When Jo returns with the dishes, I plate up two servings. “I have to get back to the restaurant anyway,” I say, gently brushing off Ms. Vi’s protests. “You know I’ve got that big dinner coming up; there’s a lot of work to do to get ready. Besides, I don’t want to leave y’all with nothing; you might get hungry later.” I’m tempted to say more, to tease Jo, who’s always had a legendary appetite. But she beats me to it.
“I dunno. That sounds pretty sus to me. Don’t they say that you should never trust a chef who won’t eat his own food?” she asks, batting her eyes innocently.
“No, I don’t believe I’ve heard that one,” I reply extending a plate out toward her and holding her gaze challengingly. “But, if you’re too afraid to eat, just say so.”
I’m proud of my restaurant and confident of the food we serve there, but I’m more than a little anxious as I watch Jo tuck into her meal. And I know how that sounds—as though I still have feelings for her that go beyond mere friendship, right?
But that’s not what it is. Jo’s opinion is important to me, yes. But there’s a valid reason for that. Most people will tell you what you want to hear. Which is nice and all, but you can’t fix a problem that you don’t know is there. And you won’t necessarily work as hard as you should to improve your craft if no one ever suggests that you might need to. I trust Jo’s judgment. I know she’ll tell me the unvarnished truth. And with so much on the line, that’s worth way more than pleasant platitudes.
Which is not to suggest that I don’t feel dismayed when Jo’s eyes go wide, and she claps a hand to her mouth and utters a startled, “mmph!”
“What?” I demand, scanning her plate to see which dish has elicited her reaction. I gave her a little bit of everything I’d brought—migas, biscuits and gravy, chicken fried chicken with pecan pancakes, Texas style eggs Benedict made with brisket and queso. All hill country classics made with locally grown-or-sourced ingredients and my own special twists. All solid dishes, or so I’d thought. “What’s wrong?”
“Bit her tongue, I imagine,” Vi suggests, without much emotion.
But Jo shakes her head at that. She holds up a finger and continues chewing for a moment longer then finally says, “Nothing’s wrong. Are you kidding? I just wasn’t expecting the massive foodgasm you just gave me.”
“Yeah?” I feel my spirits soar and I can’t keep from smiling. “It’s good? Really?”
“Fuck, yeah,” she replies—eliciting a gasp of outrage from her aunt. “No crumbs.”
“Jocelyn Marie! What did you just say?”
“Sorry, Auntie,” Jo replies. Then her gaze meets mine. “Seriously, Carter. It’s so good!”
She pauses for effect and then adds, “You should maybe think about opening a restaurant or something.”
Fall For You: Texas Heat
When Jo returns with the dishes, I plate up two servings. “I have to get back to the restaurant anyway,” I say, gently brushing off Ms. Vi’s protests. “You know I’ve got that big dinner coming up; there’s a lot of work to do to get ready. Besides, I don’t want to leave y’all with nothing; you might get hungry later.” I’m tempted to say more, to tease Jo, who’s always had a legendary appetite. But she beats me to it.
“I dunno. That sounds pretty sus to me. Don’t they say that you should never trust a chef who won’t eat his own food?” she asks, batting her eyes innocently.
“No, I don’t believe I’ve heard that one,” I reply extending a plate out toward her and holding her gaze challengingly. “But, if you’re too afraid to eat, just say so.”
I’m proud of my restaurant and confident of the food we serve there, but I’m more than a little anxious as I watch Jo tuck into her meal. And I know how that sounds—as though I still have feelings for her that go beyond mere friendship, right?
But that’s not what it is. Jo’s opinion is important to me, yes. But there’s a valid reason for that. Most people will tell you what you want to hear. Which is nice and all, but you can’t fix a problem that you don’t know is there. And you won’t necessarily work as hard as you should to improve your craft if no one ever suggests that you might need to. I trust Jo’s judgment. I know she’ll tell me the unvarnished truth. And with so much on the line, that’s worth way more than pleasant platitudes.
Which is not to suggest that I don’t feel dismayed when Jo’s eyes go wide, and she claps a hand to her mouth and utters a startled, “mmph!”
“What?” I demand, scanning her plate to see which dish has elicited her reaction. I gave her a little bit of everything I’d brought—migas, biscuits and gravy, chicken fried chicken with pecan pancakes, Texas style eggs Benedict made with brisket and queso. All hill country classics made with locally grown-or-sourced ingredients and my own special twists. All solid dishes, or so I’d thought. “What’s wrong?”
“Bit her tongue, I imagine,” Vi suggests, without much emotion.
But Jo shakes her head at that. She holds up a finger and continues chewing for a moment longer then finally says, “Nothing’s wrong. Are you kidding? I just wasn’t expecting the massive foodgasm you just gave me.”
“Yeah?” I feel my spirits soar and I can’t keep from smiling. “It’s good? Really?”
“Fuck, yeah,” she replies—eliciting a gasp of outrage from her aunt. “No crumbs.”
“Jocelyn Marie! What did you just say?”
“Sorry, Auntie,” Jo replies. Then her gaze meets mine. “Seriously, Carter. It’s so good!”
She pauses for effect and then adds, “You should maybe think about opening a restaurant or something.”
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