Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

I plowed a crooked path to what I hoped was the kitchen entrance. As I feared, the dark, cramped cooking space featured plywood glued along the one wall not covered by cupboards. Above the plywood, a dusty lamp hung to illluminate the battered sink. Next to the sink, buckled linoleum counters abutted a gas oven that didn’t look much newer than a covered wagon’s camp stove. In the center of the uneven wood floor, short, paunchy, white-haired André Hibbard surveyed the room with open dissatisfaction. As usual, my old friend and mentor, who had made a rare compromise when he’d immigrated, anglicizing his name from Hébert to Hibbard, sported a pristine white chef’s jacket that hugged his potbelly. His black pants were knife-creased; his black shoes were shiny and spotless. When he saw me, his rosebud mouth puckered into a frown.

“Thank goodness.” His plum-colored cheeks shook; the silvery curls lining his neck trembled. “Are these people pigs , that I have to work in this trough? I may need money, but I have standards!”

I put down my box, gave him a quick hug, and sniffed a trace of his spicy cologne. “André! You’re never happy. But I’m here, and I brought the nonmeat entrée you requested. Main-dish cheesecakes made with Gruyère and spinach.”

He tsked while I checked the ancient oven’s illegible thermostat. “The oven is hot. Whose recipe is it?”

“Julian Teller’s. Now training to become a vegetarian chef.” I lifted the cakes from the box and slid them into the oven to reheat. “Now, put me to work.”

I helped André pour out the tangy sauces that would accompany the delicate spring rolls he’d stuffed with fat steamed shrimp, sprigs of cilantro, and lemongrass. Then we stirred chopped pears into the red-wine vinaigrette, counted cornbread biscuits, Parker House Rolls, and sourdough baguettes, and discussed the layout of the buffet. Prince & Grogan was the client of record. But the fashion photography studio, Ian’s Images, was running the show.

“Ian Hood does fashion photography for money,” André announced as he checked his menu, “and nature photography for fun. You know this?”

In André’s scratched, overloaded, red cooking equipment box—one I knew well from our days at his restaurant—I pushed aside his garlic press and salamander, and nabbed the old-fashioned scoop he used to make butter balls. “I know his pictures of elk. You can’t live in Aspen Meadow and miss them.”

André pursed his lips again and handed me the tub of chilled butter. “The helpers are day-contractors working for Prince & Grogan.”

The word contractor , unfortunately, instantly brought my trashed kitchen to mind. Forget it for now—you have work to do . I scraped the butter into dense, creamy balk. I wrapped the breads in foil while André counted his platters. Because the cabin kitchen was not a commercially-approved space, he had done the bulk of the food preparation at his condo. While he gave me the background on the shoot, we used disposable thermometers to do the obligatory off-site food-service tests for temperature. Was the heated food hot enough? The chilled offerings cold enough? Yes. Finally, we checked the colorful arrangements of fruit and bowls of salad, and tucked the rolls into napkin-lined baskets.

When the cheesecakes emerged, golden brown and puffed, they filled the small kitchen with a heavenly aroma. André checked their temperature and asked me to take them out to the buffet. I stocked the first tray, lifted it up to my shoulder, and nudged through the kitchen door. When I entered the great room, a loudly barked order made me jump.

“Take off your shirt!”

I banged the tray onto the ruby-veined marble shelf that a note in Andre’s familiar sloping hand had labeled Buffet . The shelf, cantilevered out of the massive log walls, creaked ominously. The tray of cheesecakes slid sideways.

“Your shirt!”

I grabbed the first Springform pan to keep it from tipping. This was not what I was expecting. Because the noise outside the kitchen had abated, I’d thought the room was empty and that the models’ auditions had been moved elsewhere. I was obviously wrong. But my immediate worry was the cheesecakes, now threatening to toboggan downward. If they landed on the floor, I would be assigned to cook a new main dish. This would not be fun.

With great care, I slid the steaming concoctions safely onto the counter. Arguing voices erupted from the far corner of the great room. I grabbed the leaning breadbasket. The floor’s oak planks reverberated as someone stamped and hollered that the stylist was supposed to bring out the gold chains right now! I swallowed and stared at the disarray on the tray.

To make room on the counter, I skidded the cheesecakes down the marble. The enticing scents of tangy melted Gruyère and Parmesan swirled with hot scallions and cream cheese spiraled upward. The thick tortes’ golden-brown topping looked gorgeous, fit for the centerfold of Gourmet .

Best to avoid thoughts of gorgeous , I reminded myself as I placed a crystal bowl of endive and radicchio on the marble. Truth to tell, for this booking I’d been a bit apprehensive in the appearance department. Foodie magazines these days eagerly screamed a new trend: Today’s caterer should offer pretty servers in addition to beautiful food! Submit head shots along with menus!

I pushed the butter balls onto the counter, keenly aware of my unfashionably curly blond hair and plump thirty-three-year-old body beneath a white shirt, loose black skirt, and white apron. I hadn’t submitted a photo.

Of course, neither had André, who was now fuming at a kitchen intruder. I sighed and moved the plate of juicy honeydew melon and luscious fat raspberries onto the counter. With one hand still gripping the tray, I inhaled uncertainly, then parted the cloth folds of the breadbasket. The tower of butter-flecked rolls, moist cornbread biscuits, and sourdough-thyme baguettes had not toppled, thank goodness. Self-doubt again reared its head. Will the fashion folks eat this?

“And while you’re at it, take off your pants!” the same female voice barked.

“For sportswear?” a man squealed in dismay.

I turned and peered past the bentwood chairs and sleigh-bed frames the workers had piled higgledy-piggledy in the dusty, sun-steeped space. By the far bank of windows, a solitary, beautiful young man stood in front of a trio of judges. The judges—two women and a man, all of whom I knew—perched on a slatted bench. None of them looked happy.

Nearest was Hanna Klapper—dark-haired, wide-faced, fiftyish, recently and unhappily divorced. Hanna was familiar to me from my stint as a volunteer at Aspen Meadow’s Homestead Museum. With her authoritarian voice and exacting ways, Hanna had designed exhibits installed by trembling docents, yours truly included. She had demanded that we put on surgical gloves before moving woven baskets or antique Indian pots even two inches. If we forgot, or, God forbid, dropped an item, she’d kick us out faster than you could say Buffalo Bill’s bloodstained holster . According to André, Hanna had been appointed as the new artistic director at Prince & Grogan. I was amazed to see that she had shed her gingham-smock-and-sensible-shoes wardrobe for an elegant black silk shirt, tie, and pants. Her mahogany-colored hair, formerly pulled into a severe bun, was now shaped into a fashionably angled pageboy. This wasn’t just a new job. It was a metamorphosis.

Hanna opened and closed her fists as she chided the male model. The gorgeous fellow, whose hair might have been a tad too black to be real, argued back. I wondered how Harma’s exhibits on Cattle-Rustling Meets Cowboy Cooking and Gunslingers: Their Gripes and Their Girls had prepared her for ordering models to strip. In any event, I certainly wouldn’t want her judging my body.