Page 8 of Unexpected Pickle

JEANNIE TURNS TO ICE

I ’m more tired than I care to admit as I wait at the entrance of the boutique hotel amongst the snow-covered trees an hour outside of Montreal.

The awards ceremony was a beast of an event, and while I felt energized and excited while there, I didn’t get off from the kitchen duties until five in the morning.

But I wanted to see downtown Montreal before I left the city, so I trudged through the day on no sleep.

Then it was like I was too awake, so I had trouble settling in last night. I got maybe five hours in before I had to pack up and head to the shuttle that would drive me out to the new hotel.

Now it’s midafternoon and I need a nap.

A man in a blue cap brings me a rolling cart. “Chef Young?”

I turn to him in surprise. “You know who I am?”

“The rest of the chefs have checked in.” He moves my suitcase to the cart and takes the smaller case from my semi-frozen hand. I’ve only been outside for two minutes, tops, and I already feel like an ice sculpture.

I should have put on a hat. You don’t think about them in LA. But here, beanies aren’t a style choice. They’re a necessity.

I follow him into the small lobby. The check-in desk is a small counter with only two attendants.

A young woman smiles at me. “Welcome, Chef Young. Here’s your key card. Art will accompany you to your cabin.”

Cabin? I glance around, expecting to see the usual labyrinth of halls shooting off the main lobby. But there is only a back exit and the entrance to the hotel’s five-star restaurant with the test kitchens we’ll be using for our retreat.

“This way.” Art pulls the cart toward the rear doors.

I take the key card and follow him, a tall, lean figure against the backdrop of a snow. Outside is a courtyard with a wagon wheel of shoveled paths leading to individual cabins.

Art waits for me to catch up. “You might be tempted to dash from your cabin to the kitchen without your coat, but once the sun goes down, you can actually freeze the snot in your nose.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. So bundle up. There’s a room for your coat in the back of the kitchen, and you’ll be assigned a locker for the duration of the retreat. We do lots of chef events here during the slow season.”

The cart bumps along the sidewalk. I wonder if they have a full-time staff member who does nothing but shovels the walk. It’s remarkably clean.

Art sees me looking. “Pretty slick, eh? We run steam under the sidewalks so they are always warm and clear.”

“Wow.”

We pass the other cabins until we reach the farthest one. Makes sense, I guess, since I was the last to check in. We don’t see a single sign of life anywhere. Is everyone holed up in their cabins, or am I missing an event?

I hate being late. And left out. My exhaustion pulls on me, and I realize I’m hungry, too.

Art pauses in front of the door and takes my key. “The butter tart and beaver tail cider party begins at eight.”

Oh, thank goodness. Food and people. But what did he say?

“Beaver tails?” I picture a chef whacking the tail off the backside of a critter.

Art grins. “An Ontario tradition. It’s fried dough, flattened like a beaver tail.”

What a relief. Chefs can totally shame each other into eating the oddest things. I’ll never forget my first Rocky Mountain Oysters. Which are not oysters. “Sounds fun.”

He opens the door and waits for me to enter. “I expect you’ll learn some new dishes here.”

The room is incredibly warm compared to the walk to reach it. “We’re here for sports nutrition, though.”

“The hotel prides itself on its Canadian specialties. Have you had poutine?” The cart bumps over the entrance to the cabin.

“Is that the cheese curd dish?”

“The one and only.”

“I had some in Montreal.” I was deliriously tired, but vaguely remember eating it.

He nods, setting my suitcase on a stand and the smaller bag on top. “Excellent. Have an enjoyable evening. Call us at the front desk if you need anything. And don’t forget your coat.” He opens the door and peers at the snowfall. “It’s definitely February in Ontario.”

I don’t know what he means by that, but I’m too tired to think about it. I lie across the bed, intending to only gather my strength. The ceiling is pretty…

I pop awake.

I sit up. The room is dark. It’s night. No! I fell asleep! Did I miss the mixer? The beaver tail?

The clock reads 8:10. Okay, I’m late, but I didn’t miss it.

I dash for the bathroom, splashing water on my face. There will be no time for anything fancy. Are we supposed to wear chef whites? Surely not to the mixer.

I lunge for my suitcase. I didn’t bring much. No dresses. No formal wear. It is a working trip. But I have black pants and a silky cream top. That will do.

I chuck my jeans and sweater, shivering in the few moments between outfits. The new clothes are brutally cold compared to the ones I slept in.

My whole body feels like it is convulsing with the chill, but I move fast, sliding on flat black boots.

I don’t really do makeup, but I throw on some mascara and lip gloss. My hair! It’s in a messy bun. That won’t work.

I pull it down and perhaps because of some magic of the cold climate and my hot head, the elastic band has created soft waves.

I brush it, call it good, and snatch my key from the dresser. I shove it in my bra and race out the door.

The cold slams into me like a wall of ice.

Right. Wear your coat.

I look at the main building. It’s not that far. And I don’t want to fight the key, or figure out where to place my coat. I just want to get to the mixer!

So I make a dash for it, grateful for the clear sidewalks that don’t slush my shoes.

My hair flies out behind me as I run to the back doors of the lobby. My nose feels strange and full. I squeeze it. Is my snot freezing?

My fingers barely work as I pull on the door. My satin shirt is like wearing nothing at all, and I think my boobs might be turning to ice.

But then I’m inside, my hair down my back, and I take in a warm breath that doesn’t physically hurt like the ones outside.

Art spots me and shakes his head.

I know. Dumb American. Californian, no less.

I’ve learned my lesson.

My numb fingers don’t want to smooth my hair, but I manage to walk stiffly toward the restaurant door. A sign by the entrance reads, “Chef Mixer, private event.”

Maybe there will be a contact here who will be unconnected to my father, someone who will have new ideas, new places, and something to spark my next move.

Maybe today is the day I figure it all out.

I head inside the dim room, candles flickering at the tables.

A couple dozen men and women stand around, and I’m relieved to see a great variety of dress. Some fancy. Some in chef uniform. I fit in fine.

A server approaches with a tray of champagne flutes. I take one.

This is better.

Another server approaches with a tray of small plates, each one bearing a flattened bread sprinkled with cinnamon sugar and crisscrossed with a maple glaze.

I take one, ready to inhale it, when I feel the others watching.

What do they see about me first? My hair, my clothes?

Or my size?

My gaze sweeps the others. I’m the largest of the women. Midway of the men.

I hate that it’s the first thing I assess in a group, but it’s become second nature.

A tall man in chef whites turns to me. “You like the food?”

All I hear is: You must like sampling the things you cook!

I back away. This is why I prefer the kitchen. It’s busy, and the talk is focused on the tasks at hand.

But then the internal war begins.

You’re fine. Stop comparing yourself to others. Stop caring about this.

The mantras come in from all sides. Love yourself. All bodies are beautiful.

Then the memory intrudes.

Are you going to squash me like a bug?

I’ve stood here too long, too silent, two-fisting my booze and my bread. I let out a long, slow breath.

Be mighty. You’re Jeannie-motherfucking-Young, daughter of a Michelin-star chef. Get your chin up.

All the way up.

But everyone’s staring at me.

Why? Why are they looking at me?

I want to run back to my room.

Then a figure steps forward.

It doesn’t matter who it is. I need to get out of here.

But…it’s familiar. I narrow my eyes.

Is that…Hex?