The Last Good Paradise Read Free Page B

“Carrots scream, too.”
    They polished off Javi’s rabbit appetizer, then a Roquefort-and-sautéed-apple quesadilla, an organic baby greens salad with hearts of palm, and then a mango ice as palate cleanser. Javier, the mad-genius chef, had created a new dish in honor of Ann’s birthday: soba noodles with pink Florida prawns, braised bok choy, miniature scallops in soy sauce, rice wine, and serrano chilies. Richard’s broccolini was brought to the table as an afterthought.
    Javier’s reputation for achieving culinary ecstasy had the tables booked up for two months solid from opening night. Every restaurant critic from Santa Barbara to San Diego planned to make the pilgrimage to their obscure location on the wobbly border of Santa Monica and Venice, braving chronic lack of parking and the abuse and urinary insults of homeless people, the indigent, and the belligerent who haunted the canyons of urban blight west of the 405. There were rumors of national foodies from Esquire , Travel & Leisure , etc., booking under aliases.
    Javier’s fiery temper, moderately good Latin looks, vulgar mouth, and lewd behavior toward anything female created an outsize personality that fit perfectly in a profession where chefs were under the onus of not only cooking delicious meals but also having that magic celebrity “it” factor promising that just around the corner the Big Break would happen, which would render same-week reservations a thing of the past.
    The fire from the serranos was delightfully unexpected, but after the initial surprise one realized the taste was not quite right.
    Richard’s aversion to cooking meat was becoming a problem. It had started when he was a teenager, but then abated at CIA, Culinary Institute of America, where he had to learn how to french-cut a rack of lamb, divide a pork loin into chops, carve steaks, and grind meat and sausage. The constant pressure to perform prevented him from dwelling on the meats’ previous incarnations—that is, until the master charcuterie/butchering course a year after he met Ann. It was an honor to be invited, and he was flown coach to France and put up at a youth hostel in the Marais, with a bathroom down the hall that had never seen a scrub brush. They couldn’t afford the airfare for Ann to join him, and besides, she had just started at the law firm. Still, it was Paris. He was young and in love with food.
    The pig slaughter set him back years.
    Everyone knew it. The French were cruel eaters: foie gras , veal, live-boiled lobsters. Their philosophy affected all dishes, and all of it bothered Richard. Even tomatoes were blanched, peeled, cored, seeded, and whatever remained was then pureed and strained until all tomato essence had been deracinated. If there was a God, how could people peel asparagus? He considered switching to the pastry track, but the truth was that for all his modesty, his “Aw, shucks”-ness, his love of the anonymity and camaraderie of the kitchen, he wanted Emeril Lagasse superstardom. There had never been a celebrity vegan chef in the history of the world for a reason. One didn’t open a restaurant on the strength of puff pastry and ganache. In the testosterone-filled world of chefdom, pastry was for pussies. So he cooked meat and suffered in silence.
    When Javi left the table and disappeared after the main course, Richard grabbed Ann’s hand and pressed it against his chest. “This is the happiest time in my life. Or it will be soon when we open. And it would mean nothing if you weren’t by my side.”
    Ann wiped at her eyes. The serranos were killing her.
    “You’ve sacrificed a lot. It hasn’t been easy. Pretty soon it will be your turn.”
    “Her turn for what?” Javi yelled, out of sight, deep in the bowels of the walk-in refrigerator. “You two will finally have babies and make me an uncle?”
    “My turn to go to art school,” she answered. “A solo gallery show. Then children.” Because even after the financial sacrifice of