Come 4 A.M., I am showered, dressed, and staring at my reflection in the
bathroom mirror, trying to memorize the exact shade of green in my irises. Turns out they have little flecks of hazel in them. Who knew?
By the time 5 A.M. rolls around, I'm standing outside Grain & Tadar, the
bougie bakery three blocks from the office that charges twelve dollars for a croissant.
That's a crime, but the real felony is that it's worth every penny. The owner, Brian, is just flipping the sign to Open. "Erica!" His face lights up when he sees me. "You're early, even for you. That's how you get the worm, right?"
I grin for a second before my sick, depraved brain starts thinking of other "worms" it would like to get and I have to shake my head to dispel the unwelcome horny thoughts.
"Anyway, I couldn't sleep." I take a deep inhale, soaking up the aromas of fresh bread and butter and a cinnamon-y sweetness that makes my stomach growl. Just like that, I'm grinning again. "Okay, that smells insanely delicious. I need… three of everything."
He laughs. "You sure about that? That's a lot of carbs for a little lady."
"First of all, how dare you disrespect my ability to inhale sugar? Secondly, it's not for me. Well, not all for me. I'm feeding the test kitchen crew."
Brian's eyebrows go up. The test kitchen at Hale Hospitality is legendary—fifteen of the most talented chefs in Casmire, plus a small army of sous chefs, stagiaires, dishwashers, prep staff, and more, all working around the clock to develop bold new concepts for Andrew's ever-expanding culinary empire.
They're the best of the best. They are also, currently, miserable. Andrew has been in rare form all week, rejecting dish after dish, sending entire menus back to the drawing board with scathing comments. He's taken to just scrawling NGE across the top in huge, red letters.
That stands for Not Good Enough. It's honestly kind of impressive how concisely he manages to be a giant asshole.
"That's kind of you," Brian says with a whistle as he reaches for boxes to start loading me up with kilograms of sugary goodness. "What's the occasion?"
I watch him work, his hands quick and practiced as he selects pastries. Casmire dawn catches the glaze on a row of kouign-amann. The dusty cocoa on fresh bomboloni. The perfect spiral of a morning bun.
It's borderline pornographic for a sweet treat addict like me. "Well, the boss is grinding everyone into useless little nubs since we're getting close to the Project Olympus launch. He's a sadist, I think. I just do what I can to lighten the load for my fellow sufferers."
That is partly true—with the completion of Project Olympus finally on the near horizon, Andrew has been more monstrous than usual. The other part is something that was percolating in my head as I tossed and turned in the wee hours of the night.
I have ninety days left—well, ninety minus one—and that's just not a lot of time. I want to taste everything, see everything, experience everything while I still can. And if I can do that while also bringing a small taste of joy to a group of stressed-out chefs?
Well, that's killing two birds with one scone. Two hundred dollars later, I struggle through the revolving doors of the
Simon building, juggling a trio of pastry boxes and a tray of coffees. The security guard, Silan (not incompetent-spreadsheet Sila, different Sila),
jumps up to help.
"Ms. Jones, let me—"
"I've got it," I say, then immediately prove myself wrong by nearly dropping the coffee tray.
"Okay, maybe just the coffee." He takes the tray with a grin. "Test kitchen?"
"How'd you know?"
"Only reason anyone brings this much sugar before 6 A.M. Plus, Chef Nubio texted me that Mr. Andrew made three people cry yesterday."
"Three? I heard two."
"Pastry chef had a delayed reaction. Didn't hit until she got to her car." We ride the elevator to the fifteenth floor, where the test kitchen occupies half the level. It is Andrew's pet project, a state-of-the-art facility that looks more like a spaceship than a kitchen. He makes sure that the crew keeps it spic-and-span, too—we're talking "toothbrushes scrubbing the grout" levels of cleanliness—so it's a glistening, unblemished ocean of white andstainless steel as far as the eye can see.
Legend has it that the health inspector fell to his knees and wept tears of joy when he first came to approve the place's opening. The doors haven't even fully opened when Chef Nubio appears. Under normal circumstances, she's an espresso in human form: Puerto Rican, loud as hell, with an irrepressible smile and hips that constantly swing to salsa music that no one else can hear.
My first thought today, though, is that she looks beyond exhausted. She's practically got piping bags under her eyes.
"Please tell me those are from Grain & Gather," she says to me in a hushed rasp when she sees what I'm carrying.
I wink. "Would I bring you anything else?"
"Mija, I could kiss you. On the mouth. With tongue." Thankfully, she spares me the early morning tongue bath. Instead, she grabs two boxes, then calls over her shoulder in rapid Spanish. Within seconds, I am surrounded by chefs, all of them clawing for the goodies and groaning wordlessly like a zombie horde.
"Oh my God, kouign-amann," someone moans.
"Are these the brown butter croissants? Erica, you angel."
"Coffee's still hot!"
I ask how things are going, someone starts explaining the difference between lamination techniques in French versus Austrian pastries, and for a few minutes, everything feels normal. Better than normal, actually. There is something beautiful about watching people's faces light up over simple pleasures.
Chef Nubio closes her eyes and sighs when she bites into a morning bun. The newest line cook, barely out of culinary school, holds his croissant aloft like it's made of gold.