Romance Impossible

  Contents

  Chapter One - A La Minut

  Chapter Two - Charcuterie

  Chapter Three - Hors D'oeuvre

  Chapter Four - Frappé

  Chapter Five - Nouvelle Cuisine

  Chapter Six - Brule

  Chapter Seven - Demi-Glace

  Chapter Eight - Entrée

  Chapter Nine - Portefeuille

  Chapter Ten - Blanch

  Chapter Eleven - Mise en Place

  Chapter Twelve - Radicchio

  Chapter Thirteen - Concasse

  Chapter Fourteen - Mirepoix

  Chapter Fifteen - Risotto

  Chapter Sixteen - Apéritif

  Chapter Seventeen - Liaison

  Chapter Eighteen - Bouchée

  Chapter Nineteen - Fondue

  Chapter Twenty - Entremet

  Chapter Twenty-One - Flambé

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Dégorger

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Rechauffer

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Affiné

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Persillade

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Quadrillage

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Appareil

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Desosser

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Revenir

  Chapter Thirty - Encore

  About the Author

  ROMANCE IMPOSSIBLE

  Melanie Marchande

  © 2014 Melanie Marchande

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The cover art for this book makes use of licensed stock photography. All photography is for illustrative purposes only and all persons depicted are models.

  Author's Note

  Dear Readers,

  What's your favorite thing to cook?

  Have an answer? Is it something like "toast?" I live between two worlds when it comes to the culinary arts. While I appreciate the finer things, and much prefer to make things from scratch with fresh ingredients, there is also a part of me that sees Hamburger Helper commercials and salivates. I think we all have a little bit of both inside of us.

  This book is for your inner gourmet. For the Food Network fans. For the ones who narrate an imaginary TV show while cooking alone. For anyone who's ever watched a cooking competition and though: I could do that.

  But it's also for the romantics. The ones who see a man who's a little rough around the edges, and can still fall achingly in love. The loyal ones. The ones who won't compromise. Who will get lost in a man if he's strong enough, but will never lose themselves.

  I think this is the best book I've managed to shake out of my brain so far, and I hope you'll agree.

  xoxo,

  Melanie

  P.S. Don't forget to join My Mailing List for exclusive freebies, excerpts, and awesome giveaways - plus get free "deleted scenes" from the Billionaire series just for signing up!

  CHAPTER ONE

  A La Minut

  In my kitchens, all dishes are a la minut, or made to order, as time allows. Slow-cooked meats, soups, stews and casseroles being the obvious exceptions to my rule. But I have toured far too many kitchens where food is made "fresh," then bagged up and frozen - what, dear reader, is the point of that?

  - Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

  ***

  Jill

  ***

  "I need two salmon specials, sub spinach for potatoes on one. VIP table. Quick quick quick."

  "Yes, Chef!" I swiped my sleeve across my forehead, one eye on the grill as always. The medium-well burger would be done in another minute or two. I grabbed a fresh pan and flicked on a burner, drizzling the stainless steel surface with oil before dropping a fresh salmon filet in, skin-side down.

  Lenny, the sous chef, was a no-show again. But that was fine. I could handle myself just fine without his help. I was just supposed to be the line cook on the grill, but lately, as Lenny seemed to lose interest in his job, head chef Souverani was relying on me more and more.

  Tonight was no exception. We had a special guest in the house, the up-and-coming Chef Maxwell Dylan, who'd recently returned to the city amidst a flurry of gossip and speculation in the culinary community. So far, his career sounded like a soap opera. I wasn't much of a gossip-monger, but the stories about him were so larger-than-life that I couldn't help but remember them.

  Of course, none of that mattered at the moment. All I needed to do was get him the best meal I possibly could, and quickly. It wasn't just a matter of him being impatient. A slow meal was a sign of a poorly-run, inefficient kitchen staffed with people who weren't used to being busy. That was hardly the impression I wanted to leave him with. I had no idea why he was here, but he was certainly someone it wouldn't hurt to impress.

  As the salmon sizzled, I tossed some spinach into another pan to get the sauté going. This was a specialty of mine, something I'd thrown together for a customer who requested a substitution for potatoes. It had gone over so well that Chef Souverani put it on the menu.

  I knew it was only a matter of time before Chef Souverani would promote me to sous chef. He'd been hinting for ages, so it was just a matter of making it official, and finally firing Lenny. If he ever showed up again.

  I stirred the spinach. It was a very simple recipe, just a little butter, olive oil, freshly crushed garlic, salt and pepper with a squirt of lemon juice - but it really was the perfect accompaniment to the salmon. Hopefully, the spinach plate was Chef Dylan's. The roasted potatoes, quite frankly, left a bit to be desired.

  As much as I hated to find fault with my boss, I had to admit that Chef Souverani had been cutting corners lately. Business was lagging, and he was trying to save money wherever he could. Supplies that he used to bring in fresh every day were now ordered frozen, in bulk. He was even getting things pre-made if it was cheaper than buying the ingredients. That wasn't the Chef Souverani that I knew, but I was doing the best with what I had.

