Read Online Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) by Leslie Budewitz - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Budewitz
Ads: Link
services.
My sister agreed to contribute a percentage of the weekend’s jewelry sales. Our good friend and stalwart Heidi, the power behind Kitchenalia, pointed to her display of grilling tools and offered to split the proceeds.
I skipped Puddle Jumpers. No need to subject myself to Sally’s tirade about the constant hounding of merchants who barely scraped by to benefit some new cause every week and blah blah blah.
Ray Ramirez at the Bayside Grille called Stacia “a sweetheart—she loved my Reuben”—and said he’d chip in fifty cents for every Reuben sold this weekend. “Glad they’re not canceling. Though I can’t say I’m a big fan of Knox.”
I gave him a quizzical look.
“He and Stacia had lunch here yesterday, and everybody heard him spouting off. Saying if the food looks good, viewers think it tastes good. Don’t know if he honestly thinks we can’t cook worth beans here, or if he just likes playing know-it-all.”
The latter, I suspected. “He’s about entertainment, not food.”
“Exactly.” Ray’s summer-weight cooking shirt lay open at the collar, exposing the tail end of a scorpion tattoo on his chest, the ink black against his coppery skin.
He’d lost a line cook in the early-summer crisis. “How’s the new guy working out?” I asked.
He grinned and gave the thumbs-up sign.
The other merchants responded with similar generosity. Everyone who’d met Stacia had liked her.
Back at the Merc, I spent what was left of the morning helping customers. Fresca was back in the groove, whipping up a storm of basil and pine nut pesto and her classic artichoke dip. Herbal paradise ensued.
Rather than set up our own street booth this year, we were counting on the new layout to funnel foot traffic inside. Our commercial kitchen schedule had been crammed the last few weeks as vendors took advantage of the summer harvest to make more product. Summer Fair was always a huge draw. But the presence of
Food Preneurs
promised to multiply the crowds.
And if my smoked salmon supplier delivered this afternoon, we’d have all the fishes they’d need. For loaves, they’d have to pop next door.
Upstairs in the office, I made a sign announcing the memorial fund. Downstairs, Tracy and I moved the coffeepot and display to the front counter, then she headed out for lunch. Fresca boiled up some fresh linguine, served with pesto made from basil so fresh it was practically still growing. I was mourning the last bite when the phone rang.
“Hey, Erin. Adam Zimmerman, back in civilization.”
I could almost hear his lopsided grin over the line. Kinda like Bozo, Tracy’s dog, but without the black-and-white spots. Or the slobbery drool.
Adam and I had gone to college together, though he hadn’t stuck in my memory. When I came back to Jewel Bay last spring, he’d started calling for contributions to the kids’ wilderness program he ran at the Athletic Club. But then, his calls had become more personal. After the Festa, we’d taken a terrific hike into the Jewel Basin. The skinny geek who came to Montana for outdoor adventure had morphed into—well, a seriously hot guy. Six feet, slender, with dark curly hair and a playful manner, Adam had created a niche for himself in Jewel Bay. We’d met for coffee or a drink a few times and made a dinner date.
Then his on-site camp director quit midseason, leaving no time to find a replacement. Adam had been forced to step in. No cell service at the camp—great for the wilderness experience, bad for a fledgling relationship. We’d only managed to talk a couple of times in the last month.
But summer was almost over.
“So, I’m at the gas station in West Glacier with a busload of kids, on my way back to town. Any chance you’re free this weekend?”
Figures. My luck he’d show up just in time for my busiest days.
“It’s Summer Fair,” I said.
His laugh rippled like cool water over rocks on a hot afternoon. “Of course. It’s Jewel Bay.”
“Come out
My sister agreed to contribute a percentage of the weekend’s jewelry sales. Our good friend and stalwart Heidi, the power behind Kitchenalia, pointed to her display of grilling tools and offered to split the proceeds.
I skipped Puddle Jumpers. No need to subject myself to Sally’s tirade about the constant hounding of merchants who barely scraped by to benefit some new cause every week and blah blah blah.
Ray Ramirez at the Bayside Grille called Stacia “a sweetheart—she loved my Reuben”—and said he’d chip in fifty cents for every Reuben sold this weekend. “Glad they’re not canceling. Though I can’t say I’m a big fan of Knox.”
I gave him a quizzical look.
“He and Stacia had lunch here yesterday, and everybody heard him spouting off. Saying if the food looks good, viewers think it tastes good. Don’t know if he honestly thinks we can’t cook worth beans here, or if he just likes playing know-it-all.”
The latter, I suspected. “He’s about entertainment, not food.”
“Exactly.” Ray’s summer-weight cooking shirt lay open at the collar, exposing the tail end of a scorpion tattoo on his chest, the ink black against his coppery skin.
He’d lost a line cook in the early-summer crisis. “How’s the new guy working out?” I asked.
He grinned and gave the thumbs-up sign.
The other merchants responded with similar generosity. Everyone who’d met Stacia had liked her.
Back at the Merc, I spent what was left of the morning helping customers. Fresca was back in the groove, whipping up a storm of basil and pine nut pesto and her classic artichoke dip. Herbal paradise ensued.
Rather than set up our own street booth this year, we were counting on the new layout to funnel foot traffic inside. Our commercial kitchen schedule had been crammed the last few weeks as vendors took advantage of the summer harvest to make more product. Summer Fair was always a huge draw. But the presence of
Food Preneurs
promised to multiply the crowds.
And if my smoked salmon supplier delivered this afternoon, we’d have all the fishes they’d need. For loaves, they’d have to pop next door.
Upstairs in the office, I made a sign announcing the memorial fund. Downstairs, Tracy and I moved the coffeepot and display to the front counter, then she headed out for lunch. Fresca boiled up some fresh linguine, served with pesto made from basil so fresh it was practically still growing. I was mourning the last bite when the phone rang.
“Hey, Erin. Adam Zimmerman, back in civilization.”
I could almost hear his lopsided grin over the line. Kinda like Bozo, Tracy’s dog, but without the black-and-white spots. Or the slobbery drool.
Adam and I had gone to college together, though he hadn’t stuck in my memory. When I came back to Jewel Bay last spring, he’d started calling for contributions to the kids’ wilderness program he ran at the Athletic Club. But then, his calls had become more personal. After the Festa, we’d taken a terrific hike into the Jewel Basin. The skinny geek who came to Montana for outdoor adventure had morphed into—well, a seriously hot guy. Six feet, slender, with dark curly hair and a playful manner, Adam had created a niche for himself in Jewel Bay. We’d met for coffee or a drink a few times and made a dinner date.
Then his on-site camp director quit midseason, leaving no time to find a replacement. Adam had been forced to step in. No cell service at the camp—great for the wilderness experience, bad for a fledgling relationship. We’d only managed to talk a couple of times in the last month.
But summer was almost over.
“So, I’m at the gas station in West Glacier with a busload of kids, on my way back to town. Any chance you’re free this weekend?”
Figures. My luck he’d show up just in time for my busiest days.
“It’s Summer Fair,” I said.
His laugh rippled like cool water over rocks on a hot afternoon. “Of course. It’s Jewel Bay.”
“Come out
Similar Books
