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If You Can't Stand the Heat Page 2
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“No, I don’t. And I don’t think you appreciate the gravity of this situation.”
Any situation that rides counter to Ursula’s wishes is always grave or tragic or dire or some other description of a Victorian-era heroine’s world view. She couldn’t see me roll my eyes, so I put it into my voice. “So the Food Channel loves him and he has a Michelin star. Big deal. Half those reporters out there don’t even know what a Michelin star is. They’re used to covering boring political scandals and the Keep Austin Weird campaign. They’re just looking for a little spice.”
I came out of the stall pulling on my old chef’s coat. Below the restaurant’s logo, it too was embroidered with Executive Chef and my name, Poppy Markham.
Ursula glanced at my coat.
“Don’t say anything,” I said. “It’s the only one I could find.” I turned on the faucet to wash my hands.
Her face hardened. “I could strangle that little quisling, Trevor. He doesn’t know anything about food I didn’t teach him.”
The only reason I knew that a quisling is a person who aids an invading enemy is because I looked it up after Ursula called me that when she found out that I had become a health inspector. After I left Markham’s, Ursula appointed Trevor her second in command. Trevor is young and cocky, moody and unpredictable, and a great cook. I respected him for performing so well in Ursula’s shadow, and in spite of their off-and-on romantic relationship.
“I thought y’all were getting along this week,” I said.
“He’s been sucking up to Évariste like a turkey baster. Everyone is. I can’t stand it!”
And now we had come to the ultimate truth of this situation. It wasn’t about talent or ability. It wasn’t about gender or age. It wasn’t even about food or her career. It was about Évariste Bontecou getting more attention than Ursula York.
A sharp rap on the door startled us. “You in there, Ursula?” Trevor called.
“Just a sec,” she said. She turned to look at herself in the mirror, tucking errant strands of curly auburn hair into her white beanie, then tossed her head and put her hand on the door handle. She turned to me and said, “There is no way Évariste Bontecou is taking over my kitchen.”
During my daily rounds inspecting restaurant kitchens, a lot of what I do is point out the obvious. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Ursula, but he already has.”
_____
Évariste’s press conference had ended by the time Ursula and I walked back through the dining room. Nina stood near the front door speaking with one of the Austin American-Statesman’s lifestyle columnists who scribbled in her notepad. When Nina saw Ursula, she abandoned the woman in mid-sentence and hurried over to us, her heels against the tile floor sounding like a firing squad.
Nina grabbed Ursula’s hand. “Come with me, honey.”
“Oh, Mother, I’d love to give an interview, but I have no time.”
“This will take no time.”
“Hi Nina,” I said.
She didn’t even look at me. I don’t know what my father sees in that salon-processed media hound. She is the exact opposite of my late mother, an easy-going flower child.
Instead of returning to the reporter, Nina led Ursula through the second dining room toward Mitch’s private office, a 7x10 nook that doubles as the wine cage for Markham’s more expensive vintages. The determined look on Nina’s face brought to mind the day she married my father. I followed them in case Mitch needed backup.
He looked up from his paperwork and beamed as the three most important women in his life marshaled in his doorway. He stood up and held out a hand to Nina. “Hello, Duchess. I thought you were going home to make yourself even more beautiful before the party.”
Mitch could charm a queen bee out of her royal jelly.
“Sit,” Nina said.
Except this queen bee.
She had directed the order at Ursula, but Mitch sat too. I have always resisted following Nina’s one-word commands and remained on guard in the doorway. My father threw a “what’s going on?” look at me. I shrugged. Whatever Nina was leading up to, it would be amusing.
Nina placed a bony hand on her bony hip. “Why is Évariste Bontecou’s name on the marquee and Ursula’s name is not?”
Ursula stared at her, Mitch opened and closed his mouth, and for the four-hundred and twenty-ninth time, I was glad I had left Markham’s when I did. Before she met my father, the closest Nina had come to being in the restaurant business was when she judged her gardening club’s annual Pansies and Piña Coladas contest. But when she became Nina Hall York McNally Markham, she suddenly had opinions on top of suggestions on top of ideas. They were mostly ridiculous and easy to dismiss, but once in a while she had a good one. That idea qualified, but her timing was suspect.
