Sophie Barrington, one of New England’s elite socialites, had scheduled this huge fundraiser. Yet one thing after another was going wrong. First there was a massive snow storm, followed by an ice storm taking down trees and blocking roads. Both were common in Stowe, Vermont, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. The roads had gone from difficult to drive on to totally impassable. If the resort hadn’t been closed for Christmas holiday, it wouldn’t be quite as bad, because at least there would be more staff here instead of trapped at home. Now not only was her father not here, but his entire kitchen staff seemed to be out with one excuse or another. They were either snowed in, sick, or their children w
ere sick. That meant she was working with a skeleton crew, but not the ones she’d have chosen to be by her side.
She should be thankful only forty-five of the two hundred guests actually showed up today, but she was in a panic. That didn’t mean the others wouldn’t arrive once the roads reopened. Think positive Renita. You don’t have options, so suck it up and just do the best you can. The staff will arrive in time, and everything will be perfect.
After she’d provided what little update she had to the staff, she headed to the kitchen. Each step she took her father’s words rang in her head, “You’re a Gallo, and we’re capable of doing whatever we set our mind to do.”
It was great that he had such confidence in her. She, on the other hand, knew and accepted her limitations. If she were being asked to pretend to be a ski instructor, she’d be leaping for joy, as she spent all her free time on the slopes, but this was not her forte, and he knew it.
For years her father had been trying to get her to follow in his footsteps, yet it wasn’t something she was passionate about and never would be. Over the years she’d mastered the art of excuses for why something had burnt. I’m the last person who should be in the kitchen, Dad. It’s like you haven’t eaten my food before. My burgers could be used as hockey pucks, and my mashed potatoes are like wallpaper glue. I don’t think my cooking is going to help save the resort in any way. If it wasn’t already struggling, I’d worry I’d be the one to ruin our good reputation.
Once she’d told the waitstaff what was expected from them for the next several days, she headed to the kitchen so she wouldn’t hear the grumbling she knew would follow. Normally she’d give them directions and they’d act upon them, but, like herself, they were all being asked to step it up. She couldn’t be in the dining room to coordinate everything while trying to pull off a miracle in the kitchen.
There was one member of her staff she could do without: Tom. He never took anything she said without having to confirm it with someone above her. It was standard procedure for him; each time she’d direct him to the chef, who would always back her. She couldn’t have him calling her father now. He was still recovering from the influenza, and she would avoid stressing him at all cost.
Like clockwork she heard Tom shout from behind her. “Renita.”
His high-pitched squeaky voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard. She knew she was hypersensitive about it, and it was something she’d need to work on as a supervisor. But if she had her way, he wouldn’t be working there. The kid was barely out of high school and as jumpy as they come. His family was one of the regulars at the resort, and Mr. Prescott had given him a job.
“What is it, Tom?” Renita rolled her eyes, not stopping as she responded. There was too much on her plate to play all nice no matter whose son he was. The clock was ticking, and if she didn’t get in that kitchen and start cooking something for dinner, the guests were going to start complaining.
“Renita, are you sure you can do this? I mean you’re a waitress, not Ricco Gallo.”
I’m your supervisor, not a waitress, and no Tom I don’t think I can do this. Honestly, I know I can’t, but what choice do I have? If we don’t shine this week, we’ll all be out of a job. When her father came to this country from Italy forty years ago, the Prescotts not only gave him a job but also paid his way through culinary school. She understood his loyalty to them, and for that reason, she’d do whatever it took.
“Why don’t you let me worry about the food, and you help the others with setting everything up? The guests should never know we’re not fully staffed. So get to work, Tom, and if you do your job right, no one will know any difference.” I may not be Ricco Gallo, but I’m still a Gallo, and we don’t accept defeat. Even when it’s inevitable.
“But neither Mr. Prescott nor Chef Gallo are here. I can’t afford to get fired; are you sure they’ve approved you to step in like this? I’ve never seen you in the kitchen except to grab dinner for yourself.”
The truth was ugly and would only cause an uproar. Renita decided it was best to dance around the question. “Mr. Prescott spoke to my father. The directions are to ensure whoever makes it here has an experience they’ll never forget.” That won’t be hard because once they taste my food, it won’t only be unforgettable but possibly not edible.
Tom was still rattling off something when she went into the kitchen, letting the door swing closed behind her. If she gave him the opportunity, he’d have her standing there for hours debating what wasn’t going to change. I’d appreciate you more, Tom, if you knew how to cook as good as you debate.
Renita had been in the kitchen a million times over the years but never before had she been so frightened. The huge stainless steel refrigerators she normally snagged a piece of cake or some snack from now seemed like vessels filled with ingredients she had no clue what to do with. Breathe Renita. You can do this. You have to do this.
