At the bodega, I bought two cups of coffee, one for me and one for Dan the Homeless Guy. I walked down the street, sipping the hot liquid, warming my hands on the cup. The city that never sleeps was stretching and stirring, the rattle of early-morning construction like the twitter of birds back home. My feet took me back to yesterday’s route, my body putting into motion a plan my mind hadn’t quite acknowledged yet.
Ten minutes to the High Line. Pitching my empty cup into the trash, I headed up the stairs, my heart pounding as if I’d already run a mile.
A wind whipped off the river. The tall grass bowed and swayed. As I ran, my gaze bounced from the bright horizon to the graffiti-splashed buildings rising along the track.
And... He was there. Chef. In almost the same spot as yesterday.
Warmth flooded my midsection, more potent than the coffee. My cheeks were hot with happiness.Stupid.
He leaned against the wall of the shelter, watching the water. Waiting? For me?
I gave him a little wave, like a dope. “I’m not stalking you.”
Laughter leaped into his eyes. “I am crushed,” he said politely. “It is my dream that you follow me everywhere.”
Ha. He’d made a joke. I thrust my hands into my pockets. “You’re up early this morning.”
Yesterday, I had almost finished my run and was on my way back before I saw him.
“Indeed. I have not been to bed.”
“Late night?” I asked sympathetically.
It happened. When you were jazzed after a successful service—or,God forbid, an unsuccessful one—after the kitchen was restored to gleaming order and the prep lists written up for the next day, it hardly seemed worthwhile to lie down for the few hours before you reported to work again. Chef didn’t go out with the rest of the kitchen crew at the end of the night, doing the rounds of late-night bars and hookups. But maybe he’d stayed behind, working in the office. Maybe he had a whole other social life I didn’t know anything about. Friends. A girlfriend.
The thought was vaguely depressing.
He shook his head. “I was home. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Gosh, I’m sorry. I hope it wasn’t something you ate.”
His eyes crinkled. “No. Your food last night was very good.”
I flushed, ridiculously pleased. “Pretty simple stuff. I didn’t season with anything but salt and pepper. Well, and a ham hock for the greens.”
“Simple is best,” Chef said. “That’s how you honor your ingredients.”
I grinned. “Right. By flattening the chicken in a cast-iron skillet and cooking the shit out of everything.”
He laughed.
I grinned back, something inside me relaxing. My instructors at NYU had made it clear I would never be a Great Southern Writer. But I was a good Southern cook. Chef made me feel like it was okay to be myself. Like I was good enough without trying so hard.
Of course, he made everybody feel that way. The kitchen was full of misfits whose lives outside the restaurant were a mess. He taught them, trained them, inspired them to pull together as a team, to strive for perfection every night. Even me. Theidiot hipster food blogger.
“They’re my mother’s recipes,” I confessed. “We always had greens on the table.”
“Ah yes, the collards.” His mouth tugged in that small, ridiculously appealing smile. “Ray had seconds.”
He’d noticed.
I glowed. “My mother always boiled them like that. For hours. To make pot likker.”
“Vegetable stock.”
I nodded. “With ham grease. It’s a Southern thing. Sometimes she serves it in a cup with corn bread on the side.”
That was what was missing from the blog, I realized suddenly. I’d listed the ingredients. I hadn’t told the story.