“You’re just now noticing?” I asked.
“No,” she said to me, but stared at my father. “Ursula is the executive chef of Markham’s. Her name should be on the marquee.”
“That sign has been up for a week and you thought the best time to bring this up is two hours before the start of one of the most significant nights of our lives?”
“It’s okay, honey,” Mitch said.
I left my post and stepped onto the battlefield. “No, Daddy, it’s not okay. As usual, Nina thinks her precious daughter is in danger, so she’s wasting everyone’s time trying to make herself feel better and get whatever attention she can. She could have said something a long time ago.”
“Can we talk about this later, Duchess?” Mitch asked. “Our daughters have a lot to do before we open and I still have to talk to the Chronicle.” He hadn’t taken my side, but that’s how Nina would see it.
“We can talk about this right now,” Nina said, an even sharper edge to her voice. “Ursula cooked Mexican food for President Bush, while he was president, not governor”—as if we didn’t know—“and she cooked for that William Nelson last month.”
“Willie,” I said. “Willie Nelson.”
“So,” Nina said as if that settled things, “when are you going to fix this?”
Mitch leaned forward and placed his forearms on the desk. “I’ve explained this to you before, love.” I heard a strain in his voice and thought it best to back off and let him rein in his wife.
She arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow and said frostily, “Obviously I’m not understanding it, love. Please explain it to me again.”
Mitch sighed, then said in his talking-to-the-foreigners voice, “Évariste Bontecou is a world-famous Michelin-rated chef who has come here from his one-star restaurant in Monte Carlo.”
“Aha!” Nina cried, advancing toward the desk. “Ursula has three stars.”
That woman is as dense as a dirt clod.
Mitch tapped a pencil against the plastic box that enclosed his prized baseball signed by Babe Ruth. “It’s not the same rating system. Ursula has three stars from the Mobil Travel Guide. Évariste has one star from Michelin.” To the blank look on Nina’s face, he said, “It’s the difference between triple-A baseball and the majors.”
Nina probably didn’t understand that analogy, but she pretended to. Along with color coordination, Nina has a special gift for pretense.
“Then you can put Ursula’s name on the marquee, too,” Nina said.
Ursula had been fidgeting while we discussed her worthiness, anxious, no doubt, to see what kind of disturbance Évariste had caused in her absence. She stood up. “That’s fine, Mitch,” she said. “Mother, I really need to get back to the kitchen. Are you wearing your new purple Chanel tonight?”
Listening to women talk about their outfits rates right up there with listening to heart patients talk about their bypass surgeries. I escaped out of the office, Mitch close behind me. We stood just inside the kitchen doorway and Mitch motioned to Amado, the dishwasher, who had been spraying hot water into a greasy pan. Mitch pulled a 3x5 card from his shirt pocket, printed Ursula’s name on it, then handed it to Amado who darted into the storage room.<
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“Why do you always give in to that woman?” I asked.
“Honey, there are two kinds of people in this world. Those who do what Nina asks and those who sleep in the guest cottage.”
“I know Nina would never make you sleep in the guest cottage.”
“Then you also know that I don’t always give in to her.” He looked around the kitchen, nodding in satisfaction that everything seemed to be under control. “In this case, Nina has a point. Ursula is the best chef in Austin and I don’t make a big enough deal about her. There’s room for both of them on the marquee.”
“But is there room for both of them in the kitchen?”
_____
Ursula and Mitch passed each other through the swinging doors. “All taken care of, hon,” he said to her, then to me, “Play nice.”
“I will if she will,” I said sweetly.
In the few moments it took her to walk to the kitchen, Ursula had reverted from helpless daughter to head chef. No longer hon, but Hun. Her eyes lasered in on Trevor melting butter in a saucepan, a prep cook dicing onions, and a waitress navigating through the kitchen to the walk-in.
“Good thing there’s no ‘e’ in your name, huh?” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Évariste hogged them all on the marquee.”
“Speaking of swine,” Ursula said.
“Excuse moi.” Évariste had to turn sideways to pass us. “I must geeve another interview.”