She walked over to the rack of aprons and chef coats. Although her father’s coat was too big for her, Renita slipped it off the hook and put it on. Come on Dad. Let me channel your cooking talents. Never before had she wished for that, but right now she was going to dig deep. It was time to prove herself, and she wasn’t going to let her father down.
Walking over to the large prep station, she reached into the back pocket of her jeans but felt nothing. Then she tried the other one with the same result. Frantically she went to her purse and searched, dumping out the entire contents. God, no. This cannot be happening. I can’t have dropped them.
When she’d left her house she’d been in such a hurry that she slipped on the ice and fell into a snowbank. At that time, her only concern was if she’d injured herself. She’d never thought to check if the detailed recipes her father had given her were still in her pocket. Don’t panic. I can just ask Dad to give them to me again. No harm done.
Pulling her cell phone out, she dialed his number. It went directly to voice mail. It wasn’t uncommon in the mountains during storms to lose the signal, but the timing couldn’t be any worse.
Think Renita. People are expecting food. You have to serve them something. Anything. She walked over and opened the first refrigerator, which she knew had fresh vegetables inside. A garden salad was simple. No one can screw this up.
She chopped some romaine lettuce, spinach, cucumbers, and green peppers. Putting everything in a large bowl, Renita added some grape tomatoes. She put the bowl on the table by the door for the waitstaff to carry out. Not fancy, but it’s edible.
Normally her father had fresh baked rolls to accompany a salad. Even if she had all the time in the world, there was no way could she pull that off. One thing she did have going for her was her ability to think fast on her feet. Walking to the dry goods storage area, she found some sliced bread. She pulled it out and placed it in a basket with packets of butter.
Two things down. Now for the entrée. She stood there with a blank look on her face. It was overwhelming with all the food options staring at her, and yet she had no idea where to start. It dawned on her. She knew exactly what they needed. It’s freezing outside. I need to serve soup.
Fishing through the pantry she found huge cans of tomato soup. Yes! She quickly opened them and put them in a pot to heat. Then she grabbed the bread back out of the basket and buttered one side of each slice. On a large griddle, she laid half of them down and put two slices of cheese on them before covering them with a second slice of bread.
As she turned them over, they were perfectly toasted. Once the other side was done, she cut them into quarters and laid them on a silver platter. She put the hot soup in a matching serving bowl. Proudly she carried them both over to the table. It wasn’t much, but she was proud of the presentation.
She pressed the bell for the waiters to come and get the food.
Not bad for my first meal. Not bad at all.
Vincent Moretti had little patience for waiting for his food, and if he had to, it better be outstanding. He owned several high-end restaurants and was speechl
ess when he saw what was being served. It wasn’t an issue of it being buffet style; it was the quality that blew his mind. The salad looked like it came out of a bag, the soup obviously was from a can, and the grilled cheese sandwiches had been drenched in butter.
If the cell service wasn’t limited due to the storm, he’d call his friend Brice Henderson and give him a piece of his mind. It wasn’t like Brice to pull a prank, but obviously, this was some kind of joke. He’d told Vincent this resort had one of the best chefs, and he’d have to come and try to entice him to join his restaurant that was going to open in Toronto, Canada. I wouldn’t serve this to a kindergarten class. I can’t believe Sophie Barrington would hold a fundraiser with food this commonplace.
If it hadn’t been for the fact the roads were closed, and he was for all intents and purposes trapped, he’d have packed his bags and left that instant, as it appeared this trip was a total loss. Upon his arrival, Vincent had inquired on the status of James West and Clay Landon. He had business to discuss with them both, but neither had made it before the state troopers closed the road. For once, why couldn’t I have run late?
Vincent was hungry and took another bite of his salad before pushing it away in disgust. If I’m going to be stuck here, I think I better give this so called chef a piece of my mind so he can step it up. Hell, it won’t take much to improve on this.
He made his way toward the door, and as he was about to push it open, one of the waitresses called out.
“Sir, you can’t go in there. That’s the kitchen.”
“I know what it is.” I’m not sure the people inside know what do with it.
“Only the cooks can enter,” she added as he pushed the door open, ignoring her plea to stop.
He had been around restaurants his whole life, so he knew exactly what to expect when entering one, or so he thought. Vincent wasn’t prepared to see only one woman waving her hand up in the air in what sounded like Italian. Although she had the sweetest voice he’d ever heard, her tone said she was pissed. She looked like she was barely five feet tall and had lost the battle with a bag of flour. For the little food that was served, the kitchen wasn’t in any better shape than the chef. It was so comical to see that it wouldn’t have surprised him to have someone jump out with a video camera and tell him he’d been punked. This has to be a joke. It’s the only logical explanation. Because if this was R. Gallo, he wouldn’t even hire her as dishwasher, never mind chef.
