Page 22 of Unexpected Pickle
I turn to him in surprise. “You know who I am?”
“The rest of the chefs have checked in.” He moves my suitcase to the cart and takes the smaller case from my semi-frozen hand. I’ve only been outside for two minutes, tops, and I already feel like an ice sculpture.
I should have put on a hat. You don’t think about them in LA. But here, beanies aren’t a style choice. They’re a necessity.
I follow him into the small lobby. The check-in desk is a small counter with only two attendants.
A young woman smiles at me. “Welcome, Chef Young. Here’s your key card. Art will accompany you to your cabin.”
Cabin? I glance around, expecting to see the usual labyrinth of halls shooting off the main lobby. But there is only a back exit and the entrance to the hotel’s five-star restaurant with the test kitchens we’ll be using for our retreat.
“This way.” Art pulls the cart toward the rear doors.
I take the key card and follow him, a tall, lean figure against the backdrop of a snow. Outside is a courtyard with a wagon wheel of shoveled paths leading to individual cabins.
Art waits for me to catch up. “You might be tempted to dash from your cabin to the kitchen without your coat, but once the sun goes down, you can actually freeze the snot in your nose.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. So bundle up. There’s a room for your coat in the back of the kitchen, and you’ll be assigned a locker for the duration of the retreat. We do lots of chef events here during the slow season.”
The cart bumps along the sidewalk. I wonder if they have a full-time staff member who does nothing but shovels the walk. It’s remarkably clean.
Art sees me looking. “Pretty slick, eh? We run steam under the sidewalks so they are always warm and clear.”
“Wow.”
We pass the other cabins until we reach the farthest one. Makes sense, I guess, since I was the last to check in. We don’t see a single sign of life anywhere. Is everyone holed up in their cabins, or am I missing an event?
I hate being late. And left out. My exhaustion pulls on me, and I realize I’m hungry, too.
Art pauses in front of the door and takes my key. “The butter tart and beaver tail cider party begins at eight.”
Oh, thank goodness. Food and people. But what did he say?
“Beaver tails?” I picture a chef whacking the tail off the backside of a critter.
Art grins. “An Ontario tradition. It’s fried dough, flattened like a beaver tail.”
What a relief. Chefs can totally shame each other into eating the oddest things. I’ll never forget my first Rocky Mountain Oysters. Which are not oysters. “Sounds fun.”
He opens the door and waits for me to enter. “I expect you’ll learn some new dishes here.”
The room is incredibly warm compared to the walk to reach it. “We’re here for sports nutrition, though.”
“The hotel prides itself on its Canadian specialties. Have you had poutine?” The cart bumps over the entrance to the cabin.
“Is that the cheese curd dish?”
“The one and only.”
“I had some in Montreal.” I was deliriously tired, but vaguely remember eating it.
He nods, setting my suitcase on a stand and the smaller bag on top. “Excellent. Have an enjoyable evening. Call us at the front desk if you need anything. And don’t forget your coat.” He opens the door and peers at the snowfall. “It’s definitely February in Ontario.”
I don’t know what he means by that, but I’m too tired to think about it. I lie across the bed, intending to only gather my strength. The ceiling is pretty…
I pop awake.
