden Nugget, however, I made up (well, I'm sure there's more than one of that last one, but you get me).
