Recipe for Persuasion Page 17

  “Okay, everyone, back to your challenges. We’ve reset the clock. You get thirty minutes from now,” Jonah announced, and the digital timer on the monitor started up. “Make it count.”

  Every sign of anything but stubborn purpose vanished from Ashna’s face. “Let’s go,” she said, as though none of what had just happened had happened. As though this weren’t the second time she had flipped that switch like someone who was two entirely different people. Neither of whom Rico recognized.

  She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “You have thirty . . . twenty-nine minutes to make churros.” She ran to the overstocked pantry and started pointing at things as she rattled off ingredients.

  Whiplash, she was giving him whiplash. He filled his arms. Flour, eggs, cinnamon, brown sugar, confectioners’ sugar, condensed milk.

  “I haven’t made churros since culinary school. We’re going to have to wing it.”

  He followed her back to their workstation, lost and winded from her mercurial shifts. “Your memory seems just fine.” Obviously, they both remembered more than they wanted to. “I’m sure you’ll remember the recipe.”

  For the barest second she stiffened. Then she pulled a napkin from a stack, dabbed the sweat off her forehead, and started to throw out instructions.

  “Break four eggs into the mixing bowl and beat them.”

  Breaking eggs was exactly what Rico needed, and beating the heck out of something sounded great. “Yes, ma’am.”

  He turned the handmixer on and started beating the eggs, the sound was loud enough to keep their conversation private. “Want to tell me what that was about?” he hissed, even as his face stayed genial for the camera.

  “Not now. You’ll overbeat the eggs,” she hissed back, refusing to meet his eyes.

  He raised the speed, and the noise level. “Not turning it off until you tell me.”

  She twisted the napkin in her hand, but she knew him too well to argue. “It feels like an unfair advantage. I don’t like it.” She pointed at the eggs. “That’s enough.”

  He turned off the beater.

  “Now the water. Two cups. Bring them to a boil.”

  He measured water into a pan and put it on the stove without slamming it like he wanted to. They fumed silently as they waited, fake smiles plastered across their faces.

  “Now add the sugar.”

  “Really? This . . .” He stirred the sugar, then spun the spoon around to encompass her swings from panic to self-possession and then back again, over and over. “This is you”—he clanged the spoon on the pan drowning the rest of his words—“feeling guilty?”

  She nodded, indignant as a liar. “Flour. Two cups. Sift it in.”

  “Sifter, please,” he shouted, and an intern ran over and found him one. He started sifting, then banged the metal on the pan pretending to get the last bits off. “Bullshit.”

  Fresh sweat broke out across her forehead, making the errant strands stick to her skin. “If you don’t start stirring, it will lump up.”

  Too late. The whole darned thing was a lump. “Add a little more water and work it loose.” The cameras zoomed in as he furiously worked the gunky mixture. “Who would have thought my training would come in so handy in a kitchen?” he said to the cameras, arm muscles cramping.

  The moment they backed off, he looked at her again, slamming the spoon against the edge of the mixing bowl some more. Hopefully, there wasn’t a foul for being too noisy. “Then you shouldn’t have said churros. You should have lied like you’re lying now.” More slamming of the spoon.

  “That looks good,” she said, her color high, even as she kept her face calm. “Turn on the handblender, that should work.”

  As soon as he started the blender up again she stepped closer to it. “And you shouldn’t have written churros down,” she whispered. “Or broken your promise to keep our past out of this.”

  Technically, he hadn’t promised. “Acquiescing to your demands is not the same as making a promise.” He beat the mixture so hard that the clumping water and flour had no choice but to smooth into dough.

  “Add the eggs. That should make it easier.”

  Right, if only. He added the eggs, glad to run the blender again. “What are you hiding this time, Ashna? You’re not eighteen anymore. When does the hiding stop?”

  He turned off the blender but the silence between them felt louder.

  Hand shaking, she dabbed her upper lip with the napkin and spoke behind it. “Can we focus on the churros? Please.” There was so much pain in her eyes, and shame, and helplessness. It was the helplessness that was killing her.

