Page 79 of Chef's Kiss at the Chalet
“I did. And the pantry.”
“Everyone look around,” I called out to the other three sous. “Who has sage at their station?”
They all dropped what they were doing and searched. I darted around the kitchen, checking shelves and cabinets.
Fuck.
It wasn’t here. Not a single tiny sprig. I didn’t know what had happened. Maybe I’d left it behind at the market. Or forgotten it entirely. There were so many things on the list and I was on my own with so many components running through my head. But we were too deep into prep now. I definitely couldn’t leave, and I couldn’t spare a set of hands to send them down the mountain and back.
Shit!
“Stand by,” I barked.
I grabbed my phone and stepped outside, frantically dialing Megan. It had started snowing harder sometime in the last couple of hours, and already it was several inches deep, coming down in thick puffs like cotton balls. The wind blew sideways, piling the snow up against the house. I hadn’t seen it snow this hard since the blizzard, and I wondered if the guests would even make it up the mountain before they closed the road.
“Hello?” Megan answered on the second ring.
“I have an emergency,” I told her, nearly hyperventilating at this point. “Sage. I need a fuck-ton of sage. However you can get it, and run it up to the house. Tell them I sent you and to put it on the Hawthorne account. I’ll settle up first thing in the morning.”
“I’m getting in my car right now,” Megan said. I heard the jingle of her keys and a door slam behind her. “Don’t worry, Elle. I’ve got you. See you soon.”
I dashed back to the kitchen. “Sage is coming. We’ve got to push now.”
“Heard,” they collectively shouted back.
In the meantime, I started reducing my figs with sugar in wine, while my bacon rendered on the stove.
Eventually, Ali came into the kitchen to announce guests were arriving.
“How’s everything going in here?” she said, dressed in a tailored black suit with her hair pulled back in a tight French twist.
“Great,” I lied. “Right on schedule.”
I caught a few wondering eyes from the sous chefs, but chose to ignore them while we all put our heads down to work.
“Let’s line up the plates for the canapés,” I told them.
Twenty at a time, we plated the prawns, endives, meatballs, crostini, and pinwheels. Everything but the damn squash that was sitting on the stove waiting for sage breadcrumbs.
“Wow, it’s getting hectic in here, huh?” Charles entered the kitchen, looking dapper in his tux. I felt him strolling among the sous behind me but I didn’t turn to acknowledge him. “Need me to jump in on some mac and cheese balls? I think I’m ready for the big leagues, coach.”
He came to stand beside me, so I darted away to find something that needed doing in the pantry. Still, he followed me.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asked, trailing behind as I went to the walk-in fridge and then back to the stove.
“Pretty busy,” I said curtly.
“Alright. Just wanted to wish you good luck.” His voice was confused. “Or, break a leg? I’m not really sure of the kitchen lingo.”
“Yep, thanks.”
“Elle?” He put his hand on my arm and I pulled away. “What’s going on?”
“I’m working,” I told him sharply. “I need you to leave.”
Charles recoiled. He watched me for a moment, visibly wounded by my coldness. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t pain me to ignore him, but I’d already made a promise to myself. This was the way it had to be.
“Alright,” he said, backing away. “I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”