  I grabbed a bun and prepared the plate for the burger, keeping an eye on everything that was cooking as I did.

  Before long, everything was plated and ready, and I hit the bell. Chef Souverani himself came to fetch the plates. I hadn't seen him do that in months and months.

  I let out a long breath and leaned on the counter for a moment, keeping my eyes on the printer. Had I really cleared all of the night's tickets already? Much as I hated to admit it, having everything frozen and pre-packed did make things a lot faster.

  Taking a long chug from a bottle of water and wiping my forehead, I willed myself not to notice how quiet the restaurant was. The chef tried to hide his worry, and did pretty well, most of the time, but I couldn't help but notice how tired and downtrodden he'd looked lately.

  Suddenly, a voice rose above the low chatter from the few customers out in the dining room. I couldn't quite make out the words, but I inched closer to the door to try and hear better. Peering through the round window, I saw that Chef Souverani was standing in front of a table, talking to someone. He was blocking my view, and a lot of my hearing, but from glancing around the rest of the room I had to assume the table was Chef Dylan's.

  "Yes, sir," Chef Souverani was saying. "Fresh...they're, yes. They're fresh frozen."

  "Fresh frozen?" The response was so loud that I heard it clearly, but the rest of Chef Dylan's tirade was lost on me. A few of the diners turned their heads to look at the minor commotion.

  "I'm very sorry, would you like me to make you something else?" Chef Souverani had stepped back
a little, like he was trying to bow out of a fight. I couldn't recall ever seeing him like this, even with some of their most irate customers.

  After another long, indistinguishable rant from Chef Dylan, Chef Souverani turned around and walked quickly back to the kitchen, his shoulders slightly hunched, a man defeated. I hurried away from the door before he burst through.

  "I'm sorry to do this to you, Jill," he said, hollowly. "But I...he wants to speak to the chef who prepared his food."

  My throat instantly went dry.

  "I'm so sorry," the chef said, again. "I should've...I should've told him I made it. But I didn't. Stupid. I had no idea he was going to..."

  "It's fine," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "You don't have to lie for me. I can take the heat." I smiled what I hoped was a reassuring smile, took a deep breath, and walked out into the dining room.

  I was instantly, painfully aware of how out of place I looked. In spite of everything, Chef Souverani still tried to maintain a classy atmosphere in Giovanni's. And here I was, in a grease-stained chef's coat, walking amongst the people in their sleek evening outfits and the waiters in black and white. My hair must be a mess under my hat. But those were stupid things to be worrying about right now. Right now, all I needed to focus on was the man across the dining room, who was currently boring holes directly through my soul with his eyes.

  Pasting on a smile, I walked right up to him.

  "You wanted to see me?" I couldn't believe how clear and cool my voice sounded.

  Chef Maxwell Dylan looked me up and down, his eyes raking across me, like he was seeing every flaw, even the ones I fought to keep hidden.

  Well, there was no need to get so melodramatic over it. I took a deep breath, and held my smile in place.

  "And what's your position here, may I ask?" His voice was deep and resonant, with a light accent that hinted at his rural English upbringing. And more than that, he sounded pissed.

  "I'm a line cook, sir."

  "And you're cooking my entire dinner...why?"

  "The sous chef couldn't make it in tonight." I could feel my smile growing more brittle by the moment. "Was there something wrong with the food?"

  "Something wrong with the..." he echoed, exasperation tingeing his voice. "Tell me, truly, would you eat this food?"

  "I do," I said. "I eat it every day."

  He made a tsking noise, looking down at his plate. My ears were burning, but I couldn't back down. I couldn't let him win this thing.

  We're a temperamental bunch, in the culinary world. It comes along with the stress, I think, not that we're saving lives or anything - but from the way some diners carry on, you'd think their survival was on the line. "High-pressure" is the term people use to describe it. You either collapse, or you turn into a diamond. But either way, you're guaranteed to take some abuse. And probably sling your fair share of it, too.

  But even amongst chefs, Maxwell Dylan had a reputation. And now, I was starting to see why.

  "I'm sorry," he said, "that your standards are so low. But mine are not yet, thankfully. Are you really proud to serve this kind of food? Does it make you happy?"

  I couldn't answer him. My mouth trembled with the effort to keep it closed. No, of course not, I wanted to shout at him. Do you think I have any control over where the food comes from? I can't help it if everything comes in frozen. I hate it, it's sucking the passion out of me every day, but what am I supposed to do?

  He just kept looking at me. Even under normal circumstances, he would have been intimidating. Heavy brow, stormy eyes - even his sandy hair seemed like it didn't want to follow anyone else's rules. He was roughly handsome, like someone who ought to have been working on a dock, or perched out on a giant steel girder, eating his lunch out of a box with a rounded top.

  But he wasn't. He was sitting here, in the restaurant where I'd been working for almost five years now, staring me down like he wanted a fight.

  "Look," he said, finally, his voice dripping with condescension. "I know it's not entirely your fault that the food is abysmal. But you have to aspire to more than this, you know? Settling for this...I mean, you can't be happy, can you?"

