Page 8 of Burning Rivalry

“We’re fine through the rest of tonight’s service,” she explained, then went on her break. I reviewed the list of desserts we were offering—tiramisu, chocolate cake with ganache frosting, and apple tart with cinnamon ice cream, a seasonal offering playing on traditional apple pie.

Boring. All of it.

Delicious? Sure.

Add enough butter, sugar, and chocolate to just about anything, and it was possible to make a really delicious dessert. But having looked through the books and done the required work to identify the supplies being ordered for these and other desserts left me with a pretty stark understanding—not enough people were ordering another course after their meals.

Why? I had a theory. It wasn’t worth the money and the calories if the result wasn’t spectacular. Sure, there were plenty of people up and down the Strip who would gorge themselves on anything remotely tasty-looking, but this wasn’t some cheap buffet. People who dined here were a little more sophisticated, a little savvier. Home by Sebastian Kennedy was known for its warm, classic dishes, not for a stellar dessert menu.

I could change that. I knew I could. Just thinking about the recipes clogging my binder made my heart ache. I’d really fooled myself into thinking I would have a chance here, but my hopes were just about diminished.

Rather than give in, I rolled up my sleeves and began working on pastry crusts for tomorrow’s apple tarts. The shells were parbaked, then finished once the dish was ordered by filling them with chopped, cooked apples in a sweet and slightly tangy sauce.

Predictable. Average at best.

Rather than go through the motions of preparing the crust based on the recipe, I rummaged around in the cool room and found a block of gruyere, of which I cut a piece to grate into the dough. It was hardly revolutionary, but it was a step up from the bland and predictable version that had been served here for far too long.

Slowly going through the motions of preparing the dough calmed me—grating the cheese, working cold butter into the flour. I lost myself to the rhythm of the work, reflecting on how I would have killed for the privilege of doing this back when I was a kid when every cent counted, and the idea of using precious resources for experiments was beyond insane. Unthinkable. How many mornings had I watched Mom scrape the thinnest pat of butter imaginable over a piece of toast? How many mornings had she gone hungry or drank her coffee black because there was only enough milk for one of us to have cereal?

And here I was, grating pricy cheese into a tart crust made with European butter.

I had come a long way.

But there was so much farther I wanted to go.

Rolling out the dough, I cut away enough for a single, individual-size tart and pressed it into the mold, pricking it all over with a fork and sliding it into the oven. “What’s that for?” Stella asked when she returned from her break, and I pulled the shell from the oven. By now, the others were waiting in the refrigerator, set to be used tomorrow night.

“Just a little something I’ve been thinking about.” I looked to the left, then the right, then held a finger to my lips. “Don’t tell the big, bad boss,” I whispered. “Wouldn’t want to get in trouble.”

“It smells amazing.” She stood back and watched while I fried sliced apples and pears together in a pan, having browned the butter first to add a nutty flavor and a deeper richness. The apples I’d used were slightly tart and the pears were sweet, meaning the flavors would play off each other in the finished dish.

“You’ll have to test it for me,” I offered, smiling with her eyes lit up.

“You know how he feels about the apple tart,” she warned just the same. “It was hard enough to convince him he didn’t need to serve actual pies just because they were what his grandmother made.” He needed to let go of the obsession he had with tradition. Of course, there was room for it, but not if somebody wanted to make a name for themselves.

Rather than leave the tart as it was once I filled the shell, I sprinkled finishing sugar on top, then placed it under the broiler for a few minutes until a nice caramelization bubbled on the surface. When it was finished, I left it out to cool before adding a scoop of cinnamon ice cream on top. We watched, both of us smiling dreamily as the ice cream began to melt.

“Help yourself,” I offered, handing her a spoon and waiting while she managed to get a mouthful that included all three elements.

I then watched her eyes close once she took that first bite. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” she whispered. “The brown butter? Genius. And what is that in the crust? There’s something different.”

“Gruyere,” I confirmed.

“That’s incredible.” She tapped her chin, narrowing her dark eyes. “Do you know what you should do? You should make it just like this tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?” What was tomorrow night?

“Oh, it’s family dinner night,” she explained and took another bite. “He has his whole family come in twice a month for a big dinner… parents, sister, aunts, and uncles. And his nonna,” she concluded.

Nonna, whose recipes were law, never amended, never to be trifled with. “Nice people?” I asked, though I found it hard to believe they would be. If so, how had somebody like him resulted?

“Oh, the sweetest,” she replied, groaning softly. “You should make this tomorrow. For her. Don’t tell him in advance.”

The woman was a mind reader. “We’ll see,” I decided, though my mind had been made up before she said a word.

5

SEBASTIAN