  And it killed him too. “What next?”

  She seemed to swallow a sob and squared her shoulders. “That dough needs to go into a pastry bag and get piped into the fryer. We have ten minutes. You still have doce de leite to make.”

  He called for a pastry bag and popped open the can of condensed milk. The old instinct to backtrack with her kicked in, to give her what she wanted, to ease her. He couldn’t bear to see her hurting like this, and that was the truth. Damn it.

  “The fryer is hot. Can you fill the pastry bag?” There was relief in her tone, and blind trust that he would do exactly as she asked.

  Fortunately, filling the pastry bag wasn’t half as simple as it looked. Piping the churros in long straight lines took far more skill than one might imagine, and focus.

  When the first golden brown pastry emerged from the fryer, disbelief, maybe even pride, shone in Ashna’s eyes.

  Rico placed the churro on a paper towel, gobsmacked that he’d actually made those.

  “You did it,” she said. Something about her smile struck terror in his heart. It was too many things: surprise, even a spark of victory, and God help him, joy. For all her secrets, there was too much he saw. It was this dance that had gotten him into this situation in the first place. Too much knowing. Too much needing to know. He had to find a way to stop it. Because she would always hide. It was what she needed to do. And he was no longer the man who didn’t care what price he had to pay for her to let him in.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Barely two weeks into the show and there was a wait to get into Curried Dreams.

  The overflowing parking lot at lunchtime, the unique buzz of conversation in a full restaurant, people crowding the waiting area, all of it made Ashna feel too close to another time. She almost made her way to Baba’s office to check up on him, and that thought made the walk-in pantry spin around her. She leaned back and rested her head against the wall.

  Are you seeing this, Baba? I didn’t fail you. I am not just like my mother.

  The knot in her throat that made it hard to breathe would go away in a second. She took long, stretchy breaths. Why did you have to ruin everything, Rico?

  Because that’s exactly what he had done. He’d ruined everything. By being here. By knowing exactly what to do. By turning out those stupid perfect churros.

  He loves me, Baba.

  Boys like that only want one thing. In his case two. And neither one of those has anything to do with loving you.

  Wilfrieda walked into the pantry and stopped short when she saw Ashna. “Sorry, boss, didn’t realize you were in here.”

  Ashna almost turned away and pretended to look for something.

  You’re not eighteen anymore. When does the hiding stop?

  I’m not hiding!

  She was totally hiding.

  God, she hated Frederico Silva.

  “I needed a moment,” she said to Wilfrieda, who looked like she had no idea what to do with herself in the face of her always-in-control boss with tears streaking her cheeks.

  Ashna leaned over and wiped her cheeks on her smock. All these years she’d channeled Shobi to keep the tears away. She couldn’t let seeing her mother tear up put a crack in that dam. “You’ve been doing great with the rush. Thank you.”

  Wilfrieda and Khalid were handling things fabulously, and the four more line chefs and extra waitstaff from
DJ’s network were a godsend.

  “Your aunt did an amazing job of preempting the staffing situation,” Wilfrieda said with the kind of worshipfulness Ashna was totally used to when it came to Mina Kaki. Her assistant held out her hands to display a pink glittery manicure. “She gave Khalid and me gift cards to her friend’s spa. I can’t remember the last time I got a manicure or a massage. You’ve been working so hard, boss, you should totally get one too.”

  Ashna touched a shimmery nail. “That does sound great and I’m totally coveting that color.”

  Smiling, they went back into the bustling kitchen. The Curried Dreams kitchen hadn’t bustled in a very long time.

  Baba had hated the idea of making people wait for food, so he had built his restaurant to be large enough to avoid that. He had underestimated his own abilities, because under him there had always been a wait despite the hundred tables. Ashna had never experienced the thrill of customers waiting.

  At this rate, she would have to open the patio seating again.

  “Where have you been hiding?” Mina Kaki said as Ashna put down the bag of flour she was carrying.

