Page 43 of The Second Chance in the Mediterranean
“I hate mint,” he said.
“But you’re always so minty fresh. Who doesn’t like mint? It’s not like I fed you cilantro.”
He grunted and rubbed his belly. “I love cilantro.”
“You are weird.”
“Mint things are always green desserts, and, like, leave the healthy green crap out of my dessert, okay?”
“Right, never mind the sugar and heavy creams.” I winked at him.
“Speaking of sugar.” He tugged at my elbow. “Two minutes,” he said.
“Wait, wait, wait.” I finished the last row on the tray and set the piping bag aside, before letting Seb pull me away from the counter and wrap his arms around me.
I straightened my back and tried to stretch, stiff from bending over the trays and piping out choux pastry puffs and macarons. Seb’s strong hands reached around behind me and kneaded my muscles. I fell limp against him.
“Now, I’m not trying to get in your pants,” Seb teased.
I ducked my face into his neck. “I know. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s all right. I know you are under a lot of pressure. But it smells amazing in here, and the dishes are looking beautiful. I know you have a long night ahead of you, but you’ll be great.”
We stood like that for as long as we could, until the door upstairs opened and sunlight and voices echoed down the stairwell. Seb pulled away, giving my shoulder one last squeeze. I sighed and bent over again, picking the piping bag back up.
Time flowed around me, and sometime later the call on the radio came in that Justin and Natasha were ready and we were upping anchor bound for Petriti. The scenery outside my window changed, but I barely noticed.
The anchor dropped, the stews came in and bustled around, setting up the table for dinner service, and I fielded questions over silverware and place settings. Justin and Natasha had sundown cocktails on the bow, and I checked the table on the main deck.
Catarina had perfectly complemented the meal with modern votives and local fresh flowers. Will was mixing craft cocktails, also tasters for the regatta event.
I sidled up to Catarina. “Any last-minute advice?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you all day. Natasha will love the croquembouche, and the menu is diverse. I think...I think they will like it.”
With my nervous energy and barely contained excitement, I wanted to hover, just to besurethe spark was there when Justin and Natasha saw the setup. But Cat had shown her confidence in me, and I wanted to support her, too. I forced myself to leave.
Back downstairs I discovered a new quote on the whiteboard.
“Hard work should be rewarded with good food.” —Ken Follett
* * *
“Natasha may bethe most infuriating person I’ve ever worked for.”
It was two a.m. and my declaration was met with looks of sympathy from Cat and Roy.
“She’s—” Roy began.
I rounded on him. “She’s what? Particular? Frustrating? So goddamn picky?”
The dishes were nearly done, and I had a list of notes for almost every single dish I’d served tonight. My menu had been good—really good—but Natasha was pickier than any chef I’d ever worked for. And some of the notes were asking for a trial-and-error approach.Would this be better with au jus instead of bone broth?More subtle flavor on the lavender.AndLet’s rework all of this for tomorrow.
Instead of a meal out, as originally planned, I had to repeat the whole thing all over again. Perhaps not the whole thing—some of the dishes Natasha had found satisfactory enough not to remark on. The only compliment I received was on the langoustine with caramelized endive and kumquat-sake gelée, about which Natasha remarked, “Heavenly.”
Okay, at least I had one real winner of a dish.
“Natasha is incredibly particular in all aspects of her life. She’s been wildly successful in doing so, and she can afford to demand the absolute best,” Cat said soothingly.
