“And what, compete against Martha Kelley? Or maybe Patrick? They’d love that. A Sullivan as competition.” The Kelley family owned and operated most of the food places on Jonathon Island. Sure, Patrick was a good guy, but Martha gave Zach a sour look every time she saw him.
“Martha isn’t competing, as far as I know. Besides, I have some others coming too. Val Anderson and Alicia Baird.”
Huh. She’d pulled some good local chef talent. “Okay, fine. You have some heavy hitters.”
“Please come. Did I tell you that Paul Hawkeye and Anne Green have agreed to be celebrity judges?” Her front door squeaked, and then a gentle thud echoed.
“You’re kidding.” The two television chefs seemed way out of Jonathon Island’s league.
“Nope. Just got the confirmation today. They both loved the idea of being at a small-town festival.”
“You know I wanted to work for Paul. It’s one of the reasons I moved to LA after Seattle.” He wiped a stray spot of egg filling off the plate in front of him. “Too bad I could never get a face-to-face with him.”
“I thought that might get your attention. I’ll ask again, please say you’ll come.”
“I’ll think about it. I might not be able to get the time off since I was just over there for your wedding.” He wandered over to the shared calendar hanging on the wall. “What are the dates again?”
“The first two weekends in June. Thanks, big brother. You’re the best.”
No one had requested that week off as far as he could tell. “I haven’t promised anything yet.”
“When have you ever said no to me?” Dani’s smile came through the line loud and clear.
He laughed and hung up. Dani had a point—he had a hard time saying no to his family.
Jamie Randall, his six-foot-seven coworker who looked more like a Marine than a line cook, with his broad chest and close-cut blond hair, wandered over. He’d been working at Escargot when Zach first started. Unlike Zach, Jamie didn’t care to move up in the ranks of the kitchen. He snagged one of the deviled eggs Zach had rejected. “Is this your new recipe?”
“Yep.” Zach crossed his arms and leaned back on the counter. “I added a little horseradish and tarragon as well as mustard to the cooked yolks.”
“Can I try it?” Jamie didn’t wait for him to answer before popping the whole thing in his mouth. “Delicious. This should be on the menu.”
“Ha. You’re funny. Chef Louie would never go for it.”
“Why are you wasting your talents here, man?” Jamie popped another quail egg in his mouth and chased it with a bite of ham. Suddenly, the big man snapped to attention. He gestured with his chin toward the kitchen door.
Zach turned in time to see two men enter. Marcel Boivin, the slight, silver-haired owner of Escargot and a head shorter than his companion, gesticulated widely as he walked and talked. The man next to him was the head chef of Escargot, Chef Louie Andrews.
“I just think we need a few new items on our menu,” Marcel said, his French accent heavy tonight. “Ah! Hello, gentlemen.” The old man clasped his hands together and nodded at Zach and Jamie. “Another excellent service tonight. Be sure to say merci beaucoup to the rest of the team.” He advanced a step, leaving Chef Louie by the door, silent and glowering. Chef Louie, his chef’s whites pristine and his brown hair gelled tight to his scalp, had sent the rest of the staff home after the kitchen had been scrubbed clean.
“Mr. Boivin, Chef.” Zach nodded back. “I thought you’d gone home for the night.”
“Chef and I had some business to discuss. What is this?” Marcel waved a hand toward Zach’s elevated potluck food.
Zach stepped around the table, a lame attempt to block the food. “Nothing, sir.”
“Nonsense. It looks good.” Marcel selected an egg and ate it. His eyes widened. “This is fantastique. Chef Louie, you are a genius.”
Wait a minute.
Louie’s face cleared. “Uh, thank you.”
“This is what I mean. New menu items. Chef Louie, why did you let me prattle on about it when you’d already prepared some things for me to taste?” Marcel ate one of the prosciutto on rye sandwiches. “Non. This one is pas bon. Not good. I don’t know what you were thinking here. But I like that quail oeuf, I mean egg. Put it on the hors d’oeuvres menu.”
Marcel breezed out, leaving Louie, Zach, and Jamie staring at each other.
Louie crossed his arms, eyes flashing. “You have been trying to undermine me ever since you stepped foot in this restaurant.” Louie’s French accent was not as thick as Marcel’s, but it still cut through the air. “What were you trying to pull, having these things plated up?”
“I didn’t even know he was going to be here tonight.” But Zach’s words didn’t faze Louie.