  Ashna knew her aunt didn’t mean she was actually hiding, it was just a figure of speech, but still she cursed Rico again for filling her head with things she had no time for.

  She started measuring out the flour for the naan dough and Mina Kaki stopped her. “Freddie, you can take over the dough. Ashna, I think you need to do the rounds and say hello to the guests. You’re what they’re here for. Well, you and that hot partner of yours. You should ask him to come by.”

  Ashna made a face.

  “We might need to put in an extension if he came by,” Wilfrieda said, cheerily fanning herself.

  “I’m sure Khalid appreciates that sentiment,” Ashna said, throwing a pointed look at Khalid, who was blooming spices in a huge kadhai of ghee for the dal fry, with one eye on Wilfrieda.

  “Khalid has a bigger crush on Mr. Silva than even I do, right, Khalie?” Wilfrieda said, her round face shining with humor, and Ashna looked around her kitchen.

  Mina Kaki’s magic was everywhere. It was like one happy family working together.

  “No kidding,” Khalid said, pouring the hot ghee into the pan of dal and making it hiss and give out the kind of aroma that caused them all to emit appreciative sounds. “The staff have been all over social media getting our friends to vote. In fact, our Facebook group just hit a hundred thousand followers. Bless Mandy for starting it!”

  The smile on Ashna’s face froze.

  Wilfrieda glared at Khalid, who returned his attention to the dal.

  Her aunt tucked a lock of hair behind Ashna’s ear and patted her cheek. “Go out and greet your customers. You’ve got to give the people what they want. While you’re out there, ask them to vote for Yash.” That made Ashna smile, and Mina Kaki added more softly, “Freddie was telling me that Mandy was telling her how hurt she is that you let her go.”

  The smile died on Ashna’s lips again. “Really, Mandy said that? I never let her go. She quit.” Mandy had lined up a job and not even mentioned it to Ashna.

  “Maybe you misunderstood? Sometimes we believe the thing that is easiest to believe.” And by we she meant Ashna. “It’s easy to push people away before they leave.”

  Before the full impact of that could sink in, her aunt patted her cheek. “Now, don’t get all bent out of shape, beta. You have to look for what’s behind what people say. What Mandy said simply means her door is open.” She spun an elegant hand around the kitchen. “If this keeps up, you might need someone with Mandy’s competence and experience. Much as I love this place, all this steam is terrible for my hair.” She patted her perfect hair and took her bag from the hook by the door. “Go on. I think everything is under control here. I’m going to leave for a bit. If you need anything, Shobi has offered to come over.”

  Ashna tried not to stiffen. Shobi had not set foot in Curried Dreams since before Baba died. It was really annoying that everyone kept acting like she was here to help Ashna. You couldn’t help someone with a restaurant without being physically present inside the restaurant.

  Her aunt opened her mouth, but decided to hold her peace right now. Good, because what she’d said earlier about Ashna pushing people away was ridiculous. People pushed her away.

  “Did you know Shobi was going to visit?” More like ambush her. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  Mina sighed. “What you’re really asking is why I didn’t stop her. I can’t stop Shobi from visiting. Are you really angry with me about that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you can’t say, ‘No, I’m not angry,’ then you are.”

  Truth was, Ashna didn’t know how to be angry with her aunt. If she didn’t have Mina Kaki and HRH, all she would have was anger.

  Thanks, Shobi.

  “No, I’m not angry.” Ashna smiled. “How can I be angry with you? Look at this place. You breathed life into it.”

  Her aunt shook her head. “No, you were brave enough to go out and do something that wasn’t easy. That’s what breathed life into this place.”

  Ashna hugged her aunt. “Why aren’t you my mom?”

  Mina tucked another loose lock of hair behind Ashna’s ear. “Who says you can have only one? You are as much my daughter as Nisha and Trisha, so that means I am your mom too.” She paused, considering her next words carefully, with the kind of tentativeness that she only displayed when it came to Shobi. “Can I tell you something, as a mom?”