He pushed open the door and smacked belly-first into Belize, one of the early-on waitresses. She dropped a metal container on his foot, scattering yellow quarter moons of wet lemons across the floor.
“Dammeet!” Évariste screamed, rubbing his forehead where it had connected with her chin.
“Oh, Chef !” Belize said. “I’m so sorry.” She crouched and began picking up the wedges.
“Is everyone een Texas an idiot?”
“Hey!” Trevor said, balling his fists and starting toward him. “You don’t need to talk to her like that.”
Ursula stepped in front of Trevor. “Remember what we talked about,” she warned.
Before Évariste could answer Trevor or Trevor could answer Ursula, Belize answered Évariste. “It was an accident, Évi,” she said, standing up, her dark eyes boring into his. “They happen.”
“Go away,” Évariste said, pushing past her.
One of the guys in the kitchen snickered and pointed at Shannon, a big-boned, shaggy-haired prep cook. “You called it, man,” he said.
“Called what?” I asked.
Shannon said, “Do you think he really is this much of a jerk?”
“Dude,” said Trevor, “haven’t you been payin’ attention these past two weeks?”
“Yeah, but he just seemed, I don’t know, irritated with everyone. Like he’s testing us and we don’t live up to his standards.” Shannon scooped up a handful of scallions and threw them into a plastic container. “But tonight he’s different.”
I hadn’t spent any time around Évariste, but from the rumors I had heard—and rumors are the only way information is circulated in restaurants—he had spent his days at Markham’s issuing orders, giving interviews, and investigating the availability of ingredients, and his nights in the downtown bars investigating the availability of “wine that has fermented longer than sauerkraut.”
“He has a reputation to live up to,” I said. “Big dramas mean big stories in the paper.”
Ursula rapped tongs against the countertop. “We have three hundred people to cook for in the next five hours, we’re behind schedule, and”—she shot a meaningful glance at the swinging doors—“we’re short one cook. Back to your stations.”
Ten white hats bent in unison, twenty hands moved with expertise, and the kitchen resumed its hum of food preparation. I could put off my task no longer.
I had never skinned a hare before. Or any animal for that matter. The meat I cooked at Markham’s Bar & Grill had been wrapped in plastic and delivered in boxes. Did I leave the head on? What did I do with the ears and paws? Save them for rabbit stock? I became a vegan years ago for health reasons, not because of animal rights, but I shuddered at the thought of handling their lifeless little bodies. Ursula had plenty of other cooks who could do it, and I decided to politely request a different assignment. But my request would have to wait.
Évariste pushed through the swinging doors and stopped in front of Ursula. She looked up at the kitchen clock. “Have your interviews concluded?”
“I ’ave a few more to geeve,” he said. He puffed out his chest to stand as tall as he could, but still reached only to Ursula’s collarbone. “But now I must cook. Où sont l’escargots?”
Ursula stood as tall as she could, giving her another inch on Évariste. “As I reminded you thirty minutes ago, in fact every day since you’ve been here, we speak English in my kitchen.”
Évariste took a deep breath, preparing himself, I thought, for another clash. Instead he said, “Where are the snay-ulls?” Then added, “Dood.”
It must have been his overdone Texas accent that set Ursula off. “Dammit, Évariste!” she said, brandishing her knife at him. “It’s two hours until service and we’re eight hours behind on prep. I’ve had it up to my hairline with your asinine antics.” She pointed her knife toward the back door. “Help or leave.”
Trevor left his sauté station and stood as close to the portly chef as Évariste’s generous stomach would allow. “Dude, are you makin’ fun of me?”
Évariste looked up at Trevor, then said, “Pft,” dismissing Trevor, Ursula, and the entire situation with a wave. “I do not ’ave time for this.” He waddled to the walk-in, only his toque visible as it glided past the hunched shoulders of Ursula’s cooks.
Ursula went back to dressing the frogs, guillotining their tiny webbed feet with an intent thwack of her knife.
“No one in Austin can get snails,” I reminded her. “There’s a quarantine at Lone Star Supply.”
