And on top of that, I needed to takethe kitchen for a test run, to see what was possible in this confined space. Ialso had to decide what I would have to make beforehand at the commissarykitchen—the industrial kitchen I rented that was health code safe and rich withstorage space.
My goal had been gourmet cuisinewith street food flare. I’d even imagined my first food blogger or magazine writeup to include exactly that phrasing. Now I was contemplating serving frozenfrenchfries and hot dogs—I knew I couldn’t screw those up.Plus, they were tried and true crowd favorites.
If my efforts to revolutionize thissection of downtown with fancy truck food failed, I always had the classics tofall back on.
But I wouldn’t.
Fisting my hands into determinedballs of confident strength, I steeled my resolve for the umpteenth time. I hadalready failed as badly as possible. I had already crashed and burned.
Foodiewasn’t going to be a leap towardgreatness, but it would be a step out of hell. It would be a lunge in thedirection of salvation and the redemption for my first love—food.
Goodfood.
The best food.
I opened my eyes, not realizing Ihad closed them, and my gaze immediately fell on a white-washed squarestructure across the street. Most of the buildings lining the cobblestone plazawere tall, red brick and accented with iron.Liloustood like a lone beacon of farmhouse fresh in a sea of early nineteenthcentury architecture.
The acclaimed restaurant wasdelicate and gentle while the other buildings in the plaza shouted loud, strongand imposing. Soft when everything surrounding it was hard and unyielding.Cultured when strobe lights poured from basement windows and heavy bass bouncedaround the plaza once darkness fell.
Lilouwas the culmination of all my pastdreams and forgotten ambitions. The kitchen was the best in the city. Thereservation list was scheduled a month out. The wait staff was rumored to haveto go through restaurant boot camp before they were even considered foremployment. The owner, Ezra Baptiste, was a shrewd restaurateur famous forthree successful restaurants all allegedly named after past girlfriends.
And the current chef? A legend inthe industry. At thirty-two, he’d already earned a Michelin Star and the respectof every major restaurant critic, food blogger and worthy food and wine magazineacross the country. He’d made executive chef of his first kitchen by twenty-five.By twenty-eight he’d been given the James Beard award for Outstanding Chef. Bythirty-one he’d grabbedLilouan OutstandingRestaurant award. Rumored to be a total ass and dictator in the kitchen, KillianQuinn’s dishes were inspired and fresh, perfect to the point of obsession, butmost of all, his refined recipes and plate presentation were copycatted allover the country.
Or so I’d read in the latest issueofFood and Wine, and the hundreds ofarticles I’d perused online during my research once my brother offered hisparking lot forFoodie—directlyacross the street fromLilou.
I’d watched Quinn’s rise to stardomclosely during my culinary school days, fascinated by his luck and success. Butover the last couple of years my interest in his career had faded along withthe other important things in my life. Only when Vann mentioned my potential“competition” across the plaza did I rememberLilouand where it was located, forcing me to also remember the powerhouse chef thatI would possibly share customers with.
I found myself gazing across theparking lot, admiring the simple design ofLilou; thesubtle, simple banner that declared its famous name and the uncomplicateddesign aesthetic so different from my flashy, trendy truck across the street.
“He’s not my competition,” I mumbledto myself, swearing it like an oath.
And he wasn’t. Our clientelewouldn’t be the same. Or if they were, we’d be serving them at different times.He would get them for dinner service and I would lure them in later, afterthey’d been drinking and dancing all night.
I didn’t want his customer’sextravagant tips; I wanted their business when they left the nightclubs andmade bad, late night decisions. Decisions that more than likely includedsearching for a late night, greasy fourth meal.
Killian Quinn offered them a once ina lifetime dining experience. I offered comfort food that would cure hangovers.
Liloumight be the precise image ofeverything I’d given up, of the dreams I’d pissed away and the life I couldhave had… but a restaurant like that wasn’t my competition.
So why did I feel so intimidatedstanding in its shadow?
ChapterTwo
I wasn’t supposed to open until thisweekend. Molly and I had been furiously working to get theFoodiesignage and kitchen ready since I’d returned home with onlya tiny bit of savings left to my name, the promise of an early inheritance and thiscrazy, absolutely insane idea.
Thank God, Molly had missed me duringmy European escape. She put up with my obsessive planning and preparations justto spend time with me. I couldn’t have gotten this far without her, but shecouldn’t hold my hand forever. Especially when go time was here.
Molly could paint the ceiling of theSistine Chapel blind, one hand tied behind her back on banana leaves but shecouldn’t make toast without setting the fire alarms off.
And maybe I was exaggerating hertalent a teensy bit, but only because seventeen years of friendship and undyingloyalty swayed me.
Vann’s head popped through the opendoor, his face scrunched up with concern. “Were you serious about no food?”
I tore my eyes offLilouand gave him an apologetic shrug. “Thursday,” Ipromised him. “I’ll be firing all engines for an entire day’s worth of foodtesting. You can be my guinea pig.”
“Fine,” he huffed. “But I expectbreakfast, lunch and dinner.”
“You’re a workaholic,” I accusedhim. “That store is going to ruin your life.”