  Ashna swallowed, which was enough answer for Mina Kaki.

  “Talk to Shobi. It might be time to stop believing the thing that’s easiest to believe.”

  Someone called to Mina Kaki, and Ashna blessed the gods of timing.

  “Go on.” She dropped a kiss on her aunt’s cheek. “I’ll be fine. See, I’m off to ‘do the rounds.’” With that, off she went without acknowledging whatever her aunt was trying to tell her.

  Doing the rounds basically involved people telling her how much they loved the show and what a lovely couple she and Rico made. She tried to tell them that they weren’t a couple but gave up when no one had any interest in her take on the matter. Instead, she told them to tune in for Yash’s upcoming rally in Oakland next month and went back to the kitchen.

  How had she ended up here? Her restaurant crowded, Rico back in her life. The mother who had done everything to stay away from her suddenly all over her like a rash. It was some sort of somersaulting déjà vu.

  Whoever had told Ashna she needed to change one thing to change everything wasn’t kidding around. Could she kill the person who had suggested it, please?

  She picked up the last order. Baba’s stuffed bitter melons.

  The one thing no amount of changing could change was that Baba would never be here to see this. She tried to visualize him—if anything could put a smile on his face, it would be this. But all she saw when she thought about him was blood dripping from her hands. The oil in her pan started to smoke and Khalid left his station and threw the chopped onions in for her. “I can take care of it, boss.”

  “I got it. Thanks.” She gave the onions a stir. The memory of Rico going at the lumping dough as though it were a workout machine brought her back to this moment.

  This divine intervention or whatever stroke of luck she was having with the cooking challenges was not going to last.

  “Just did the last call for lunch, we’re almost done!” Wilfrieda announced, and everyone cheered.

  This wasn’t going to last either, not once Ashna had to drop out of the competition because she passed out from a panic attack on television. Not once her mother got to say I told you so and sold Curried Dreams.

  AFTER THE LUNCH rush, DJ drove Ashna to the studio. Trisha and he had stopped by because Trisha was excited for DJ to meet Shobi. No big surprise that Trisha loved her. Shobi was the cool, badass (albeit mostly absconding) aunt.

  “Your mother is magnificent,” DJ said as they turned into the st
udio lot. “Now I know where you get your beauty, and your ability to kick arse!”

  “You’re too kind.” But I’m nothing like my mother.

  When they got to the studio, DJ went off to a staff meeting and Ashna headed for the contestants’ lounge. For the first time in years she had to do that thing where she tightened her gut to brace for the impact of seeing someone.

  There he was.

  The punch landed dead center in her ribs, like a ball slamming her at full speed. She let it vibrate through her, the impact zinging electric sparks right down to her fingertips.

  He sat in a wing chair, feet planted, bent over a newspaper, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. It was his frustrated-with-the-world face.

  The passion playing across his features, across his whole body, was mesmerizing. Ashna took advantage of how absorbed he was in what he was reading to study him. He looked almost nothing like the boy she had been in love with. His thick sable-brown hair was pulled back into that man bun that had the internet aflutter. Her insides, this one time, agreed with the internet, even though it was still wholly incomprehensible to her that he had grown out his hair. The texture of his hair, cropped short in the back and long in the front, was something she still felt between her fingers in her dreams. Also new was his stubble, a shade darker than his hair, not quite full enough to be a beard but almost there, lined up to perfection.

  He was chewing on those distinctively shaped lips. Whatever was in that paper, it had him in a rage. Sensing her study, he looked up. Would she ever get used to the physical impact of their eyes meeting? Fighting the warmth rising up her cheeks was a futile exercise, so she waited for it to pass. He responded with a shuttered look.

  Shuttered was perfect.

  They made their way silently to the staging area for their first elimination. There would be no cooking today, just the judges assigning scores that would be added to the votes from two weeks to determine the eliminated pair. Afterward, the producers had a surprise planned. Another sadistic idea to torture the contestants with, no doubt.