Have a Bite

by R.G. Emanuelle
EXCERPT
CHAPTER 1: FIRE UP
Flames shot up, threatening to set the ceiling ablaze. Metal against metal
sounded a rhythm as white-coated women and men dashed around in a mad
panic, trying to keep everything to an organized chaos. Papers fluttered as
they passed between hands, water splashed as used utensils landed in the
sink, and more than a few collisions nearly resulted in people being sent to
the hospital with head injuries or stab wounds.
The crew shouted out what they needed as the orders kept coming in at
regular clips, and finished plates went out with the kind of speed that comes
with experience.
Lamb rack, fire up!
How long on the potatoes Dauphinoise?
I need more sorrel!
Delphine expedited, checking the plates before they went out of the kitchen
to the patrons. Pay attention, people. The plates are getting sloppy.
Nervous glances from the crew went in Delphines direction. No one wanted
to piss off the boss. Ramona, the sous chef, eyeballed the other cooks on the
line, as she as tossed caramelized onions in a pan.
One by one, waitstaff rushed in and out and shouted out customers orders,
cutting through the kitchen noise.
I need one gluten-free manicotti, pronto.

Two roast chicken, sauce on the side.

One pork paillard, no mushrooms! One duck, no garlic!
Please, make sure I have that porterhouse black and blue!
I need a refire on this wagyu. Customer wants it rare, not mooing!
We got an Elaine Benes!
The Seinfeld reference, the staffs code for someone requesting a big salad,
which was not on the menu, always made Del chuckle.
Tracy, the head server came bustling in and handed Del two more tickets.
Eight salmon, all day! Del shouted.
Eight? Shit, said Ramona. Were running low on the salmon.
All right, dont panic. Delphine ran into the walk-in to check on the
inventory. She re-emerged and pressed the button on the intercom that went
to the offices. Ophelia, go out and assess the room. How many people look
like they havent ordered yet?
Okay, came the crackled response from her restaurant manager.
Gluten-free manicotti at the pass! the pasta cook shouted a few moments
later.
Ramona reached into an oven and pulled out a sheet pan of thin, ruddy beet
chips. Hot behind! She quickly walked behind the others with the pan in
her hands and set it down on a work table just as Ophelia came into the
kitchen.
Chef, it looks like a few more guests came in. But according to Mariel, most
of the people invited are here. Maybe a few more are going to come.

Okay, thanks, Delphine replied. To her kitchen crew she said, Lets pump
it out, guys. Were heading into the home stretch.
Ramona, back at her station, lifted the lid off a pot, pulled what looked like a
clean spoon from the arm pocket of her jacket, and dipped it into the pot.
From where she stood, Delphine could see that it was the chestnut-celery root
bisque, recently added to the menu to accompany the Arctic char in a
ramekin. With a satisfied look, she replaced the lid and wiped her hands.
Fire up the char! she called out.
Del loved the rhythm and energy of a kitchen, especially hers. Every sense
was engaged, every single day. The sounds of pots and pans hitting the
burners, utensils scraping against stainless steel, oil sizzling, smoke spitting,
and voices and music from the dining room filled the kitchen. With minimal
banter, the staff performed their duties, chopping, roasting, braising, frying,
boiling, steaming, or otherwise preparing what they were responsible for.
It was all magic. The smell of the kitchenan intoxicating blend of spices,
roasting meats, vegetables being transformed into nectarous edible jewels,
and sauces stirred into a magical essence. The intense reds of paprika and
cayenne, the glitter of sea salt, the gray fog of smoke rising from a hot pan, or
the swirling verdant green of cilantro being pured for salsa verde. The
sensation of flour sifting through your fingers, or the ache in your knuckles
after shucking dozens of oysters. The slow burn on your skin after chopping
chiles. Or the numbness of your fingertips after rinsing lettuce in ice-cold
water. She almost missed the last twothey were pleasurable pains.
She thrived on it all and couldnt imagine doing anything else. Shed fought
against the efforts over the years to take her restaurants down by egotistical
reviewers, jealous competitors, and others with more personal agendas, and
she always came back strong. And she knew that her crew felt the same way,
particularly here at Vie Sang. But nights like this were trying.
Sasha Ziegler, the Grammy-winning singer, had booked the entire restaurant
for three hundred guests and requested that the menu, in its entirety, remain
available throughout the night as guests came and went and ate at their
leisure. This was in addition to the hors doeuvres and cocktails that the

