Proud to Serve Her
Chapter One
“Needs a cup of Bailey’s and a dash of cayenne, John-John.” Damon Sinclair handed the large wooden ladle back to an assistant and moved on to check the cornbread coming out of the triple ovens in the back of the bustling kitchen. Opening night hummed in the kitchens with every swing of the doors as waiters and waitresses rushed in, dropped off orders then picked up piping hot food to rush it back out.
Wiping his hands on a towel, he approved all but the last cornbread. “Break that one up and soak it in the red beans.” The woman nodded, whirling away with the trays for cutting and adding to the meals, while the last one was passed down to the station chef handling the big pot simmering on one of a dozen stovetops that made up the entire right wall of his kitchens.
Lagniappe’s served only the best; if the food wasn’t crying to get to the table, it didn’t leave his kitchen. He stopped a waitress carrying a large tray, plucked the garnish from a crawfish platter and waved it at John-John. “No weeds with the seafood.”
“Aye, Mr. Sinclair.” The cook didn’t need to call him Mr. anything. The aging Marine served the best gumbo in the Quarter. He enjoyed the chaos, and handled it with a firm hand that reminded everyone of the drill sergeant he’d once been.
Damon lured him to Lagniappe’s with the promise of having his own kitchen to run. John-John deferred to him as owner, even if Damon was thirty years his junior. Amused, the chef upended the entire parsley garnish onto his cutting board and diced it at high speed before dumping the lot into the Jambalaya. With no garnish to add to the plates, the steward wouldn’t make the mistake again.
“Captain Dexter’s here.” Ginny Mayer sailed in with an empty tray held aloft, neatly dodging Jackson Cooper’s heavier load as he carried out a serving tray steaming with cornbread, étouffée and gumbo.
“Excellent. I reserved the six-top for them.” Damon paused at the dessert counter, studying the beignets with a critical eye. “These are almost too large, you want smaller portions. Remember…each one’s a kiss of the south, think brush of the lips, not tongue-thrusting wet.”
Demi, the pastry chef, gave him an arch look and worked her mouth into a pout, but the playful gleam in her eyes betrayed her.
“Save the look for the Gunny, Demi. He’ll be happy to give you all the tongue thrusting you could want. Give my customers an angel kiss.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” Her laughter followed him through the kitchen to the doors where he leaned out to look. Immense satisfaction wound through him. It was seven on opening night and every table was populated save for two, one of which he’d reserved for his private guest. My date who is now, he glanced at his watch, thirty minutes late.
He’d really hoped his hook up from Madame Eve would make it before the rush, but the line out the door coupled with the chatter and laughter making the rounds of the tables filled his soul.
Luke Dexter held a chair out for Rebecca, his fiancée, the stunning chestnut-haired beauty he’d left behind when he enlisted, then won back nearly a decade later. Damon gave the Captain a quiet salute, a gesture the man returned easily. A gasp and sudden rise in volume rolled up the line waiting at the door. James Westwood guided his date, movie star Lauren Kincaid, through the throng of well-wishers. A couple of flashes went off, and Damon slanted a look at Javier the maître d’ and nodded his head.
The man diverted from his post to corral the amateur photographers back to their tables with a calm word and a stern expression. Lagniappe’s wasn’t the place for the wannabe paparazzi. James shot him a grateful look, but was quickly distracted when his blonde bombshell pounced on Lauren. The women hugged with a giggling fierceness reminiscent of high school.
They must speak the silent code of the popular.
“You gonna change, boss?” Jones, a waiter, paused at his side, an empty tray dangling from one hand. All of his employees were inactive Marines or related to a Marine. Jones fell in the latter category.
“Soon. Any word?”
“Nope. Javier’s checking the line periodically, making sure she doesn’t get hung up waiting. But nothing.”
Her tardiness annoyed the Marine in him. The schedule called for her to arrive at six-thirty. He took pride in promptness. “Well, I’ll change when she gets here. Table seven needs coffee, grab some of the beignets for table fourteen, and bring out two bottles of white for the Captain’s table.”
“On it.” Jones vanished into the kitchens. A wave of oohs and aahs rose from the bar. Matt demonstrated flair with a pair of bottles dancing up in the air. The press of feminine bodies coupled with laughter and applause amused Damon. McCall had come a long way since trashing his car six weeks before. He’d even made plans to spend Thanksgiving with his family.