Proud to Serve Her(4)
Chapter Two
He marched through the swinging doors, bracing one open for the line of waitresses carrying full trays out. “John-John, did we get in those sides of beef we ordered?”
“Yes, sir.” The chef gave him a squinty-eyed look from behind the silver racks in front of him. “What’s on your mind, Mr. Damon?”
Letting go of the door as the last waitress passed, he considered the whole of the kitchen. Every pair of hands was engaged in some activity, every dish in some stage of preparation. “Filet cuts, two butterfly cut and two half-inch thick. burgundy red, and au jus for the butterfly, on a bed of ice-chilled lettuce with a crumble of the cornbread. Coffee-rub the half-inch thick filets with chicory and the sweet Columbian, slow cook to medium with the ends done to medium well.”
“Not bloody.”
He shook his head slowly. “She’s a little skittish for bloody. Sweet potato soup, add some of the cubed Idahos to it, pinch of salt, dash of paprika. Quarter up the vegetables and steam them over the gumbo and grilled shrimp as a garnish.”
“You got it.”
Damon left him to it and circled through the kitchen to the wine vault, itself a work of art—hand carved shelves, temperature controlled, no humidity and a level of low lighting that let him read the labels without harming the wine. He trailed his fingers along the bottlenecks, tugging out one or two with a thought for the leggy beauty.
She thinks I’m the waiter.
A grin tugged his lips. He probably should have outted himself, but the unease in her expression relaxed during their conversation. A spark of amusement had flooded her dark eyes and he wanted to see more of that.
It would be no problem to serve her. If the night went well, she would need all the calories he could give her.
He paused and contemplated a label. Satisfied, he pulled out a bottle. Perfect.
Shutting down the lights, he stepped back into the coordinated chaos of his kitchen, letting the laughter and the camaraderie wash over him.
“Demi, you got time to put together a selection of bread and cheese, skip the crackers, use the thinner slices of the pumpkin, nine grain, cornbread with the bleu, the gouda and that creamy Swiss we picked up?”
His bakery chef grinned and gestured to the tray of fresh beignets. “Do I need to kiss those, too?”
“Air kisses are good.” Winking at her, he twisted the corkscrew into the bottle top, popping it open to breathe. He watched her movements with a critical eye, approving or disapproving of Demi’s selection until she set up the rectangle trencher, five thin slices of bread, each boasting a bit of cheese. She added a raisin to the bleu cheese, a dab of peach jam to the side of the Swiss and sliver of apple to the gouda.
“Perfect.” Lifting the rectangle, he pushed through the doors to carry the wine and cheese platter to his date. She was staring at a smartphone in her palm, finger tapping away. He navigated through the crowd and the velvet rope to their private little nook apart from the noise. In one smooth move, he slid the cheese platter onto the table and plucked the phone from her hand.
“Hey!” Her smooth forehead knitted together. She lifted her chin, a spark of outrage flushing her pale cheeks with color. He highly approved of the glow warming her face and pressed his thumb to the power button without looking at the screen.
“No cell, smart or mobile phones allowed, ma’am.” Southern apology drifted under the words, not that he experienced an ounce of remorse. It might be controversial and elitist in some parts of the country, but he believed work disturbed a meal. His customers came to Lagniappe’s for the experience and the sign added to that ambience. Typically, he didn’t enforce it, but he wanted her attention focused on the meal and on him. “They’re bad for digestion.”
“And if I was sending a text message to my daughter?”
Damon paused, considering her pinched expression. “Were you, ma’am?”
She sighed. “No, I was answering a message from my assistant.”
“Then it can wait until after your meal.” He slipped the phone into his pocket, ensuring that she would stick around for the rest of his plans rather than get irritated and leave.
She stared at his pocket, but didn’t protest.
He presented the bottle of wine with a smile. “May I present your wine choice for this evening, a 1972 Châteauneuf-du-Pape? Made from thirteen types of grapes, it is spicy, with a combination of black and red raspberries and soft on the palate. It is both sweet and dry.” Cradling her wine glass between his fingers, he poured a small sample and watched her frown melt away at its rich ruby color.
“You chose a burgundy for me.”