celebrity had ordered. For the amount of money Delphine was charging,
shed agreed. But in exchange, she and her staff had hell to pay. Just
managing the extra seating was a nightmare.
Tracy came rushing back in. Wheres my tofu teriyaki? I needed it
yesterday.
Delphine looked toward Leslie, who was handling the vegetarian and vegan
meals. Leslie was new and had to build up her pace. Leslie, speed it up.
Lets get that tofu up. I want to see it at the pass in three. Please.
Yes, Chef! Leslie swiftly moved around her station and began squirting soy
sauce and rice vinegar from squeeze bottles into a bowl.
The roar of flames hit Dels ears and she looked toward the grill station. The
grillardin, the grill cook, jumped back suddenly as another huge burst of
flame shot up. A skillet slammed against the wall, sending pan sauce
splattering across the floor and wall. The cook fell to the floor screaming, his
hand on his face.
Delphine ran to him. Stu! Are you all right? Let me see your face. As she
kneeled down beside him, Ramona ran to the grill and salted the blazing
burner until it was doused.
Stu writhed on the floor while Delphine tried to move his hand from his face.
The other cooks looked on with worried expressions, but continued to cook.
Stopping for any amount of time would be disastrous.
Ophelia came running in. Holy shit! What happened? She dropped to her
knees near Stus head.
Get me the first aid kit, Delphine said, with a hand on Ophelias forearm.
Ophelia jumped up and returned in seconds with the kit. Delphine opened it
up and pulled out the burn ointment. Somebody get me a glove. A latex
glove appeared near her face, although who had proffered it, she didnt know.

She grabbed it and smeared some ointment on Stus cheek, which seemed to
have taken the brunt of the fiery assault.
Stu cringed with the touch. Ow! Ow!
Shit, she muttered. I should have had that stove looked at. Do you want to
go to the ER?
Stu stopped squirming and began to sit up. No. Im okay. It just hurt for a
few minutes. But Im fine. His cheek was a mottled, angry crimson, a bit
swollen, and already blistering in one spot.
Are you sure?
Yeah.
Delphine helped him get up and step back to the stove, where he paused
briefly to take a few deep breaths. He lowered his head, seemingly to regroup
and calm the beat of his heart, which must have been racing. He checked the
food on the other burners and plucked a clean pan from the wall to replace
the one hed dropped.
Ophelia looked stricken and stood frozen. Ophelia. You okay? Delphine
asked.
Um, yeah. That was justGod.
I know. Delphine sighed heavily. Listen, get back out there and see whats
happening, okay?
Yeah, okay. Ophelia made her way toward the door, a lingering gaze on
Stus back.
Delphine grabbed her apron and tied it on. Things were getting out of control,
and she needed to jump into the fray to help. Ramona, get over here and
expedite. Im going in.

Ramona stepped up to the front of the kitchen, where the dishes came to rest
on the counterthe passjust before being transported out to the dining
room by the waitstaff.
Okay, listen up, everybody, Delphine said, Were in the weeds here, but
were going to get through this. I just want everyone to take a deep breath
and relax. Dont stop, just relax.
The pace and intensity remained high as the orders kept coming in. Unlike
the usual controllable private party, this was a free-for-all.
To make things more stressful, the Council had also taken this opportunity to
spy on her. She spotted a few agents among the partygoers. They were
enjoying themselves, but observed everything. Tough job.
By one a.m., the food orders had stopped coming in. Del wiped her hands on
her towel and stepped outside of the kitchen for a breather, taking the
opportunity to assess the dining room.
The partiers were having a great time, if the cacophony of laughter, chatter,
and clinking glasses were any indication. Sasha Ziegler held court at the
center table and smiled brightly as people stooped next to her to take selfies
with her. Despite the insanity, there was a pleasant hum throughout the
restaurant that told Del people were enjoying the food. She could always tell
when a crowd of people didnt like what shed offered up that nightthere
would be a pall that would pervade the air. Not that it happened often.
She was enjoying her usual game of spotting the insecure sycophant or the
nose-in-the-air celebrity who feigned boredom when something made her
stop. On the left side of the room was a gorgeous woman in a black halter
cocktail dress, her dark hair slicked back, holding a martini glass. The golden
flecks of salt and shards of caramel that adorned the rim of the glass told Del
that it was one of her bartenders signature salted-caramel martinis. The
womans neckline plunged low and Del found herself staring at the flesh
peeking out of the material. She looked up and discovered the woman
looking back at her. Too busy to get involved in the art of seduction, she
returned to the kitchen.

