Page 5 of Christmas with the Irish Devil
He smiles, just barely. “The mushrooms—Cesare’s mushrooms, yes?”
“From a very exclusive source.” I nod. “Only grows wild. I’ve checked.”
“Did you forage them yourself?” He is needling me, but not unkindly.
I meet his eyes steadily. “That would be telling.”
He glances at the menu board, then back at me. “You’re curing duck today. I can smell the juniper.”
“Are you here to eat or just critique my mise?” I shoot back.
He leans closer, voice even softer. “A bit of both. I wanted to see what you’d do with them.” He nods at the mushrooms, now sautéing in a pan so hot they’re almost singing.
I hesitate, just for a heartbeat, then plate a portion with roasted roots and a smear of the vegan demi-glace I invented on a dare. I slide it across to him, daring him to reject it.
He eats with the slow, methodical intensity of a judge on a televised cooking show, though I know he’d rather die than be filmed. The other line cooks watch him, pretending not to. Even the chef lurks by the walk-in, arms folded, pretending to check the temp log.
Declan finishes, sets down the fork, and nods once. “Perfect,” he says. Not the word I expect, or even want, but it’s enough.
He walks away without paying. He knows I’ll comp it. I watch him leave, shoulders squared, and think about the way he always exits—not retreating, but making space for whatever comes next.
After service, Oscar corners me by the back sink. “Who is that guy, really?”
I consider the answer. “Old friend,” I say, which is a lie, or a prophecy, or maybe just a placeholder for the real story.
I wipe down my station and keep my head down, drowning out the possibility of everything else in the reality of work. The kitchen is not a penance. It’s a portal. You step in as one person, you step out as another, and everything you slice or stir or burn in the process is just proof that you were here.
Declan will be back, I’m sure of it.
By 10:19, The Copper Clover is gutted and gleaming, like the aftermath of a polite crime scene. The tables are wiped, the hoods are humming down to a purr, and my hands smell permanently of garlic and bleach. I slide into my jacket and,just as I expected, I find Declan waiting by the door, sipping from a flask. He’s alone, no entourage, and the way he stands—shoulders angled toward the exit, eyes on the sidewalk—tells me this is not a trap or a test. He nods once he sees me and pockets the flask after hastily mouthing “coffee”. I believe him.
“Walk with me?” he says, not quite a question.
I check my phone, pretending to look for messages, and find nothing but spam and a desperate coupon from a meal-kit company. “Sure,” I say. “But if you try to murder me, at least do it near a T stop. I’d like my body to be discovered before brunch.”
He laughs, hands in pockets, and leads the way. The night is cold, clear enough that you can smell the Charles from a mile away, all algae and old secrets. We walk in silence for a block, matching strides. My boots squeak. His shoes don’t make a sound.
“You always this intense after hours?” he asks, voice pitched low.
“I’m not intense,” I say. “I’m efficient.”
“You’re both,” he says, as if he’s tasting the words.
We pass under the orange glow of a streetlight, and I realize he’s looking at my profile, studying the cut of my jaw like it might reveal the secret ingredient. I refuse to give him the satisfaction, so I steer us toward the river, away from the busy drag, into the softer edges of the city.
At the corner, he stops in front of a place I’ve never noticed—neon sign burned out, window display equal parts sad and charming. It’s a bakery, or maybe an all-night café, but inside it’s nearly empty except for a woman in a puffy coat drinking tea and a barista who looks like he’s been awake since the Bush administration.
“Hungry?” Declan asks.
“Always,” I admit. It’s the closest I get to vulnerability tonight.
We sit at a two-top by the window. He orders coffee for both of us and a plate of pastries. He watches me bite down on a croissant, not in a creepy way, more like he’s waiting for a verdict. “Your grandmother taught you to cook?” he asks, breaking a biscotti in half.
“She tried,” I say, picking at the bread. “Mostly, she taught me to swear at dough and never trust a man who won’t eat garlic.”
“That’s sound advice.”
“Isn’t it?” I say, then, “What about you? Did you always want to be a—what is it you actually do?”
