He laughed because he was at least a foot taller than her. “I guess the machine’s working out.”
She nodded and licked the back of her spoon. “One good thing that’s come out of this whole disaster is this.” She pointed at her bowl.
“Ice cream?” he asked, puzzled.
“Cooking. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it. Ironic to star in a cooking show, yet never cook.”
“Why’s that?”
She gave a half shrug and hopped up on the counter. “Not enough time and I have a team who does it for me.”
“It’s too bad because you’re really good at it.” He took another big bite, waited until he swallowed, and said, “This is award-winning.”
“Nah, it’s basic.”
“You mean it’s not some strange, unappetizing flavor like beet or bacon or peanut butter curry. Because I hate that shit. It’s for poseurs.”
She laughed. “It’s plain blackberry ice cream, using your garden-variety French vanilla base. Anyone can make it.”
He took one of the barstools and straddled it backwards. “Why do you always do that? Why do you always have to belittle what you do?”
“I’m just honest.”
He jabbed his spoon in the air. “I used to think it was false modesty, because someone who’s gotten to where you are couldn’t possibly think so little of her qualifications. Now…I don’t know what to think. Is it that you don’t really enjoy cooking, so you tell yourself you’re not good at it?”
She put her bowl down and gave the question some consideration. “I love cooking more than just about anything else in the world. Growing up, the kitchen was the only place where I truly felt that I shined. But I was a kid. I wasn’t being held up against the greatest chefs of our time.”
“We already discussed how I think you measure up to every one of them,” he said. “But never mind that. If you love to cook and people enjoy your food, isn’t that enough?”
“Not according to my mother.” She tried to laugh it off like it was a joke. But he could see right through her.
“You need to get over it, Gina. Your mother’s obsession with perfection was her problem, not yours.”
She hopped down, put the tub back in the freezer, and took the rest of her ice cream to the living room. A signal that discussing her mommy issues was over, which was fine with him. No one would ever mistake Sawyer for a shrink.
“Let me ask you something,” he said and resumed his spot in the chair. “If someone wanted to open a butcher shop and sell their own beef, what would be the best marketing strategy?”
She raised her brows. “Someone? Would that someone happen to be you and your cousins?”
“Yeah.” He finished the last of his ice cream and seriously considered going back for seconds.
“A butcher shop on the ranch as part of the whole agrimall thing you guys are working on?” When he nodded, she said, “It’s ambitious, but smart. Really, really smart.”
“We were talking about your idea to get Jimmy Ray and Laney to open a sarsaparilla stand and I said there won’t be enough foot traffic without an anchor to make it worth their while. But a butcher shop that sells Dalton beef could be that anchor.”
“You’re not big enough.” She did that sexy leg-tuck thing on the sofa again and Sawyer had trouble staying on topic, even though he was pretty sure she’d just insulted him.
“Not yet,” he said. “But we could be. We’ve got everything going for us that appeals to a gourmet market. We’re family owned and operated—fourth generation. We’ve got a great story. And we’ve got quality beef.”
“But no one knows you exist. In order for people to travel to buy your steaks, they have to think they’re getting something special. Something they can’t buy in the supermarket or at a big box store.”
Sawyer didn’t disagree. “How do we develop that image? How do we get the word out?”
“Restaurants. There’s no better product placement. When someone goes to Chez Panisse and reads on the menu that the beef comes from Dry Creek Ranch, suddenly you’ve got cachet. Suddenly, people are driving from the Bay Area to Dry Creek to buy a roast, especially if they can’t get Dry Creek Ranch beef at Safeway or Whole Foods.”
How many times had he gone to a trendy restaurant and seen the appellation or name of the farm from which a particular ingredient came from highlighted on the menu? Niman Ranch pork or Capay Valley chard or Straus butter. How many times in restaurants had he mocked the gratuitous name-dropping, then in the supermarket faced a mile-long row of brands and chose the one he’d seen on a menu, assuming it must be the best?
“How do we get our beef in restaurants?”