On her way there, she noticed a man with his back turned toward her.
Nothing really stood out about him, but that was precisely why she noticed
him. He didnt seem to fit in with the ultrachic, bespoke celeb crowd. He
wore baggy-in-the-butt, faded-looking slacks, a wrinkled half-tucked shirt,
and a well-worn denim jacket that looked as if it could use a good washing.
He stooped slightly, as if life had beaten him down. It was then that she
realized that he actually had a small hump on his back. He stood alone and
very still, as if afraid to turn around. The only part of him that moved was his
thumb, which rubbed nervously over what Del could see was a lighter, an
old-school kind with a flip-top.
Dels hackles stood up. Although she couldnt see his face, he seemed
familiar somehow. She was about to move into the crowd to try and find out
who he was, when Ramona stuck her head out of the kitchen.
Chef, were gonna start breaking down the stations, Ramona said.
Chantels almost ready to roll out dessert.
Dell nodded and went back into the kitchen, taking one last look at the man.
He turned his head slightly, then quickly turned it back, as if surreptitiously
checking to see who was behind him.
Del went to the basement kitchen to check on her pastry chef, Chantel, who
was calmly slicing her opera cake. With agonizing precision, she positioned a
long, sharp knife over the cake and sliced straight down, apparently using
some imaginary guides to cut down the length of the twenty-four-inch, sevenlayer cake. Delphine waited until Chantel had finished the slice and had
pulled the knife out of the sheet, bits of almond sponge cake, coffee
buttercream, and chocolate ganache clinging to the razor-sharp blade.
Hey, Chantel.
Chantel looked up and smiled. Hey. Hows it going up there? I heard you
got in the weeds.
Yeah, but we got through it. Its almost over. Hows it going down here?

Chantels face was coated in sweat. Fine. Everythings ready. God, I hope
we dont run out of anything. Finished with cutting, she gazed one more
time at her creation, then put her knife into a stainless steel hotel pan filled
with water.
Dont worry. Delphine looked at the list hanging on the refrigerator with
the desserts and quantities. I think you made plenty. How did the sugar cage
turn out this time? She referred to one aspect of Chantels latest signature
dessert that she had been trying to perfect, a complicated affair that also
featured chocolate foam, white chocolate-covered rose petals, and caramelpistachio brittle.
Chantel smiled bashfully. Really good.
Del smiled as well and patted Chantel on the back.
Upstairs, the bustling continued but was slowing down. Her garde-manger,
who handled appetizers and salads, was standing with her back against her
work station, hands perched on the counter. The bussers were coming in with
tubs of dirty dishes, as Chantel turned the corner of the staircase with a sheet
pan of plated opera cake. The crew oohed and aahed at the plates of perfectly
cut slices, a squirt of cappuccino cream atop each and flanked on one side by
a rectangular piece of chocolate with a white design on it, along with a pool
of vanilla sauce, dotted with raspberry coulis.
After the servers had served all the guests, the crew each got a piece of cake
as wellthe throwawaysand toasted each other with their forks.
Thank you for working so hard tonight, guys, Del said. I really appreciate
it. They all beamed before taking huge bites of their cake.
When the partiers had left and the kitchen was cleaned up, the crew began
filing out, all ready to meet up at one of their favorite post-dinner hangouts. A
beer at three in the morning helped take the edge off a crazy dinner service.
Night, Boss. Chantel was the last one to leave.

Thanks, Chantel. Good work tonight.

Chantel chuckled. Did you expect anything else?
No. Chantel was an artist, which was why Delphine had hired her, and
probably what had enticed her when theyd had their brief fling. That and her
smooth, dark skin and startlingly blue eyes, the legacy of her African-DutchCuraaoan heritage. The clincher was her accent, a sensuous combination of
Dutch, Spanish, and African languages. Delphine had made her whisper
things in her native Papiamento during the night, when the best thing they
could think to do was explore each others bodies.
You are perfection, Delphine said.
Chantel smiled. You always were bright. After a moment, she added, It
was a rough night. Are you all right?
Yes, Im fine. Go on home.
All right. Good night, then. She put a reassuring hand on Dels shoulder as
she walked past her.
When Chantel was out the door, Delphine locked up, went into her office and
grabbed her jacket. Everything else could wait until tomorrow. As she
shrugged on the jacket, she remembered the strange man at the party.
Unfortunately, it was too late to ask anyone about him. Damn. She shut out
the lights and walked out the back door to the small parking lot.
It had been a brutally hot day for Brooklyn. But that heat had given way to a
cool evening with a breeze coming off the Upper New York Bay and down
the East River. When she was human, she would have shivered on a night like
this.
Right next to the door was her Kawasaki Cruiser. About to settle herself on
the motorcycles seat, she stopped.

She smelled it right away. The heady aroma of desire, need, and surrender
filled the air, and she knew it was close. But she waited until the source chose
to reveal itself. A woman stepped out of the shadows and into the floodlight
of the parking lot. She approached the doorway where Del stood.
Do you desire anything, madam?
Delphine turned to face the woman. She was young, maybe about twentyfive, slender, with blond hair down to her shoulders and edged with blue. Her
skin was pale, and her eyes half open with the promise of seduction. This was
nothing new for Delphine. Many pretty young things had waited for her
outside the restaurant, ready to offer themselves to her. They were like
groupies.
Delphine moved a little closer. Whats your name?
Roxanne, the young woman responded, taking a deep breath, obviously so
that her bosom would rise closer to Delphines face. Delphine obliged her
with a direct stare down her low-cut blouse, which Delphine was sure had
been selected just for the purpose. Well, Roxanne, I do find myself in need
of a little something.