Simmer Down

different culinary influences; what mattered to the owner was the quality and variety of the dishes. There would be Asian-style sashimi plates as well as Southwestern-influenced soups and gourmet Italian pasta dishes. Josh loved the freedom. The challenge, Josh had told me, was to avoid dishes that couldn’t be paired with any others and to make sure that there was some sort of cohesive quality to the menu as a whole.
    The square tables and high-backed chairs were in place, and the bar at the front of the room was well-stocked with high-end liquor. Matt, the bartender Gavin had lured away from a South End restaurant, was behind the stone counter feeding glasses into racks suspended from a high shelf.
    “Chloe?”
    Gavin walked toward me, all smiles. “So, what do you think?”
    “It’s beautiful. It really is. Congratulations.”
    “You here to see Josh?” he asked.
    I nodded, and he pointed to the back of the restaurant.
    “He’s in the kitchen with Snacker. Make yourself at home. I’ve got to make some calls, if you’ll excuse me. We’re missing half of our goddamn bowls that were left out of our dishware order. They charged us for them but forgot to deliver them, so now I have to yell at some poor schmuck and make sure they get overnighted to us. Ah, the joys of being a business owner.” Even with last-minute problems, Gavin couldn’t conceal his excitement about Simmer’s impending opening; he was practically glowing. “But there’s nothing like Newbury Street. I can’t wait until that patio opens up. The people watching, the atmosphere, the food... I can’t wait! We’ve already had a bunch of curious neighbors pop in to check us out. Hair stylists, store owners, they’ve been stopping by wanting to see what kind of food we’ll be doing. Everybody wants to get an in with us before we open. So, anyway, I’ve got make this call, but I’ll walk you back to the kitchen.”
    I followed Gavin to the back and then through the large wooden doors that swung into the kitchen.
    “I’ll see you at the opening, right, Chloe?”
    I nodded, and Gavin headed off to the left to his office. Josh and Snacker were hovering over one of the gigantic gas stoves. “Perfect, perfect, perfect,” Josh was saying happily. Both chefs were wearing their spotless new white coats, baggy black pants, and shiny black leather kitchen clogs. Give it a couple of days, and those sparkling outfits would be saturated with odors and marred by splotches that no detergent could remove.
    When Gavin had started construction on Simmer, I’d hoped that Josh would have a magnificently generous workspace. Giving the chef a big kitchen, however, would have meant reducing the amount of space at the front of the house and consequently decreasing the number of tables available to paying customers. Not that this kitchen was cramped, but on a busy night with a full staff, things might get tight. Three huge tiers of stainless-steel shelves held sauté pans, stockpots, and roasting pans. The stoves, ovens, and other major pieces of equipment hogged space, of course, and small appliances were everywhere: blenders, food processors, stick blenders, and a giant mixer.
    “Hello, Miss Chloe,” Snacker greeted me, shaking a skillet hard and tossing its aromatic contents.
    Oh, he was still adorable! Again, not that I was looking. Well, not looking for me, but I could admire, right?
    “Hi, babe!” Josh stopped stirring a bubbling pot and waved me over. “Come taste this stock.” He held out a teaspoon and fed me the most unbelievably delicious beef stock. At that moment, right there in my mouth, the whole concept of bouillon cubes met its dried-up, prepackaged maker.
    A man said, “If that’s what they do to stock, I can’t wait to try an entire meal.”
    I spun around to see Barry in the corner of the kitchen. He was leaning so comfortably against one of the stainless counters that he looked almost at home. I hadn’t even noticed that anyone else was here. Why? I had eyes only for Josh.
    “Chloe, you remember Barry Fields? From the other night?”
    “Yes. I’m so sorry about your partner.”
    Barry’s brown curls had been severely gelled against his skull to create the effect of a shellacked swim cap, and his rumpled sport coat was, I thought, the same one he’d been wearing the other night.
    What could Barry be doing here? Josh had told him to stop in, but I thought that he’d been issuing the chef’s version of “Let’s get