  His blue-gray eyes were still fixed on me, but they'd softened somewhat. He was trying to throw me off-balance. Rumor had it, he'd once worked under Chef Sully DePalma, a man so notorious that it was said no one could work in his kitchen for more than a month, without leaving in tears. Chef Dylan worked there for six months, and on his last day, it was Chef DePalma who went home early with "something in his eye."

  I steeled myself.

  "I don't believe my happiness is relevant, Chef." I took a deep breath, looking him right in the eyes. "Would you like me to make you something else?"

  He glanced down at this plate, and then back up at me. "Do you have anything that isn't frozen?"

  My eye twitched.

  "The salad," I heard myself say.

  Customers were staring. I couldn't believe this - being questioned, shamed, in front of my diners. I felt tears pricking behind my eyes, but I refused to let my weakness show.

  "I believe I'm done here." Chef Dylan stood up, throwing his linen napkin onto his barely-touched plate and storming towards the exit. As he went, I swore I heard him mutter unbelievable under his breath.

  Unbelievable, all right.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  ***

  THREE YEARS LATER

  "Sorry, Heidi. No crusts for you this time." I licked my fingers to emphasize my point, but Heidi just stared up at me with those soulful eyes. When she finally realized I was being serious, she let out a massive sigh, then plopped her big bull-head down on my lap.

  I had to laugh. It was pretty sad that things had gotten to this point, where I was eating every crust of every peanut butter sandwich because I didn't know when I'd be able to afford groceries again. But Heidi, my "guard" dog and constant companion for the past few years, never failed to put me in better spirits. She was still eating the best gourmet pet food that money could buy, of course. I always was a sucker for those who couldn't help themselves.

  Leaning back on the sofa, I began to indulge in my nightly ritual of pondering, when did it all go wrong?

  I knew the answer, but I kept on turning it over and over in my head, like that would make a difference.

  A few months after Chef Dylan's fateful visit, Giovanni's had closed. Whether it was a coincidence or not, I couldn't say. It wasn't like the man was a food critic. We were on a downward spiral anyway. Worse, even, than I'd guessed. The reason why Chef Souverani never promoted me? He simply couldn't afford it. And every time Lenny called in, that saved him a buck or two on payroll, so after a while he stopped bitching the guy out. By the time we shut down, he'd taken out two loans against his house, sold almost everything he owned, and was several months overdue on most of our vendor bills. It got to the point where they wouldn't even deliver the meat anymore, unless we had enough cash to cover the bill.

  Ever since then, things had been rough. I hopped from failing restaurant to failing restaurant, honing my skills and making connections, but apparently cursing every place I touched. Well - in fairness to me, a lot of restaurants were failing, in this economy. And the successful ones didn't tend to have a very high turnover rate. My options were about as limited as they could get.

  And now, once again, I was living off my dwindling savings, trying to decide whether my electrical bill or my phone bill would be the next logical casualty.

  Things were Not Good.

  Sighing, I got up and flicked on the TV. Any distraction was a good one, at this point. I squinted at the fuzzy signal, then went to the window and fiddled with the rabbit ears until they picked up something that looked like it might be PBS. But I quickly realized I couldn't actually see the picture unless I was touching the antenna, and settled for the local news.

  "...notorious celebrity chef Maxwell Dylan is slated to open his latest gourmet restaurant, Dylan's Trattoria, on Beacon Hill in just a few
weeks," one of the anchors was saying. I felt my stomach clench automatically, at just the sound of his name.

  "You know, Sharon," the other anchor piped up. "I have to say, people love to beat up on the guy, and he's an easy target, but you just can't deny his passion for food. He holds himself to the same standards he expects of everybody else. How he's going to find the time to get this place off the ground, I don't -"

  I grabbed the remote and switched the TV off. So much for a distraction. Heidi lifted her head, looking at me with concern.

  "Don't worry, girl," I assured her. "We'll be fine. We'll get through this, right? We always do."

  She thumped her tail on the sofa, believing me as she always did. I just wished I could be half so confident.

  ***

  The TV in the waiting room was absolutely blaring. As usual, my doctor was running an hour late. But I didn't have many choices on my discount state medical insurance, and the headaches were only getting worse.

  Back when I had good coverage, I'd had some serious tests done, some MRIs, even, but nothing showed up. My doctor kept saying it was stress and neck tension, that they weren't even technically migraines even when it felt like my head was going to explode. She suggested yoga. I tried to picture myself in Lululemon and almost laughed in her face.

  Even as I sat here, I could feel one of the headaches creeping up on me. I rubbed the base of my neck and tried to focus on the TV, rather than just letting it drift into obnoxious background noise.

  Some kind of cooking channel. I couldn't keep track of all the different ones, nowadays. Chopped was just ending. I stretched my neck from side to side, seeking that satisfying pop. It never came.

  "THIS WEEK, ON DYLAN'S 'KITCHEN FIXER UPPERS' -"

  I almost jumped out of my chair. The announcer's voice boomed through the tiny, overheated room. Ugh. Ugh. This was the absolute last thing I needed right now. I glanced around the room for a remote, but there was nothing.