A Sip of You(91)

Hutch gave me a satisfied grin as I stood there, speechless.

“The upcoming theme is ‘Sticky Fingers,’ and that’s going to be Southern and Creole fare. Much more down home for me. A little simpler too. I’m from Alabama, you know, just outside of Mobile.”

“Thus the beignets.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be exploring the food of my youth for a while, but I’ll move on to something else in three months or so. I decided to go with tickets because I knew reservations would be impossible to get anyway. This was going to be the hottest restaurant in Chicago the minute the doors opened.”

“That’s pretty cocky,” I said before I could think.

“I’m only cocky about three things, Catherine, and those are things at which I excel. One is cooking. When you taste this little snack, you can be the judge as to whether I’ve oversold myself. But back to the restaurant.” He moved again to the stove, working on his beignets. I had forgotten he was even cooking. He was so relaxed and confident. He reminded me a lot of William in the kitchen.

“If you want to eat at Morrison Hotel—well, not you, darlin’, you can be my guest anytime—you buy a ticket for the theme. It’s going to cost you about a hundred and fifty bucks or thereabouts, depending on what we’re serving and whether you want wine pairings. You pay in advance, and your place is reserved. You don’t have to wait to be seated. You don’t have to flag the waiter down at the end of the meal and ask for the bill or face that awkward moment when no one is sure who is going to pay. That’s all taken care of. You just bring your appetite and sit back and wait for the show.”

I leaned my elbows on the prep table and watched his back as he removed the beignets and dusted them with cinnamon and brown sugar. He turned, placed them on the table, and drizzled the compote beside them. They smelled so delicious, I wanted to reach over and tear a piece off. “Sounds like a good system,” I said. “What about people with dietary restrictions? Vegetarians or gluten-free?”

He scowled at me and then reached for two large coffee cups. “We make it pretty clear we don’t accommodate that sort of thing.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Because every dish on the menu has been carefully constructed and prepared so that it’s the best. People come here to experience my vision, Catherine. If we start taking out ingredients and substituting others, it’s not my vision any more, it’s theirs. That’s not what Morrison Hotel is about.” He handed me a cup of coffee, which smelled better than any coffee had a right to. “Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian.”

“No,” I said.

“Thank God. I heard you were from California.” He gestured toward the restaurant, and I led the way. Behind me he balanced his cup of coffee and the plate of beignets. “I never considered you might be one of the granola eaters. Not after I saw those cock kebabs.”

I felt my face heat. I didn’t know why. There was no reason his verbiage should embarrass me. Beckett called them cock kebabs too, and I didn’t blush with him.

We sat at the booth where he’d been before, Hutch on one side and me on the other. The beignets were between us. “So tell me about the project you want me to work on,” I said.

“Oh, no, sweetheart. Pleasure before business. These beignets aren’t going to taste as good if they’re cold. Eat up.” He lifted one and raised it to my lips, so I had little choice but to open my mouth and bite. As soon as I tasted the brown sugar and cinnamon on the flaky warm dough, I closed my eyes.

“This is delicious.” I licked my lips to catch the sugar on them with my tongue.

“I do like watching you eat. Now try it with the compote.”

I opened my eyes and watched as he swirled the beignet lightly in sauce. With William I would have obediently opened my mouth again, but this time I took the beignet from Hutch and tasted it on my own. “Mmm. Interesting. I wouldn’t have thought of pairing blueberries and beignets.”

“It works, doesn’t it? My grandma used to make something like this and it reminds me of summer, of foods of my youth. Sometimes simple is perfection.”

“It’s amazing.”

He sat back and sipped his coffee, looking satisfied. I sipped my own coffee and then had to have another sip.

“You like?” he asked, brow raised.

“It’s perfect. Just the right amount of sweet and strong.”

“You definitely have to come back and dine with us, Catherine. If you agree to work with me on the book, you’ll dine here often.”

I smiled and sipped the coffee again. It was really good. Way better than the instant stuff I made or the lattes I consumed at Starbucks.