Page 17 of Until August
Parts of it worked. Others, not so much.
Fresh fish and shellfish should be the star of the show.
I got to work, slashing off items and making notes. Not sure how much Nicola would appreciate this, considering that she hadn’t even offered me a job or asked for my help. But I felt compelled to do it anyway.
I suspected she was a good chef, but she was playing it too safe, and her menu was too broad. When you tried to please every customer, the result was too many mediocre dishes that had to go.
To really shine, she needed to narrow her focus. Create a more streamlined, innovative menu. And take bigger risks with her cooking.
I put a big slash through the filet mignon. The most overrated cut of beef. No marbling. No fat. No flavor. Not a fan.
Wild mushroom risotto with shaved truffles. Boring.Fresh prawns and clams. Fish stock. Lemon jam (lemon, sugar, vanilla). Pistachio oil (blitz ‘Sicilian’ pistachios, pecorino, olive oil).
Tuna tataki.Tuna tartare.Mini sesame tacos.Wasabi ponzu.
When the front and back of the menu were covered in my notes, I threw down the pencil and picked up my coffee.
My gaze drifted across the street to a white wooden storefront. Scarlett St. Clair Designs was painted in turquoise above the window displaying painted surfboards and hoodies with a canvas backdrop that looked like a tropical rainforest.
I leaned back and watched the door close behind a willowy brunette. From the back, the woman had looked a hell of a lot like Nicola.
Not much of a coincidence. I was sitting across the street from her restaurant.
Funny how sixteen years later, I could still hear her father’s words warning me to stay away from his daughter. If he saw me now, he’d probably feel the same.
One thing I’d learned in my thirty-four years was that people don’t change that much. I was still trouble. And Nicola was still off-limits.
I tossed the menu in a trash can as I walked away.
I’d find another job and leave her alone.
Last night when she asked what I’d been doing for the past five years, I hadn’t been completely honest. But what was I supposed to say?
I used to be a Michelin-starred chef, but now I’m an ex-con?
Yeah, not sure that would fly.
My phone rang as I climbed into my truck. I swiped my thumb across the screen and answered.
“August? Hey man, heard you were back. It’s Rio.”
CHAPTERSEVEN
Nicola
As soon asI walked in the front door, Scarlett grabbed my arm and dragged me through the shop to her design studio.
When I’d texted her earlier, she insisted I stop by before work to discuss ‘the August Harper situation.’ It felt like high school all over again.
She practically pushed me onto the palm-printed sofa and held up her finger. “Just give me one sec. I want to hear every detail, but I know you operate better on caffeine, so I’ve got you covered.”
If only caffeine was the answer to all my prayers. I reclined on the sofa and stared at the ceiling fan hanging from the vaulted ceiling.
“I can’t believe Pistachio Guy is here,” she called from the other room. I heard mugs clinking and water pouring from the tap. “In Costa del Rey.”
You’re not so easy to forget. “Neither can I.”
“It’s fate. Or that synchronicity you were always talking about. I mean, think about it. What are the chances you’d run into him after all these years?”