“Duh, Poppy.” Ursula lined up a few more speckled green legs. “He’ll be in there a good five minutes before we have to listen to him again.” Thwack!
Duh, Poppy? Okay, family restaurant and grand opening be hanged. It was time to collect partial payment on her tab. “He put a cigarette in his mouth just before he stepped inside,” I said.
Ursula stopped chopping, then flicked the stumpy legs into a container. “He what?”
She stormed to the walk-in and threw open the door, me right behind her to make sure she didn’t stiff me. Knives, pans, and tin containers clanged as Trevor, Amado, and most of the crew literally dropped what they were working on to witness the showdown. They surrounded the open door and Shannon parted the octopus—the vertical plastic strip curtain that dangled just inside the door—to reveal Évariste resting in thoughtful repose on a large tub of sour cream, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.
Ursula’s knuckles whitened around her knife handle and her face turned as red as Évariste’s coat. “What are you doing?”
Évariste looked up through a haze of smoke at all the faces staring down at him and grinned. “I could not locate l’escar … the snells.” He looked like he enjoyed all the veins bulging on his account.
“So you’re smoking in my walk-in!” She swept the knife toward me. “Poppy is a health inspector. She could close us down right this minute!”
Not true. Such a violation would only take a few points off their health score. But I would correct her later.
Évariste pursed his lips. “Oh, Ursoola, you are so full of the dramatics,” he said, waving his lit cigarette toward us, “bringing your posse for a gunfight at the O.K. Corral.” He took a final drag on his cigarette and jutted out his bottom lip to blow the smoke up into Ursula’s face. He dropped the butt to the wet floor where it hissed out, then he toed it down the drain.
Shannon grunted. “That explains the slow drain.”
Ursula pointed her knife at Évariste again, her eyes louvering into slits. “I wouldn’t need a gun or a p
osse. You smoke out back like everyone else.”
“What’s going on here?” At the sound of Will’s voice, the spectators scattered, leaving me, Ursula, and Évariste in the walk-in. Will parted the octopus and surveyed the scene. “We’re going to be filled to capacity tonight and you two are in a pissing contest? Let’s stay focused, people.”
Évariste heaved himself off the sour cream, then turned sideways and scooched past Will. “Thank you, Weel, but I do not need you to fight my battles.”
“Me either,” Ursula said, following behind Évariste. “Pay attention to the front of the house and keep your Florsheims out of my kitchen.”
“What was that all about?” Will asked me.
“Irresistible force just went mano a mano with immovable object.”
Will left and I stayed in the walk-in, hunting wabbits. Did they come in a box or a crate? What if their bodies weren’t lifeless? What if they were in cages? I had just found a box with fur in it when I heard a clatter of metal on the other side of the door. I dashed out to see Évariste backed against the wall, Trevor holding a meat cleaver to his throat.
“Trevor!” Ursula screeched, scattering frog feet in her rush to the deadlocked duo. She held up her hand to stop the rest of us from following, but we ignored her. Both men exhaled hard, eyes intent and unblinking. “Look at me,” she said.
She meant her words for Trevor, but Évariste turned pleading eyes to her and let out a whimper. Trevor leaned in closer to Évariste, forcing the little chef to look up at him.
Ten minutes ago, Trevor had been drooling over Évariste’s brilliance, and now he looked ready to dispatch his idol to the great galley in the sky. That was bad enough, but defying Ursula was worse. A kitchen crew is highly tuned to the sound of their leader’s voice, acting on the words without thinking. It should have been second-nature for Trevor to look at Ursula when she told him to.
I became concerned for what Évariste’s severed jugular would do to Markham’s grand opening. “Trevor, please,” I said, “drop the knife and I’ll buy you some ice cream.”
I couldn’t see Trevor’s face, but he let his arm fall to his side and the cleaver drop to the floor. He turned and stalked toward the back of the kitchen, karate-kicking the waist-high safety bar on the back door. Ursula couldn’t afford to lose a cook, much less her sous chef, especially since I was the only one with enough experience to replace him, and I hadn’t cooked meals in the hundreds for almost two years. I wanted to follow him outside, but the only thing I could think to say to him started with, “Grow up,” so I stayed put.