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Hendrix Beausolie took a deep, calming breath. You can do this, she told herself, clutching her tote with her pastry samples inside. She heard the crackle of the newspaper ad in her pocket. She needed this job.
The Casa de Mariposa had made a startling reincarnation in the past few months and was now being touted as one of the premier hotels and casinos in Reno. The hotel had buzzed with excitement from the moment she entered the lobby.
One last look in the mirror showed her makeup was still flawless, which was a bit shocking considering how seldom she wore it. Her black-and-white 1940s retro dress skimmed her curvy figure and her black hair was still carefully styled in neat victory curls around her face. You can do this, she mentally repeated her mantra. She practiced her speech one last time, took a deep breath and turned back to the restroom door. She yanked it open, stepped into the lobby and headed toward the restaurant.
The restaurant was busy with the lunch crowd. A good sign. She marched across the floor, through the door into the kitchen and stopped in panic. Aromatic smells of food cooking greeted her, as did the sounds of waitstaff shouting orders and the line cooks at their stations flipping sizzling steaks, tossing salad or standing in front of tables slicing and dicing. Controlled chaos.
“Watch yourself” came a voice from the side.
She stepped away from the doors to avoid a waitress with a tray balanced in the air on one hand. “I have an appointment...”
The waitress grinned. “All the way to the back at the very end of the kitchen and down the hall. First door on the left.” She slipped through the door into the bustling restaurant.
Hendrix squared her shoulders and made her way to the back of the kitchen deftly avoiding people while muttering “coming through behind you.” The corridor opened in front of her and she paused to gather herself. She took another deep breath, stepped up to the door the waitress had directed her to and knocked.
“Enter” came a deep, authoritative voice.
Hendrix pushed open the door and stepped into a large office with a kitchen composed of gleaming stainless-steel appliances on one side and on the other a desk set in front of rows of bookcases containing what looked to be every cookbook in the world. She had a hard time pulling her gaze away in order to focus on the man behind the desk.
He stood at her entrance with a half smile on his face. He was tall. Taller than she was, and she was five-ten. In the two-inch heels she wore, her eyes were almost level with his. He was good-looking with wide-spaced brown eyes and short-cropped hair. His white jacket was a startling contrast to his mocha-colored skin.
So this was Donovan Russell, chef extraordinaire, most recently living in Paris but now currently revamping the menus at all the hotel’s restaurants located on the property. He’d been written up in Reno Today, an article Hendrix had studied for days, in an attempt to figure out what would impress him.
In person, he looked much younger than the photo accompanying the article. Maybe twenty-nine or thirty to her twenty-seven years of age. And Cordon Bleu trained. That part both impressed and intimidated her. She was totally in awe of anyone who had been trained in that mecca of French cuisine.
“I’m Hendrix Beausolie.” She put her tote down on his desk and held out her hand ready to launch into her speech.
“Just show me what you have,” he said interrupting her thoughts.
“I...” Startled by his brusqueness, she reached into her tote and brought out the container. She was deeply proud of her samples—a fruit tart, a couple of mini pies and her favorite cakes, including the champagne cake she’d developed for her best friend’s wedding. She opened the container and lifted out a tray setting it down in front of him. Each tiny sample contained all the hope and love she had inside of her for creating delicious pastries. She bit the inside of her lip, awaiting his next move.
He stared at her offerings. “They look pretty.”
“Pretty doesn’t seem to impress you.” She almost bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant to say that. Why couldn’t she just keep her mouth closed and nod. Her grandmother always said her smart remarks would get her in trouble one day. She hoped it wouldn’t be today, but sometimes she couldn’t stop the words from passing through her lips.
He stared at her, taking in her dress, her hair, and her face. “You’re not a prima donna are you?”
“I thought about being a prima ballerina.” She stood on point and smiled at him. “But I grew too tall.”
He almost smiled. She could work with that.
“I don’t need a baller—”
She picked up a morsel of champagne cake and pushed it gently in to his mouth. His eyes opened wide in surprise at her audacity, but he chewed. Then paused for a moment, his eyes studying her, and chewed again. Before he could say anything else, she popped a second piece into his mouth.
“Wow...” he said after he’d swallowed, but before he could go on, she popped a tiny fruit tart into his mouth. “I...”
“Don’t talk,” she said. “Just eat.” She waited for him to gulp down the tart. Before she could insert another one of her scrumptious little desserts into his mouth, he held up a hand, walked over to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water.
Then he sat down at his desk and watched her expectantly. She laid out each morsel in front of him and indicated where he should start. Between each bite, he drank water to cleanse his palate. Hendrix sat down and watched his face transform from doubt to delight and finally to amazement. She wondered how many pastry chefs he’d already interviewed. She intended to be the last one. She needed this job.
“What’s in this?” He said as the last bite of champagne cake filled his mouth. “I can taste the white chocolate and the champagne. What else?” His tone was still brusque, but he looked intrigued.
“A touch of raspberry, champagne, white chocolate and my secret ingredient.” Her secret ingredient was a tiny amount of cinnamon and maple syrup. Her grandmother had told her the tastes would never mesh, but they did when added in the right amounts. She liked the lingering aftertaste of the cake.
“The tart,” he said.
“Kiwi, pineapple, blueberries and raspberries with a bourbon and chocolate sauce.” Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t tell from the look of concentration on his face whether or not he liked it. She tried not to show how nervous she was. She’d learned to cook from her grandmother, and a childhood spent with globe-trotting parents had introduced her to the flavors of the whole world.
He leaned back in his chair and studied her. She gripped her hands tightly together to keep from shaking.
“Give me your background.”
She wet her lips with her tongue. “My parents own an import-export business and I spent most of my childhood traveling and learning to eat different cuisines. I went to high school in San Francisco where my grandmother taught me to bring all the flavors together in her tea shop. I majored in chemistry in college and since then I’ve worked a number of places—most recently a bakery here in Reno and before that a restaurant in San Francisco and my grandmother’s tea shop.” Her grandmother’s tea shop was named Hippie, Tea and Me. She usually avoided telling people that. Sure, her grandmother was an aging hippie, but her tea shop on Fisherman’s Wharf was still in high demand. Usually standing-room only.
“Wait.” He held up a hand. “Chemistry!”
She shrugged. “I like to blow things up.” In her mind, food was a lot like chemistry with tastes that blew up when the right amounts were put together.
He burst out laughing. “I blew up my grandmother’s kitchen trying to get a high school