Always Cas | ✔

CHAPTER ELEVEN; part two

     I'm barely through the doorway Friday morning when Dolores rushes me, holding a newspaper in front of her face so that it's then in my face. "Read this," she says as she shoves the paper into my chest. I take it, holding it away from me as I walk into the kitchen, flipping the lights on. "Aloud."

     "I knew you were getting old, but I didn't think your sight was going," I say maybe still a little peeved with her.

     "Just read it."

     The title of the article is "An Elusive Chop — and I'm Not Just Talking About the Lamb." "Oh no," I mumble. "Before there was a Weston's, there was just Dresden Gibson: a man who first served his country and has now been serving cupcakes for the last five years. Private Weston's is his day-time cupcake and coffee shop that seems to pay homage to his time in the military. But it's the After Hours where the real magic happens. His Saturday night debut featured three dishes — a delicate seared scallop arranged in a bed of seaweed with a splash of purple cauliflower that bought the plate to life, a lamb chop that could've given Gordon Ramsey—." I stop suddenly. "I can't read this anymore."

     Dolores swats at me. "Keep going!"

     I glare at the article. "I don't understand why he added these things about me. I didn't sit for an interview."

     Dolores places both her hands on her hips. "Will ya' keep going."

     I sigh heavily. "A lamb chop that could've given Gordon Ramsey a run for his money, and if our palates hadn't already left the building, Chef Gibson sealed our fates with a zesty pear dessert. For a first-timer, Chef Gibson played like a veteran. The exclusivity of the event is very much warranted. If you're not sitting by your phone Monday evening waiting for tickets to go live, you're depriving yourself of cuisine worthy of a Michelin star."

     Dolores is grinning at me, eyes wide like this is the best thing to happen directly to her.

     "That was overly..." I'm at a loss for words. "Who writes like that?"

     "What do you mean? That is a rave review. You got your first rave review!"

     "Actually, Polly wrote about us on her blog two years ago if you recall."

     "Polly's blog has no traffic. This is the New York Times. Give me that, I'm framing it."

     Dolores takes the paper back before leaving. I'm hung up on being compared to an elusive lamb chop. The Times critic left his number and against all better judgement I give him a call.

     He answers on the first ring. "Hello?"

     I can recognize his voice easily, the strangely high pitch of it. "Is this Luke Doucet?"

     "It is," he says tone ingratiating. "And who I am speaking with?"

     "This is Dresden Gibson of Private Weston's," I respond, regret heavy in my chest. I don't know what I'm doing.

     There's laughter on his end. "Ah, Chef Gibson, I take it you've seen the Times this morning."

     "I did," I answer slowly.

     "And you're calling to thank me? No need. Although, if you'd like to show your appreciation by sitting for an interview I can pencil you in for Friday night?"

     I ignore the question and insinuation behind Friday night. "You don't think you laid it on a little thick? Comparing me to Gordon Ramsey?"

     He laughs again. "Honey, I never think I'm laying it on too thick. That's just my style."

     "I see."