Can't Stand the Heat Read Free Page A

her apron around her waist.
    â€œMorning! Mornin’. ¡Buenos días!” a few voices answered in return.
    Lauren looked around the room. “Where’s Phillip?” she asked no one in particular. “Anybody seen him around?”
    Phillip Rochon was the executive chef of Le Bayou Bleu. The dark-skinned, jolly, loud-mouthed man was from a small town not far from New Orleans, where he had learned to cook gumbo, jambalaya, and crawfish étouffé at his grandmother’s elbow more than forty years ago. He had opened restaurants in New York City, Chicago, and Washington, DC, specializing in a high-end interpretation of down-home Creole cuisine. He had decided last year to open Le Bayou Bleu in Chesterton, Virginia—Lauren’s hometown.
    â€œHas anybody seen Phillip?” Lauren repeated, louder this time, stepping farther into the kitchen.
    â€œI think he’s in the front of the house,” one of the cooks murmured as he laid a series of thinly sliced potatoes onto a cookie sheet covered with wax paper.
    â€œOut front?”
    That was an odd place for Phillip to be. Usually he was elbow to elbow with the other chefs, preparing vegetables, dressings, and pasta dough that would be used later that day. He was a James Beard award winner and had led restaurants with Michelin stars, but Phillip was far from a diva. He believed true head chefs still worked the line and shared celebratory drinks with their staff after a hard day of work.
    To leave these guys alone to do prep work, something has to be up, Lauren thought. She walked through the kitchen to the swinging door that led to the front of the house.
    Lauren rarely got to see this half of Le Bayou Bleu. Every time she entered it, she would marvel at how beautiful the space was. The tone of the restaurant matched the food that was served there: sophisticated but earthy, cool but classic. The two were a perfect match.
    The walls were set with a rich mahogany wood paneling, and over the onyx bar was a huge chandelier dripping with crystal. Along each side wall were booths with cream-colored fabric embellished with a navy blue damask pattern. The back wall of the restaurant was lined with state-of-the-art refrigerators filled with wine bottles that had vintages dating as far back as the early 1900s. At any given time, jazz or soul music would play over the hidden speakers, giving a mellow vibe to the space despite the grandeur of the surroundings.
    Unfortunately, Lauren wasn’t enjoying those grand surroundings this morning. She was too concerned about Phillip. She found him sitting alone at one of the dining room tables, with a glass of red wine and a half-eaten beignet on a dinner napkin in front of him. Chairs were still stacked on the table around him.
    â€œIt’s a little early for wine, isn’t it?” Lauren asked with a wry smile as she walked toward him. “Is it starting off to be that kind of day?”
    He didn’t respond.
    â€œPhillip,” she said as she drew closer. “Phillip!” She patted him gently on his plump shoulder, making him jump in surprise. He quickly looked over his shoulder at her.
    â€œAww, chérie , what you doin’ sneaking up on me like that? You damn near gave me a heart attack, gal!”
    â€œSorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” She took one of the chairs off the table, setting it beside his. She sat down. “I called you a few times. Guess you didn’t hear me.” She scanned his face. “Hey, are you OK?”
    His brow was soaked with perspiration. His eyes looked sunken and haunted. He seemed to be breathing hard through his parched lips.
    â€œI’m . . . I’m fine,” he said with some effort. He swallowed loudly and wiped his forehead with a linen napkin. “I’m just . . . I’m just feeling a little peaked this mornin’.”
    â€œYou look more than a ‘little peaked.’ You look like you need to go to