Page 2 of Blood Orange Christmas
“I’m starting with something clean,” I say. “Anchovy, fennel, lemon. It makes the mouth pay attention.”
“I’m listening,” he says.
I hand the plate to the server, watch it go, and plate the second portion because I hate sending food I haven’t tasted in the same moment. I take a bite, note the sparkle of the citrus against the salt of the fish, and adjust the oil on the next one by a single spoon. The second course is calamari, hot pan, no fear, and the sizzle makes the server jump. I toss with capers and lemon and a little parsley, slide it onto the plate, and check the texture because overcooked calamari is a sin with victims.
The dining room is out of sight, but I can read it through the kitchen door by the way staff move and the time it takes for plates to return. The first comes back clean. The second comes back clean. My shoulders drop half an inch. I salt the pasta water like sea water and finish the ribbons in a ladle of ragu. Butter is for another day. Tonight, the lemon in the dough is enough.
He steps closer, not to interfere but to be near the place where things happen. The light catches at the silver near his temples and makes him look more human than the suit suggests.
“You don’t drink at dinner?” I ask, because I remember Bianchi’s note and I want to see if it’s true.
“I drink when there’s a reason,” he says.
“Dinner is a reason.”
“Not always a good one.”
“Tonight is a good one,” I say, and he looks at me like he’s surprised he agrees.
The pasta goes out. The sea bass goes to the pan skin-side down and tries to stick, because that is what fish does when it thinks it can win. I leave it alone until the skin releases, then finish it with blood orange and olives. I send it out with confidence and a small slice of nerves, because confidence without nerves is pride and that has no place in a kitchen.
The salad goes out and returns with a fork mark that suggests maybe I should have made more. The lemon cake gets cut into a neat square and dressed with a thin slice of candied peel. I don't like dusted sugar because it gets up your nose and lies about whether a cake is moist.
When I finally wipe down the last counter, the server brings a message. “The owner would like to speak with you.”
I would rather scrub the oven, but this is the job, and I am proud of what I sent. I untie my apron, rinse my hands, and step through the door.
The dining room is long and quiet, a table set for one. He sits at the head, jacket off, cuffs rolled once. His plate is clean, fork and knife at rest. He doesn’t stand. He doesn’t need to. He looks at me with a kind of attention I am not used to, the kind that is interested in the work first and the person only if the work holds up.
“You cooked for me,” he says. “Not for the house.”
“I only know how to cook for people,” I say. “Houses are bad at saying thank you.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Your pasta is not like other pasta.”
“Lemon in the dough,” I say. “It wakes everything up without shouting.”
“And the fish?”
“Dry skin, hot pan, patience,” I say. “Most mistakes come from fear.”
“Do you make many mistakes?”
“Yes,” I say. “Not the same ones.”
He sits back and studies me, and I hold the look because I have nothing to hide and I need him to know that. After a beat, he nods once, as if he is marking something in a file I can’t see.
“Tomorrow,” he says, “the same hour.”
“I thought it was one week.”
“It is.”
“Then tomorrow is included,” I say, because my mouth moves faster than my caution sometimes, and he seems like a man who appreciates an answer that doesn’t waste time.
“It is,” he says, and I let myself breathe.
I step back into the kitchen, and the stainless steel greets me like a friend who actually listened to my whole story. I stack pans, wrap leftovers, and set dough to rest for morning. The dishwasher hums. The house dims. I should go to the small room they gave me off the corridor and pretend to sleep, but my hands are restless, so I pull flour onto the counter and start kneading.
