Page 66 of Simmer Down
Ted leans against the prep table, still grinning. “Those deconstructedlumpiawere like magic. At first everyone was annoyed that the original chef couldn’t come, but once those came out, themuttering died down. I heard nothing but chewing and humming. Music to my ears.”
Another server walks in and deposits an empty tray in the sink just as the server carrying wine walks out. No chance of finding out just how down and dirty Callum wants me to go with the kitchen now functioning like Grand Central Station. Instead I put my head down and focus on preparing the best possible main with Callum: tempura-crusted mahi-mahi on a bed of pineapple fried rice.
For a solid hour, we cook and plate, the bodies passing in and out of the kitchen our white noise.
Callum wipes a rogue droplet of his ginger soy reduction from the rim of the plate with a tea towel. He stares with laser focus, even as people move around him. I wonder if all those years working in finance gave him the nerves of steel he seems to possess. I can’t remember seeing anyone this unflappable in the kitchen.
We hand off plates to waiting servers one by one, and it’s like a perfectly choreographed dance. Plate after plate changes hands over and over, until Callum and I are left alone in the kitchen, standing side by side, our hands on our hips, staring at the door.
“We did it.” He speaks through a rough sigh.
“It was stressful, but... exhilarating.”
“So.” He unbuttons the top button of his chef jacket. I suppress a moan. I’m back to burning up.
“Decided that your bestselling food truck fried rice was too good for my lowly seared fish?” His playful tone makes me chuckle.
I lightly smack his shoulder. “Most of the people in that room have eaten every item on our menu week after week. The last thing I wanted was for one of them to figure out we cooked this meal together.”
As soon as I say it, I wish I could take it back. It sounds so harsh.
His mouth is a straight line. He offers a single nod. “Right.”
I touch his wrist. “I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was I don’t want to be the focus of their gossip. I really enjoyed cooking with you, Callum.”
He pulls away from me like I’m made of fire. “You’re right. It’s best that no one finds out about us. Like you said.”
On the inside, I’m cringing so hard.Really enjoyed cooking with you. I sound like a home economics teacher.
The longer I look at Callum, the more obvious his hurt is. He refuses my eyes, occupying himself with washing dishes at the sink.
“Callum, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine.” His tone is a soft bark, but I get the message loud and clear.
His hunched shoulders, the way his back is turned to me, the way he refuses to look at me say it all. I’ve hurt him, and he doesn’t care to even look at me right now.
The longer I stand there engaging in this staring contest with his back, the more unbearable my faux pas becomes. I scurry through the door and out of the kitchen, unconcerned that I’m breaking my own “do not leave the kitchen” rule.
I stumble a few steps before noticing the dull roar of comments coming from the dining area.
“Crazy delicious,” someone sings.
“The flavors are on point.”
Curiosity takes hold of me, and I dart behind a nearby plant so I can eavesdrop more without blowing my cover. From behind the overgrown ficus, I strain my neck for a look at the diners. The soft murmur of conversation fills the room. Every single person at the tables is chewing or raving about how good the food tastes. Inside I’m bursting. Every foodie big shot in Maui is head over heels for my and Callum’s food.
I scan across the room and zero in on the familiar blond man bun I’ve been looking for. Matteo shakes his head back and forth, eyes closed, lips puckered while chewing. An older man in a sport coat sitting next to him starts to speak, but Matteo cuts him off by holding up his hand.
Everyone else at the table stares at Matteo, brows raised, eyes unblinking, waiting for him to say anything. I do an internal eye roll. The way his foodie groupies hang on his every word in person and on his blog is a bit over-the-top.
After several seconds of making “mmm” sounds and exaggerated faces, Matteo swallows and smiles. He opens his eyes, patting the arm of his sport coat–clad companion.
“My sincerest apologies, Jonas, but sometimes when you’re enjoying an otherworldly bite of food, all of your senses must be focused on it to fully appreciate the flavor overtaking your body.”
His companion nods, as does everyone else at the table.
Matteo holds up a forkful of fish. “Just take this exquisite bite of fish. The way it plays on your tongue—the salt, the richness, the luscious texture.”
