Part 12 (1/2)
”I'm not telling,” she said with a self-satisfied smile. ”Chef's secret.”
”Figures. Put this on the menu, along with everything else I questioned.”
Her smile turned smug. ”I already did. Naomi called the order in to the printer this morning.”
CHAPTER FOUR.
”WILL SOMEONE GET the G.o.dd.a.m.n salmon off the back burner,” Burt growled, his low voice thick with fury.
”It's not my salmon, you sonofab.i.t.c.h,” Juan told him, then plunged his knife into a leek and neatly sliced it in two.
Penny ignored the usual high level of profanity, the male posturing and the jostling as her new kitchen staff learned to work together. Over time they would perfect a delicate dance that provided meals at rapid speed, while maintaining taste and quality, but for the first few nights there would be plenty of mishaps.
Nothing huge, Penny thought, willing the fates to smile on her. A c.o.c.ktail party for five hundred was just the warm-up. Tomorrow they would be serving dinner for real.
Edouard, her sous-chef, whipped up more sauce for the corn cakes. ”The salmon is mine,” he said, not bothering to look up as he drizzled in extra-virgin olive oil. ”You girls leave it alone.”
A restaurant kitchen was mostly a man's world. Penny had learned to deal with it in culinary school. At first she'd been shocked by the insults, pet names that would make a hardened criminal blush and the need for even more creative swearing. In time she'd come to see it as little more than the specialized language of the kitchen. She didn't usually partic.i.p.ate, but if necessary, she could nail every one of her staff with enough profanity to shock them into silence. Still, she preferred to pick her battles.
Someone dropped a tray of honey-grilled shrimp on the counter. Naomi immediately went to work dressing the plates, first squirting on a dollop of sauce, then adding a sprig of herb and a dusting of green onion. There were demi-cups of lobster bisque, delicately balanced waffle fries with tiny bits of batter-fried fish on top, seared salmon on corn cakes and an a.s.sortment of desserts.
Penny couldn't hear much over the hiss of the steamer, the roar of the grill and the chatter of the staff, but a glance at the clock told her the c.o.c.ktail party had been underway at least thirty minutes.
”I have to go,” she muttered, unb.u.t.toning her coat as she headed to her office.
”Yes,” Edouard called after her. ”If you do not go now, we won't get any of the credit for the food. Go. Mingle. Come back and tell us we are brilliant.”
”Sure thing,” Penny said, then slipped into her office. She closed the door behind her and shrugged out of her coat.
Underneath she wore a low-cut silk sweater and a black jacket that matched her slacks. She'd traded in clogs for high-heeled boots. Her long hair hung loose, which made her a complete disaster for the kitchen, but her job tonight wasn't about cooking-it was about making nice with Cal's definition of Seattle's beautiful people.
She checked her makeup, then stepped back as her door opened. Naomi stuck her head in.
”There are two waiters I'm considering,” her friend said. ”I need your help in picking. I'll point them out to you and you can let me know what you think.”
”Okay.”
Naomi smiled. ”You look nervous. Don't be. It's going great.”
”You've been in the kitchen. You can't know that any more than I do.”
”I have a feeling.” She paused. ”Wasn't that a song from the movie Flashdance?” She hummed for second. ”Or is it 'What a Feeling'? I'm dating myself, aren't I? Would it help if I said I was twelve when I saw the movie?”
”Were you?”
”I honestly can't remember.”
Naomi had turned forty last December and had celebrated with a long weekend in Mexico and a string of hunky cabana boys. Penny had always admired her friend's ability to make her own fun.
”Nice sweater,” Naomi said, nodding at the emerald green fabric.