13
The Big Spoon
Shea
“What can I get you?”
A bartender who Shea had seen before but had never officially met dropped a cocktail napkin at her place at the bar. At two o’clock in the afternoon on a Monday, The Big Spoon was dead save for a table of three men at the tail end of a leisurely lunch.
“Oh, nothing—thanks,” Shea said politely, trying to be inconspicuous as she searched for signs of either half of the Kingston brood. “I’m waiting for Delilah. She’s supposed to meet me here.”
The man turned his gaze off to the right—toward a clock behind the bar. “Yeah … she must be running a little late.”
Craving an eyeful of Dev, who might just happen to be at The Big Spoon by virtue of owning it, warred with her sense of self-preservation. Shea had to teach herself how to stay away from that man.
She’d changed her mind no fewer than ten times over the course of the weekend. Seeing this through gave her absolutely no room to slip. She tried to reconcile the part of her that was terrified by this with the part that was eager to rejoin the real world. Friday had been the first time in two months that she hadn’t eaten alone.
It was also the first time in two months that she’d talked to anyone about food and gotten that rush she sometimes did when she got to use her culinary skills. All day, every day was too long to focus on her film project, and having more to her day brought her joy. Life had been damn-near perfect in the moments before she’d found out Dev was the sheriff.
“I am so. Sorry. I’m late.” Delilah’s staccato apology came from behind Shea’s back before the woman herself came into view. A slow-moving Delilah was laden with bags of bread—two hung on her elbows and two in her hands. She even had a pink box under her chin. As Shea rushed to relieve her of some of her load, it suddenly dawned on her that Delilah pretty much worked all the time.
Early mornings at the bakery turned into afternoons and evenings at the restaurant. From the contents of the bags in her arms, it seemed Delilah supplied The Big Spoon with its dinner rolls, sandwich bread and buns. Functioning as a retail baker, an industrial baker, a restaurant manager and a chef explained Dev’s desperation and Delilah’s gratitude. It also explained why the food at The Big Spoon kind of sucked.
“Take the box,” Delilah implored. Shea did that and then grabbed two of the bags.
The Big Spoon smelled as restaurants did—some vague combination of food and alcohol with the light scent of sanitizing cleaner. In the dining room, there was also the smell of wood from the chimney fire. But drawing close to Delilah gave Shea the most delicious whiff of cinnamon and sugar that seemed to trail behind as Delilah led them forth.
Delilah elbowed her way through a double-jointed swinging door behind a partial wall and led Shea into a pristine kitchen. The lunch shift crew had already gone home.
“Where do you want this?” Shea held up the pink box after setting the bread down and giving the woman a minute to catch her breath.
“Nowhere. I brought them for you.”
Shea knew instantly that the box contained morning buns. She hadn’t been to the bakery that day—an attempt to make some headway on her writing.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Shea replied politely, but she was happy that Delilah had.
Delilah’s returning smile was wicked. “Oh yes I did. Believe me—while I have you, we’re gonna work.”
Delilah pulled stools Shea hadn’t seen from beneath the huge steel-topped kitchen island, placed one next to Shea and motioned for the woman to sit. Delilah produced a notebook and paper from somewhere before pulling up a chair. Shea untied the pastry box and breathed in the happy scent of the bun she had sorely missed, picking it up greedily as she waited for Delilah to walk her through.
“I figured we’d start with burgers. They’re the most important dish. We do dozens of covers of burgers every night.
“Which could mean the burgers are fine,” Shea reasoned. “I’d try fish sauce in the patties to give them a little umami and call it a day.
“As for the other stuff…” Shea watched as Delilah diligently wrote down her suggestion. “What did people used to order that they don’t anymore?”
Delilah hummed. “Probably the roast beef. People complain it’s tough. I keep telling Dev to order better meat, but he’s telling me we’re ordering from some sustainable, free-range bull farm where they sing them lullabies every night and give them hoof massages.” Delilah rolled her eyes. “You know how crunchy Dev is.”
“Mind if I take a look at what you’re using?” Shea asked.
Delilah rose and gestured to an area of the kitchen Shea hadn’t seen, away from the open part where they sat, with the huge stainless-steel prep counter in the middle and prep stations off to another side.
“The walk in’ll be a little cold,” Delilah warned as she led the way.
Off of the main rectangle was a short hallway with a fire exit all the way on the end. On the right side were two offices, probably one for a chef and one for a business manager. On the left is where staging racks for large vats of supplies, a pantry, and the walk-in refrigerator were. Shea didn’t mention how many walk-ins she’d stood in before.
The fridge itself was clean and well-kept, a good sign overall. In some restaurants, there were problems in both the front and the back of the house. It was clear Delilah knew her way around a kitchen and had good habits, and maybe even good instincts around a few things.
“Here we are,” Delilah said, locating a stack of clear-wrapped packaged meats, which did indeed sport seals and certifications and markings from what looked to be a very high-quality farm. As soon as Shea read the label, she knew the problem, but made a closer inspection of the meat as well. Just as she’d anticipated, there was hardly any marbling.
“It’s the wrong cut of meat for stew. You’re getting tri-tip, when what you really want is chuck. Chuck comes from a fattier part of the body and the fat is what makes meat tender and not-too-dry going down.”
“But we cook it ‘till it falls apart…” Delilah said.
“All meat will fall apart eventually if you cook it long enough, but tri-tip is still pretty hard to stomach. It’s good with other preparations, but it doesn’t do well in stews. Seriously, half of your problems with your meats come down to the fat.”
Delilah shook her head a little and said under her breath. “Yeah, well … Dev’s got a thing about that.” Snapping out of whatever hit her quickly, Delilah looked back at the freezer supply. “So what do you think I should do with all of this? There’s a lot left.”
“You could make a special…” Shea suggested.
“But what? Savory food really isn’t my forte…”
Shea thought about it for a minute. “You know, some of the best-tasting foods really are simple. If you cut this right and marinate it, you can do an à la minute grilled steak with a Chimichurri sauce that will keep for days. A two-element dish may still be better than a recipe that isn’t working.”
“Amen to less complexity,” Delilah said, already seeming convinced. “But I’ve never made Chimichurri. Have you?”