I wrinkled my nose in thought. “Thenyou should know better than ancho. And you should have told me you had a secretinternet identity.”
“It’s only secret from the generalpublic. I thought it would be better not to give angry diners a platform tohunt me down.” I could actually understand that since I also went by avariation of my name.
“So, it’s Killian James Quinn?”
He nodded. “And you’re Vera Foodiethe Food TruckDelane?”
“May,” I confessed. “Vera MayDelane.”
We acknowledged each other’s fullnames with a shared look of satisfaction. Turning back to the table, he tiltedhis head, examining the table of peppers once again. “Hatch?”
“Ding, ding, ding.” A warm feelingfizzed through me, like my insides were suddenly carbonated. “They are myfavorite. But I’m actually interested in theshishitos.”
His gaze found mine again, so green,like freshly mowed grass or Christmas-worthy evergreens. “What are youthinking?”
“Skirt steak tacos with roastedshishitos, crumbledcotijacheeseand braised lettuce.”
His eyebrows shot up at the sametime his eyes flashed with something like surprise. “You should squeeze freshlemon over the top instead of lime.”
It was my turn to be surprised. Thatwas a great idea. Different enough to be interesting. Acidic enough to bringthe dish together. “Good idea, Quinn. You should be a chef or something.”
He chuckled at my lame joke. “Areyou telling me there won’t be any meatballs for me?”
I shrugged and tossed a casual,“Sorry, you’re in charge of your own balls this weekend,” before I turned tothe vendor and talked pepper quantities and prices.
Killian laughed outright but let mehaggle in peace. As soon as I finished and paid, agreeing to pick up mypurchase at the end of my shopping, he jumped in with his own questions.
Where I’d been mostly interested inbeing able to afford the peppers I wanted, Killian had a long list of questionsto ask. He didn’t care about price—and he wouldn’t have to since he wasn’tpaying for these peppers out of his pocket. He was more interested in soilquality and sunlight exposure. He wanted to know spice variants and hybridprocedures. He spent the next twenty minutes tasting them raw, deliberatingover each bite.
I watched him with unfiltered awe.He let me without calling me on it. Instead, he generously offered to give mebites as well, asking my opinion, discussing the crispness or heat or sweetnessof each one. He asked question after question about the future of each breed.What would the hatch taste like in the fall? The serrano?
Then he turned to me and hinted atdish ideas he was mulling over for the autumn menu. He wanted to know mythoughts on pepper-protein combinations. What did I think would go best withflank steak? With frog legs? With tofu?
I blinked at him. “Tofu?”
“Ezra’s idea,” he explained. “Hewants a more vegetarian/vegan-friendly menu. He says we’re ignoring a hugeconsumer base.”
“Is that true?”
He lifted one shoulder. “People donot come toLiloufor their diversity-friendly menu.They want the best meal of their life. Not tofu.”
His frustrated resignation lacedeach word, broadcasting his feelings on the topic. “Ezra won’t listen to you?”I guessed.
“Ezra is a businessman. A damn goodone. But he doesn’t know the first thing about food.” He picked up a jalapenoby the stem and examined one side of it, the cracked, brownish lines thatsnaked over it like veins. You could tell just by looking at those dried outvines that it would be a spicy one. “That won’t stop him from getting involved,though.”
“Does he always give you input onyour menus?”
Killian reached out to shake thevendor’s hand, then inclined his head, indicating I should follow him. We threwour empty coffee cups away and wandered through the clustered aisles of themarket, stepping over the larger puddles on the wet asphalt.
It took a minute before he answeredmy question. “Always. I don’t think I can even call them my menus. They’re his.They follow his vision for his restaurant. I work for him.”
We stepped up to a stand with differentvariants of greens and root vegetables. “It almost sounds like you don’t likeworking at one of the best restaurants in the city, Killian Quinn. Good thing Iknow better.”
“Do you? Know better I mean.”
“Ezra might needlessly put his handson everything you do, but he can’t cook for you. You’re the one that makes thefood. You’re the one that’s responsible for the restaurant’s reputation. Thathas nothing to do with Ezra.”
He shoved his hands in the pocketsof his jeans. “But it does. It’s not really my food. It’s not really myrestaurant. As far as reputations go, I’m just good at cooking other people’s ideas.”
