kitchen, did you?”
Hendrix laughed. “I don’t deal with customers anymore.” Just an annoying executive chef. “I sort of miss talking to them.” She didn’t miss the complaints. No matter how good something was, one person would be dissatisfied. “And for your information, I only set fire to a stove once when I was adding butter rum to a chocolate sauce and some splashed over the rim of the pot.”
Hazel laughed. “Where’s the new job?” Hazel held out her hand for Hendrix’s dress.
“Hotel de Mariposa,” Hendrix answered as she pulled the navy blue halter dress over her head and settled it around her curves. The designers in the fifties really understood how to accent a woman’s natural curves, which was one of the reasons she loved vintage fashion so much. She wasn’t forced to slide her curves into current fashions designed for girls who looked like sticks.
“Ooh. The new in place. You are moving up in the world.” Hazel helped Hendrix adjust the dress.
Hendrix stepped back to view herself in the full-length mirror clamped to the wall. Nice. A little nip at the waist and it would be perfect. She twisted and turned to see herself fully. “I’m going to wear this swing dancing next week. And I have just the right shoes for it.” She’d found navy blue platform shoes in a sale bin at a resale store in San Francisco a couple years ago and she’d been saving them for just the right dress.
She wondered if Donovan did swing dancing. That would be a hoot, watching him trying to keep up with her doing the Lindy Hop or the jitterbug. She did a couple steps of the Lindy Hop and watched in satisfaction at the way the skirt flowed around her long legs in just the right wave action. This dress was perfect. She twisted her hips in a couple more moves and grinned at Hazel.
“I’ll take it.” She had room on her credit card and with the new job she would be able to pay the card next month and still indulge herself.
Hazel helped her out of the dress and back into her own clothes. She fondled the dress as Hazel folded it and led her to the front of the store.
She walked out into the blazing Reno sun ready to take on the culinary world.
* * *
“The guests at table five are demanding to see the executive chef,” the hostess, Rena Masters, said as she ran through the kitchen.
Donovan took off his apron and made his way through the kitchen and out into the restaurant to table five, wondering if they were complaining or complimenting. It was always a crapshoot.
“Are you the executive chef?” a woman demanded. She was in her early sixties with snow-white hair and a lovely face that owed its youthfulness to genetics rather than Botox. The man with her was distinguished-looking. He nodded politely after a smile.
“I’m Donovan Russell,” Donovan said.
“I’m Lenore Abernathy. This is my husband, Bruce. You’re apple custard tarts are divine. I’ve never had one so amazing before. How much do I have to pay you to get this recipe for my restaurant?”
Donovan reeled. The whole restaurant community knew who Lenore Abernathy was. Her restaurant, Piquant, was world famous. “It’s a secret recipe.”
She stared at him and he tried not to quake. “I would kill for your secret recipe.”
Donovan was too stunned to think straight. “Um...” How would he tell her that he had no idea what his new pastry chef had put in the tart?
“Donovan Russell,” Bruce said. “I know your name. Don’t you own Le Noir in Paris?”
“I did. I sold it to come to Reno and help my grandmother out.”
Lenore nodded sagely. “I read about your grandmother. She won this place in a poker game.”
“That’s my grandmother.”
“Bruce and I are on our annual food tour,” Lenore explained. “And I need this recipe. I will be happy to call it the Russell tart.”
“I don’t know if I want to be a tart,” Donovan said.
Lenore stared at him, eyes wide with surprise, and burst into laughter. “I do like a man with a sense of humor.” She pointed at the empty chair across from her. “Sit down. Let’s talk food.”
Donovan couldn’t refuse. She was authoritative, a bit too much like his grandmother. He couldn’t say no to one of the most successful restaurateurs in the United States. He sat down and tried to figure out what he was going to say to her. He couldn’t say he didn’t know what Hendrix had added. And he couldn’t just make something up and expect Lenore to be satisfied. She was astute, shrewd and a woman of substance. She would know he was lying.
“As you know, recipes are sacred,” he began.
Her eyes narrowed. “Piquant is not only known for its dinners, but its desserts. And my clientele also buys my upscale frozen foods. I want to try this out in my restaurant. Who knows, it might make its way into the frozen food section of your favorite supermarket.”
Donovan listened, thinking hard. His grandmother had told him food would bring people in. People came for the gambling and stayed for the extras. Having the tart featured at Piquant would also put the Mariposa on the map of food connoisseurs looking for the newest food experience.
He had two thoughts. First he had to sample the tart. Second he had to talk to Hendrix and find out what she did.
“I need to think about this and talk to my grandmother.” And he should probably talk to a lawyer. He’d developed the basic recipe, but Hendrix had added to it, which he figured would make them co-owners. The whole idea was too confusing to think about at that moment.
“That’s good enough,” Lenore said. “My husband and I are leaving tomorrow, but we’ll be back later in the summer. I will admit we love this hotel. The service is exceptional and the spa is to die for. Who knew I would find this gem in Reno? We’ll be in touch.”
Donovan knew when he’d been dismissed. He stood, thanked them both and retreated to the kitchen. He needed to talk to his grandmother, as well.
Having Lenore Abernathy want to add his dessert to her menu was an incredible opportunity. Yet, he was annoyed with Hendrix for doing exactly what he’d asked her not to do.
He grabbed an apple custard tart on his way through the kitchen. In his office, he sat at his desk and stared at it. The tart looked innocent enough and it was beautiful. Creamy custard bathed the apple slices arranged in a circle. A golden raisin anchored the center with two crescent shaped kiwis forming the leaves. The tart was a work of art. How had Hendrix found the time to do this? She was only one woman working the whole shift alone.
His brother Scott walked into his office, a half-eaten brownie in his hand. “Hey, bro. When did your dessert skills get so good? This is damn snacky.” He held up a brownie.
“I can make a dessert.”
Scott studied him. “What you can do with a steak is akin to Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel. But desserts? Not so much. Do not make me remind you of the ‘what’ cake.”
Donovan almost shuddered. He remembered
