The Chef's Choice: The Chef's Choice

And he was doing himself absolutely no good by thinking about it. He was working for her parents, Damon reminded himself, walking back into the kitchen. He was supposed to be changing his life, not just taking his act from Manhattan to Maine. Cady was right; they had no business doing anything about whatever it was that was suddenly simmering between them.

But as a chef he knew that the longer you left something on simmer, the stronger it became.

There was a brisk ticking noise from the kitchen. Roman, he saw, on the clock and jumping straight into work.

“You’re in early,” Damon said as the sous chef began to deftly and precisely cube the carrots that they’d use to make the stock for the lobster bisque.

Roman shrugged. “It’s gotten to be a habit.”

“It’s a good way to get ahead.” Damon reached for his knives. “How long have you been cooking, Roman?"

“Going on three years. Took a job cooking the summer after I got out of college. It stuck."

“College, huh? What was your degree in?”

“Business. Kitchen’s for me, though.” He flashed a smile. “My mom about had a stroke. All that tuition money down the drain."

“Not necessarily.” Damon started cleaning beef tenderloins, the sound of his knife against the cutting board providing a brisk counterpoint to the steady tick of Roman’s. “The business degree could come in handy if you ever decide to open your own place."

“No ifs about it, Chef. My wife’s from Rochester. We’re going to go back there in a few years and start a little place of our own. In the meantime, I’ll save money, get better in the kitchen. I figure I can learn something from you. I hear you’re supposed to be a pretty good cook.” He glanced up, humor in his eyes.

Damon looked at the pile of perfect carrot cubes. “You look like a pretty good cook yourself. Now you’ve just got to work on coming up with your own food."

“I try things at home, sometimes.”

“Not here?” Damon methodically sectioned the tenderloins into tournedos.

“Nathan liked to keep pretty tight control of his menu. Since he’s been gone, I’ve pretty much just been keeping up. Not a lot of time for specials."

“Now there is. It’s a good time of year for squash blossoms. Any growers sell them around here?"

Roman snorted. “Not until July. This is Maine.”

“So I’m told,” Damon murmured.

“You want to get them now, you’ll have to have them shipped in."

Damon shook his head. “They’re too delicate. Besides, you can always taste when something’s been shipped."

“Skip the squash blossoms and try fiddleheads,” Roman suggested. “That’s one thing you can get local. They usually have them at the market."

“I must have missed them.” Too busy getting distracted by Cady McBain, he thought, annoyed at himself. “I’ll look again on Saturday. In the meantime, we’ve got ourselves some ramps. Any ideas?"

Roman considered. “Twist a few of those babies around shrimp and give ‘em a nice sauté. Forget about the restaurant. You and me, we could have ourselves a nice dinner.” He switched to celery, his knife a blur.

“Ramp-wrapped shrimp. You ever made it?”

“A couple of years ago when I was working down in Jersey. I put it with a cilantro-lemon sauce but it was too light to stand up to the ramps. I’d probably do it again with something stronger, maybe roasted chilis or smoked paprika.”

“Try it,” Damon suggested.

The knife stopped. “What, now?”

“Sure. One of the farmers from the market is coming to dinner this Saturday with his wife. They’ve got an anniversary to celebrate. Chef’s tasting. His wife likes shrimp and garlic, by the way."

It was both opportunity and test. He watched Roman prep, first the shrimp, then the ramps. The young sous chef ran into trouble when he started to wind the green stalks around the shrimp, though.

“You need to soften them a little.” Damon spoke up. “Sauté the ramps separately and then twist them around the shrimp. Or blanch them."

“A sauté would give more flavor.”

“My thought, exactly.”

This time, Roman worked two sauté pans, one with ramps, one with the shrimp, dusting them with spices and seasoning. He picked the hot ramps out of the pan, wrapping them around the even hotter shrimp. Tough hands, Damon thought, always a good attribute in a chef.

And an ability to multitask. Even as the wrapped shrimp were in the pan for their final sizzle, Roman pulled out a plate and prepped it with a bed of salad. He set the finished shrimp on the lettuce, drizzling them with chili sauce.

“Looks good but let me show you something.” Damon picked up the shrimp pan and pulled out a second plate, this one flat and square. He didn’t bother with the salad, just drizzled a small circle of the transparent red chili pan sauce in the center of the plate and then positioned three shrimp on it with their tails together and pointing in the air like inverted commas. Using a spoon, he carefully dripped small dots of bright green cilantro oil around the plate, the colors vivid against the white porcelain.

“Keep it simple,” he said as he worked. “Go for height, contrast. The sauce goes on the plate, not the food. You get more visual impact that way."

“Yes, Chef.” Roman admired the shrimp. “That plate looks like something else."

“Looks are good, taste is better.” Damon reached out for a shrimp and swabbed it through the colored dots. He took one bite, considered. Squeezed on some lemon and took another. And another. “It’s good,” he said to Roman. “Add some lemon juice to the chili sauce, brighten it up. Plate it the way I showed you, finish it with some micro cilantro."

“We don’t have any.”

“How about the green market?”

“Not that I know of. You’ll have to get it—”

“If you say shipped in, you’re fired.”

“Yes, Chef,” Roman said.

“All right, forget about the microgreens. I’ll figure something out."

He turned back to his tenderloin tournedos, sealing them in plastic storage trays, then pulled Roman’s cutting board toward him. The sous chef stared, knife in hand.

“Well, get to work,” Damon told him. “I’ll finish this. You’ve got another hour to refine the sauce and write it all down and come up with a name."

“A name?”

“Sure. It’s got to have a name if it’s going to be our appetizer special."

Roman grinned. “Yes, Chef.”

Cady always felt calmer in her greenhouse. It wasn’t big as hothouses went, maybe twice the size of her living room, but it was her territory. There was a serenity in the ranks of greenery and the warm, humid air. Out here, shut away from the rest of the inn, she could put her hands in the earth and forget all about difficult guests, pesky clients, unreliable suppliers and other annoyances. Like Damon Hurst.