Hungry Heart: Konigsburg, Texas, Book 8 (7 page)

He shrugged. “I’m not crazy about dill pickles in my potato salad, but that’s a personal quirk—I’m more a sweet relish man myself. And if you’re going for crunch I’d say celery.”

Darcy narrowed her eyes. “Celery isn’t standard.” She’d read enough potato salad recipes by now to have a pretty good idea of what constituted the basic ingredients.

The King shrugged again, grinning. “Call it a licensed variation.”

She managed a dry smile of her own. “I can live with that. So overall?”

“Overall…” He set the plate down on the counter. “Overall it would pass muster at a standard barbecue. Tastes like potato salad’s supposed to taste.”

Her jaw tightened.
Standard
didn’t sound like much of an endorsement. And she happened to know this was damn good potato salad. “Is that a yes or a no?” If he shrugged again, she might have to hurt him.

He raised his eyebrows. “I said it tastes like it’s supposed to taste. That’s a compliment. So yeah, you did what I told you to do.”

“For the record, you didn’t tell me to do anything. You challenged me. And I won.” She folded her arms across her chest.

His grin widened. “My, my, you are a prickly little thing, aren’t you? Not used to faint praise, I guess.”

Darcy decided to ignore the
little thing
bit. Not remotely accurate and clearly meant to distract her from the main point. “I’m merely stating a fact. This was a challenge—my potato salad in exchange for you showing me how to cook barbecue. You just acknowledged that I accomplished my end of the challenge.” She felt like flexing her tight shoulders, but she also felt like he’d notice if she did. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that she cared what he thought.

He held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not arguing with you, sweetheart. You did what I said to do. So are you ready to cook some barbecue?”

White teeth flashed against golden skin as he smiled, and she felt that diaphragm tightening thing again.
Really annoying.
“I’ve got to work tonight. If you’ll give me a schedule, I can set something up with Joe.”

“Ah, a schedule.” He shook his head. “Not as easy as it sounds. You put the meat on when the fire feels right. You take it off when the meat feels right. Sometimes that might be a couple of hours, but sometimes four or five. All depends on the size of the cut and the type of meat you’re working with. You’ve got to develop a feel for what you’re doing.”

Unfortunately, he was right about that—all cooks developed a feel for their work. “I understand that. Only I’m trying to schedule this around working full time as a sous chef. I figured you did most of your cooking at night, right?”

He shrugged. “Like as not. I usually put the meat on in late afternoon or early evening, then get it wrapped for the truck around midnight or so. But there’s prep to do before I put it on.”

“Prep as in…”

“As in basic butchering, putting the rub on the meat so it can sit for a couple of hours, getting the meat on and off the grills.”

She nodded. “So if I did breakfast and lunch at the Rose then came up here mid-afternoon, would that do it?”

He frowned. “You’re doing my sides, remember?”

“I remember.” She raised her chin. “I’ll do them the night before.”

For the first time he looked less than absolutely confident. “When are you going to sleep, sweetheart? Sounds like you’re going to be spreading yourself pretty thin.”

She shook her head. “I’m a cook. I’m used to it. Besides, it’s my choice.”

His grin was dry. “That’s right. It’s your choice.”

She sighed. Why had she ever thought this would be simple? “So say I show up here at three or four in the afternoon a few times a week. Would that work?”

He nodded. “I’ll be back from running the truck in Konigsburg by then. It’s when I do the meat for the next day. Don’t suppose you’re interested in getting a little food truck experience too?”

She managed a tight smile. “Don’t suppose I am. This schedule’s going to be tight enough as it is.”

“All right then.” He folded his arms. “Say we start on Monday. Okay by you?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“I’ll need a couple of gallons of potato salad and another couple of coleslaw. For now, I’ll handle the beans since they go on the smoker with the meat.”

Darcy blinked. Why hadn’t she thought of this? “Coleslaw? You want coleslaw?”

“Well, yeah. People get two sides, choice of potato salad, coleslaw or beans.”

“Do you want to see a test batch of that too?”

He gave her another slow grin. “Nope. I’ll trust you on the coleslaw. No crap like horseradish or blue cheese, though. Just the regulation stuff.”

“Cabbage slaw?”

His forehead furrowed. “Is there any other kind?”

“Broccoli. Apple. Celery root. You can make it out of just about any kind of root vegetable. Even jicama.”

He leaned forward bracing his fists on the counter. “Jicama. Lord help us. Do not put jicama into anything that I’ll be serving off the truck, understand? Just coleslaw. Normal, everyday coleslaw.”

“Normal, everyday coleslaw. Got it.” Looked like she’d be calling her mom again.

Harris watched Darcy’s SUV edge carefully up the track away from the river. He really should get the road graded—even his truck had problems getting up it when the weather turned bad. And he had to park it down by the bridge, which meant he had to carry the food across every day. On the other hand, getting somebody all the way out here to grade the road would cost a fair amount plus being a real pain in the butt. And he’d need to do something about the bridge if he expected to get the truck back and forth every day.

He sighed, settling his hat back on his head as he turned toward the lean-to. The fire should be ready in another half hour or so. He needed to get the meat ready to go on the grills and then make sure the truck was ready to go for tomorrow, the routine he went through four days a week when he wasn’t doing special jobs.

Special jobs.
He grinned as he headed back across the meadow, dodging Porky’s unwitting attempts to trip him. The hound had no sense of dignity, let alone grace. Maybe when he got a few years on him he’d be a little more reliable.

Darcy Cunningham was one special job herself. She looked sort of like a punk rocker he’d dated back in Austin, minus the safety pins and black eye makeup. Today the tips of her spiked hair had been bright blue—they vibrated when she was concentrating. She probably didn’t realize that. It was a significant
tell.

