alley. âWhat about him?â
Stavroula punctured the orange with her thumb at the thickest part of the rind. One of her claims was that she could remove the skin in a single peel. The other was that she could instantly tell what someone had last eaten by appearance alone. She called out to Ramos, and he said, âGood morning, Chef.â
She said, âYou had a muffin for breakfast, didnât you?â
âYes, yes, Chef, a muffin.â Ramosâs grin was buttery. âA sweet one.â
âSee?â Stavroula said. âUnquestionable gift.â
âDoesnât count. Come on,â July said. âTry me. What did I last eat?â
Stavroula rubbed her thumb across the skin of her orange and it lifted from the fruit in a single spiral. She shut one eye and looked July over. The morning sun fell around her easily. Her long blond hair was pulled back but a few strands hung around her face, and she was wearing the same emerald earrings as yesterday. As if she had slept in them.
âNothing. You havenât had anything today.â
July took the orange from Stavroula, the perfect peel. âThat was lucky and cheap.â
âI only say what I see.â
âdriving straight through social and into personal space, and now she and July were face-to-face, intimate, with only the heat coming off the ovens to separate them. Julyâs mouth, a lovely rip, how could Stavroula possibly look anywhere else?
âJuly Summer Sausage,â July said.
âYes.â This close, she could have whispered it.
âPineapple July and Pig.â
âAlready one of our best sellers.â BLT with rings of grilled pineapple for tomato, inspired by the ham and pineapple pizza that July had Stavroula make after the kitchen was already broken down. And then she proceeded to eat only the pineapple and pancetta.
âA Whole July Rotisserie.â
âA Whole July.â For the time that Stavroula watched her eat an entire chicken by herself. This one would be accompanied by watercress, yogurt, and lemon.
The joke was fading from Julyâs face, if it had ever been there in the first place. âJulyâs July. Really. You put that on there.â
âOf course: a plate of blackberries drizzled with extra-virgin, creamy feta on the side.â
âAs Apple Pieââ
ââAs July.â
July was keeping her voice down, but just barely. She was not the manager of Salt for nothing. âAn entire plate of blackberries? You expect people to order that?â
One look at Ramos told Stavroula that the kitchen staff had been waiting for this: food fed you, but kitchen gossip made you take big bites. It didnât matter. Stavroula was showing July instead of talking, using her hands, which were becoming a flowery purple by the second, pulling in some pickled red onion, a dash of crushed pepper, large torn leaves of mint. She placed the dish in front of July, added a generous handful of feta with her cupped hands. Julyâs July. The blackberries were a peal of bells hanging in a church tower, moon unveiling their shoulders. If she didnât say so herself.
âThey wonât be able to help themselves,â Stavroula offered, a little breathless. âWeâll sell hundreds.â
Like that time theyâshe and Julyâbungled the produce order and got six times the amount of blackberries they should have. What had happened was, she posted a note for blackberries. One of the other cooks posted a note for blackberries. Mr. Asbury posted a note for blackberries. July posted a note for blackberries. Stavroula approved the order for blackberries when she was âmultitasking.â Inexplicably, the producer left them two more crates on top of that. By the time they realized, a return was out of the question. They froze some, they unloaded some to other restaurants, they made ice cream and pie, they delegated to glazes and marinades, they served
Legs McNeil, Jennifer Osborne, Peter Pavia