Read Online Getting Rich (A Chef Landry Mystery) by Monique Domovitch - Free Book Online
Authors: Monique Domovitch
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want?”
He shrugged. “All I know is she’s nuts about our brownies. She asked me for the recipe but I wouldn’t give it to her. And then she insisted on speaking to you personally. Maybe she thinks you’re a softer touch and will give in to her.” He handed me a piece of paper with her name and telephone number.
I groaned. Patrons often asked for our recipes. There was no way we would share them, but I should still give her a call. I stuffed it into my pocket, intending to give her a call later.
“That’s not all,” Charles added. “You also got a call from the Toronto Daily. They want you to call them back.” He raised his eyebrows, announcing dramatically, “I bet they want to write an article about the restaurant.”
Toni gasped. “You didn’t tell me that.”
He grinned. “I wanted to tell you both at the same time.”
“Oh my God. We’ll be rich.” Toni looked as if she’d just won the lottery, which was ridiculous considering she already was rich.
I was envisioning the steady flow of fat paychecks in my future, and then, “Oh my God, we’ll be so busy,” I blurted, horror-stricken as I thought of all the difficulties our little business could encounter if it grew too fast.
Over the past few months, business had improved enough that we’d added four more tables to our original six, almost doubling our seating capacity. But even with all those extra customers, we were still no more than a small neighborhood restaurant. Sure, we got lineups at lunch, but our dinner clientele still lagged. In the aftermath of today’s television interview and its ensuing rush, however, that just might change. I couldn’t help but wonder if being more successful might not bring as many problems as advantages.
As it was, the restaurant was closed only one day a week—Mondays. And we each took a turn taking nights off. This meant I worked six days a week, five of which I finished late, leaving me only one full day off for personal chores and errands, and one evening free for my private life. If we got any busier, when was I supposed to find time for love? The success of this restaurant was, of course, my priority. But on my list of important things, romance came in a close second. I sighed. It was a good thing Mitchell lived right next door and worked from home, otherwise we’d never find time to see each other. We’d have to start planning breakfast dates. I had a quick image of myself in a sexy peignoir, serving him eggs Benedict or omelets. I walked into the kitchen, smiling secretly.
I grabbed my chef’s jacket and glanced at the daily menu board posted above the plating counter. Today the specials were butternut squash soup and a pear-and-walnut salad with gorgonzola dressing. I went to the walk-in refrigerator, picked up a crate of squash and hefted it to the counter. I set to work, chopping the squash into cubes, tossing them with nutmeg, salt, pepper and oil, and then popping them in the oven to roast. Meanwhile, I silently continued my internal debate about the whole lifestyle versus financial success question.
More business meant more money. With more money, we could hire more staff. And more staff would translate into more time off—time I could spend with Mitchell. Now, there was an incentive. It also meant I could pay off my bills sooner. That would be really nice too.
Suddenly, the bell above the door chimed as the first customers arrived. Jake hurried out front to greet them, and soon our kitchen became a madhouse. Pots were boiling. Pans were sizzling. Charles and Jennifer cooked and stirred over our hot and steamy stove, bumping into each other with every move. Meanwhile Marley chopped and diced as fast as he could. His dreadlocks, tied in a bun under his hairnet, were bouncing along with the rhythm of his knife. And even with Scott pitching in with the food preparation, we could still barely keep up.
I glanced around. “Where’s the gorgonzola dressing I just made? It was on the
He shrugged. “All I know is she’s nuts about our brownies. She asked me for the recipe but I wouldn’t give it to her. And then she insisted on speaking to you personally. Maybe she thinks you’re a softer touch and will give in to her.” He handed me a piece of paper with her name and telephone number.
I groaned. Patrons often asked for our recipes. There was no way we would share them, but I should still give her a call. I stuffed it into my pocket, intending to give her a call later.
“That’s not all,” Charles added. “You also got a call from the Toronto Daily. They want you to call them back.” He raised his eyebrows, announcing dramatically, “I bet they want to write an article about the restaurant.”
Toni gasped. “You didn’t tell me that.”
He grinned. “I wanted to tell you both at the same time.”
“Oh my God. We’ll be rich.” Toni looked as if she’d just won the lottery, which was ridiculous considering she already was rich.
I was envisioning the steady flow of fat paychecks in my future, and then, “Oh my God, we’ll be so busy,” I blurted, horror-stricken as I thought of all the difficulties our little business could encounter if it grew too fast.
Over the past few months, business had improved enough that we’d added four more tables to our original six, almost doubling our seating capacity. But even with all those extra customers, we were still no more than a small neighborhood restaurant. Sure, we got lineups at lunch, but our dinner clientele still lagged. In the aftermath of today’s television interview and its ensuing rush, however, that just might change. I couldn’t help but wonder if being more successful might not bring as many problems as advantages.
As it was, the restaurant was closed only one day a week—Mondays. And we each took a turn taking nights off. This meant I worked six days a week, five of which I finished late, leaving me only one full day off for personal chores and errands, and one evening free for my private life. If we got any busier, when was I supposed to find time for love? The success of this restaurant was, of course, my priority. But on my list of important things, romance came in a close second. I sighed. It was a good thing Mitchell lived right next door and worked from home, otherwise we’d never find time to see each other. We’d have to start planning breakfast dates. I had a quick image of myself in a sexy peignoir, serving him eggs Benedict or omelets. I walked into the kitchen, smiling secretly.
I grabbed my chef’s jacket and glanced at the daily menu board posted above the plating counter. Today the specials were butternut squash soup and a pear-and-walnut salad with gorgonzola dressing. I went to the walk-in refrigerator, picked up a crate of squash and hefted it to the counter. I set to work, chopping the squash into cubes, tossing them with nutmeg, salt, pepper and oil, and then popping them in the oven to roast. Meanwhile, I silently continued my internal debate about the whole lifestyle versus financial success question.
More business meant more money. With more money, we could hire more staff. And more staff would translate into more time off—time I could spend with Mitchell. Now, there was an incentive. It also meant I could pay off my bills sooner. That would be really nice too.
Suddenly, the bell above the door chimed as the first customers arrived. Jake hurried out front to greet them, and soon our kitchen became a madhouse. Pots were boiling. Pans were sizzling. Charles and Jennifer cooked and stirred over our hot and steamy stove, bumping into each other with every move. Meanwhile Marley chopped and diced as fast as he could. His dreadlocks, tied in a bun under his hairnet, were bouncing along with the rhythm of his knife. And even with Scott pitching in with the food preparation, we could still barely keep up.
I glanced around. “Where’s the gorgonzola dressing I just made? It was on the
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