She also had a chip on her shoulder the size of a live oak, but he figured that was probably part of her working attitude. Most restaurant kitchens were boys’ clubs. A woman who’d made it to sous chef at a big-time restaurant like the Rose would need some attitude to keep her head above water and to keep the boys from making her life miserable. Darcy Cunningham had attitude to spare.

He figured she probably had some ulterior motive for getting him to teach her about barbecue, maybe trying to cut him out of the job at the Rose. But he also figured that wouldn’t happen. She might be one hell of a chef, but she didn’t have the equipment he had—the smokers and the wood in particular—and without that equipment all the expertise in the world wouldn’t make her a pit master.

Still, it looked to be an interesting couple of months. That potato salad of hers had been celestial. It had taken all of his considerable skill at dissembling to keep from showing her just how impressed he’d been from that one bite. Assuming she could come up with something roughly comparable in the way of coleslaw, he should be able to build up the following for his barbecue truck by several dozen, at least until Darcy decided she’d learned enough about barbecue for the moment and took herself back to the Rose’s kitchen full time.

He started down the path that led to the lean-to. The smell of smoke filled the air, luscious but probably more than there should be at this point. He’d have to adjust the dampers to make sure he wasn’t getting more smoke than he needed.

Porky stationed himself at the edge of the concrete slab, watching Harris hopefully. He’d learned to associate the smokers with sausage, which was what made his life worth living.

The covered concrete slab sat under a corrugated tin roof in a grove of live oaks, open on the sides to let in the air and let out the smoke. His four Texas Hibachis sat in a row, all of them leeching smoke through their stacks. He raised the hinged doors on the sides, holding his hand briefly above the grills to judge the heat.

Very briefly, in fact. Looked like it was time to bring on the briskets. He turned back toward the kitchen building. The meat had been getting acquainted with the rub for a couple of hours in the refrigerator. It should be ready to go by now.

With any luck, he’d get a chance to get to know Ms. Darcy a bit better before she got sick of him. He grinned again as he headed back down the trail. Yes indeed, knowing Ms. Darcy a little better would definitely brighten up the next few weeks, particularly if that knowing involved fewer clothes and a lot closer contact.

Porky followed along at his heels, hopeful that he might be allowed inside the kitchen for once. A largely vain hope. Harris paused at the door to the kitchen. Men who came across as musing about the joys of jumping Ms. Darcy were probably what had caused her to develop her attitude in the first place. Coming on to her wasn’t likely to make her feel more positive toward him, considering how often that had probably happened to her in kitchens before. Maybe he could try something different—although given the way his body reacted every time she waltzed into his line of sight, that might be more difficult than it seemed.

He sighed, pushing into the kitchen, while blocking Porky’s latest assault. Considerations of personal relations would have to wait. The coals were ready, the meat was ready, and that was all he needed to concentrate on for at least the next three hours. Barbecue waited for no man.

“Coleslaw?” Darcy’s mother sounded dubious. “What kind of slaw are you looking for? Vinegar-based? Cooked dressing? Or you could always get the dressing out of a bottle—some of those aren’t that bad.”

Darcy rubbed her forehead. She was taking a quick break from getting the kitchen ready for the dinner service. Usually they had fewer people to deal with for dinner than for lunch, but dinner was when Joe like to try out new recipes, always a slightly stressful chore.

“I need the same kind of coleslaw as the potato salad. The church potluck kind of thing. I’m not sure what’s standard.” Plus, she didn’t want to have to dig through the thousands of recipes she’d probably turn up on the Web.

“So you’re going to make your own dressing? Any idea what you’re looking for?” She couldn’t tell exactly, but her mom sounded a little like she was gloating.

“Vinegar. It’s for barbecue, and I want something acid to cut through the richness.”

“All right. I think I’ve got one from your Aunt Lorrie. Let me check and then email you.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“So what about the potato salad?” her mom cut in before she could hang up. “Did it work?”

“It did.” Darcy stopped herself before she said anything else. Details about the King would only lead to more questions.

Her mother chuckled. “Glad to hear it. Most men like potato salad.”

“I guess,” Darcy said through clenched teeth.

“Are you enjoying yourself there in Texas?”

Darcy blinked. That didn’t seem like the next logical question. “Yeah. I am.”
Surprisingly enough.
She hadn’t really thought about the whole enjoyment angle of her job before. She’d never allowed herself to get all that involved with a location. But then she’d never stayed in a job as long as she’d stayed in Konigsburg.

“Are you going to stay?”

Okay, now the direction of the questions was a little more obvious. “For a while. Unless something better shows up.” She ignored the slight pinch of anxiety.
Chef de cuisine. Eyes on the prize, Darcy.

Her mother sighed. “I’m not sure what I should be wishing for here—that you stay in one place or find another one.”

“How about just wishing for me to be happy?” Darcy said slowly.

“Oh honey,” her mom said gently, “I do that already.”

Darcy closed her eyes.
Well played, Mom. Very well played.

Chapter Six

Chico sighed and checked himself in the mirror one last time. He didn’t really use a mirror for much beyond shaving and combing his hair. He certainly didn’t use it with any particular concentration. Now he looked at himself with a sense of impending doom.

He had no idea how he was supposed to dress for a date with Andy Wells. He was fairly certain most men of her acquaintance wore something besides jeans and T-shirts.

His working clothes were out of the question unless he was planning to visit one of the more disreputable bars in town, which didn’t seem like a great first date idea. His other clothes had been chosen more for comfort than for style. He finally pulled on a knit golf shirt his mother had given him for Christmas a couple of years ago, along with his most respectable jeans. He’d never worn the shirt before, and he wasn’t exactly delighted to be wearing it now. Before their second date, he might need to actually buy some clothes.