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It was Inej who saw him first.
He slipped in, she realized, after his companion was already seated at a table meant for two. It was one of the better tables, though not the best in the restaurant. She watched as he greeted his dining partner with a kiss on each of her cheeks before they both settled. His eyes roved over the restaurant until they found her gaze. A smirk quirked up one side of his mouth.
And Inej fled to the kitchens.
“Alina! Alina, he’s here!”
Everyone in the kitchen froze. Inej’s eyes were wide, her hands clenched into anxious fists. There was only one person who could send her into this type of frenzy.
Aleksander Morozova, renowned food critic for Ravka Cuisine, the most popular magazine in the country. He was known for his brutal honesty, for the questions he asked regarding food portions and plating and presentation, and for his scathing opinions on decor. His reviews often brought crowds to restaurants, but every now and again, a terrible review meant an imminent restaurant closing.
And now it was time for Sol Koroleva to be reviewed.
With its beginnings as a food truck, the story behind Sol Koroleva was a Cinderella story. Its owner and head chef, Alina Starkov, found luck in a wealthy patron who took a chance on her after tasting the tapas-style food she created. Nikolai Lantsov had gathered a team of investors and the brick-and-mortar was found and opened within a year.
With the new space came a new concept. Though they still had the food truck and a walk-up window located around the corner from the front doors, Alina knew she wanted a more upscale establishment. Nikolai gave her the means to do so.
“Who’s their server?” Alina asked sharply.
Inej pressed the communicator in her ear and murmured the question to front of house. She paled slightly. “Marie.”
“Switch her.” Alina hated giving the order. Marie was lovely and pleasant, but she was new. Too new. She needed someone who knew what they were doing, who was polished and able to deal with anything thrown at them. She knew exactly who she should send, but also knew there was a possibility personalities would clash. Still, Alina took a deep breath and said, “Have Kaz serve them.”
Once more, the kitchen staff were silenced.
“Let’s go!”
The sharpness of Alina’s voice had everyone moving, bustling about. Inej was already speaking into the communicator, only nodding at Alina to tell her the switch was done. She was almost out the door, when she paused and looked at Alina. “I’ll find out what their orders are.”
Yes. That’s what she needed, Alina had a few choices for an amuse-bouche but she wanted one that would complement the entree choice, possibly even the appetizers if they were ordered.
“Who am I kidding?” she mumbled. “Of course they’ll order a starter.”
She was right. Nadia, who was training for front of house, scurried in with the order: one order each of the warm cremini mushrooms and the brussels sprouts brochette, followed by a lobster bisque and the watermelon gazpacho; the entrees chosen were the salmon and duck; with a finish of the tropical assortment for dessert.
“Jesper is speaking with them about the wine list,” Nadia informed her. “Not the regular list. The wine list.”
Right. The wine list that was usually only brought out for the well-known clientele, the ones who knew to discreetly ask before they even sat. The one with the bottles worth hundreds of dollars that even Alina hadn’t tasted them all. She took a deep breath. Jesper was a Master Sommelier, holding the highest possible title from The Court. He would take care of him. Them.
And she would take care of the food.
Their choices made sense. While Sol Koroleva wasn’t specifically a vegetarian restaurant, it specialized in mostly vegetarian and pescatarian dishes. The abundance of fresh vegetables and seafood was the most popular, though the duck entree was one that had been reviewed by other publications.
She had a feeling Morozova ordered that one to see if what was being said about it was true.
Alina pursed her lips as she thought of their menu choices. Most of them were on the richer side – the thick sauce for the mushrooms and the bread base, the heartiness of the bisque. The gazpacho popsicle would be the lightest. With that in mind, she knew exactly what to prepare for their amuse-bouche , for that one bite that would be explosive despite its small size.
The angel hair pasta, prepared earlier with just a swirl of olive oil, was sitting on slabs of stone atop ice. Each bite was wrapped around a fork, the strands winding a bit up the handle. Alina took two of the stone plates, carefully setting them on the plating area. A quick and thorough washing of her hands and then she was scooping out ovals of caviar to place on top of the pasta. She grated fresh black truffle over it, and finished the plate with fine slivers of scallions. A sprig of rosemary added a hint of color.
“Perfect timing,” she said as Kaz walked through the main kitchen doors, but stayed on the opposite side of the warming stations. “Take these to Morozova’s table.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Alina hesitated. “And Kaz?”
“Hmm?”
“Who’s with him?”
Kaz frowned. “No idea. I’d say a date, but…”
There was no way Aleksander Morozova would bring a date if he was reviewing a restaurant. But Kaz usually had all available information when it came to things like this — and it was a bit concerning that he didn’t recognize the woman. Alina waved him off, not wanting to delay the food.
“Tell them ‘with gratitude for your patronage from the chef.’”
“Not my first time doing this,” Kaz threw out over his shoulder, just before he disappeared again.
Alina clapped her hands. “Alright, team. Morozova may be here, but that doesn’t mean our other tables are less important.”
“But they are?”
“Hold your tongue,” Alina bit back at Nina, one of her sous chefs. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
And so the evening went. As was usual when a critic came in, Alina and Nina took special care of that particular table. Still, Alina eyed every plated dish for the restaurant to ensure it was presented properly and cooked to her detailed instruction.
For Morozova and his companion, out went the cremini mushrooms cooked in a saffron-infused butter, a bit of warm broth as its base, and brussels sprouts on thick toast, pecans and fruits sauteed in, and finished off with an apple glaze. Alina breathed out a sigh when the busser returned with two empty plates.
The next two choices were polar opposites. A handful of fresh tatsoi was dropped into an aromatic vegetable broth until its color was a vibrant, healthy green. Matsutake mushrooms were added before Nina very carefully slid slices of avocado atop the greens. The watermelon gazpacho was the wild card, though. The chilled soup was prepared normally — in a high-speed blender with tomatoes and cucumbers, herbs and spices — but then were frozen into tiny popsicles that were then served three in a bowl.
It was a stone-faced Kaz who came in shortly after the dishes went out.
“They’d like to speak with the Chef.”
“Too soon, too soon,” Alina muttered, but she removed the apron she often wore over her chef whites. After adjusting her somehow-still-pristine jacket, she took a deep breath and headed toward the dining room.
Aleksander Morozova was a sight to behold. Despite his semi-relaxed posture at the table, Alina could see his eyes roving around the restaurant; she could practically see the words forming in his mind to describe the elevated bar area, see the sentences forming about the level of brightness. Then his head swiveled toward her, and Alina found herself caught in the searing gaze from his dark eyes. Her footsteps were even, a bit swift, as she approached the table.
“Welcome to Sol Koroleva, Mr. Morozova.”
A shadow of a smile formed on his lips, if only for a brief second. “You won’t even pretend to not know who I am? Or why I’m here?”
Alina blinked at him. “I don’t believe there’s a reason to do so. Was there something wrong with one of the dishes?” She knew she sounded brisque, but despite wanting to cater to him, there were other diners, more dishes to be created. She trusted her team, yes, but she hated not being in the midst of the organized chaos.
“I ordered a gazpacho,” the second diner interjects.
Now that she was closer, Alina studied the woman across Morozova. She was petite, with long black hair pulled into a ponytail that trailed down her back. She was dressed professionally, in a houndstooth skirt suit, and not like she was on a date of any sort. Alina’s gaze flicked downward to the small notebook that rested next to the woman’s plate.
“Since we aren’t having any pretenses,” Morozova began. “Chef, this is Zoya Nazyalensky, one of my — shall we say — proteges.”
There was something in his tone that made Alina nervous. Inside. Outwardly, she gave the woman a smile. “Miss Nazyalensky, welcome. You did, indeed, order the watermelon gazpacho. It’s one of our specials for the month.”
“And how is this what I ordered?” She was more curious than disdainful.
Alina grinned widely. This was always her favorite part of speaking with any diners. “Before I opened this restaurant, I operated a food truck. We specialized in tapas-style menu items, and I was always looking for ways to make certain dishes more accessible for those eating on the go.”
Zoya frowned at the bowl of popsicles before she picked one up.
“We create the gazpacho how anyone would and use the same herbs and spices we would if it was in a bowl. I found that flash-freezing them helped keep the watermelon slice shape you see there. And while I personally find it fun to eat, well, soup as a popsicle, there’s always the option for it to melt into the bowl.”
As Alina spoke, Zoya had taken a bite of the popsicle, and immediately began jotting notes in her notebook. She paused only when Morozova cleared his throat and gave her a pointed look.
“Sorry,” Zoya said with a slight roll of her eyes. “I want to remember my first thoughts. But thank you,” she said to Alina. “That was most helpful.”
“You’re welcome.” She glanced between the two of them. “Your entrees should be out shortly.”
The rest of the night went smoothly, at least from what Alina could assume. A few patrons sent compliments to the kitchen, so she made sure to visit their tables, especially when closing time grew nearer. At one point, she watched as the two critics left the restaurant, Morozova helping his new writer into a beautifully embroidered coat.
By the end of the night, Alina was exhausted but happy. It was a feeling she’d grown accustomed to with owning a restaurant. Her team worked flawlessly together, cleaning and prepping for the next day, until only she remained with Inej and Kaz.
And a lone figure at the bar.
“I’ll lock up tonight, Inej.”
Her General Manager gave her a knowing look. “When will the two of you give up this act of not actually being together?”
Alina smiled, a blush rising to her cheeks. “I have a feeling soon.” At her friends’ raised eyebrows, she nodded. “The woman with him was the one writing the review. Not him.”
“Oh,” Inej said breathlessly.
Kaz placed his hand on her lower back. “So then that’s our cue to leave. Be safe, Chef.”
“Will you ever call me Boss?” She always teased him about it.
“Never,” he answered solemnly, but sent her a wink as he walked Inej out.
The locks clicked into place, seeming to reverberate loudly in her ears. By the time she turned around, Aleksander had turned, his elbows now leaning back against the counter of the bar. He watched her with a fond smile as she made her way over to him. As soon as she was close enough, he leaned forward and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her to stand between his parted knees.
“At least Brekker knows how to read the room.”
Alina looped her arms over his shoulders and around his neck. “And what was he to have read?”
He didn’t answer, opting instead to pull her closer and steal a kiss. Exhaustion flowed out of Alina’s body as she opened her mouth to him. Her body sagged against his, his hands holding her face up to his own.
“Anyone could see us,” Alina gasped out when they pulled apart. Her eyes shot to the front windows of the restaurant; people walked in front but no one looked inside.
“Let them see,” he responded. His fingers tapped her cheek. “Isn’t it time we stop pretending?”
Her teeth worried her bottom lip. “Is that why you aren’t doing the review?”
Aleksander heard the tinge of hurt. “They would say it was biased even before reading it.”
“That’s never stopped you before,” she fought. More than once, Aleksander had reviewed a place with which he had a connection — usually a working relationship of some sort — and the magazine received complaints from readers.
He leaned down, his lips a breath’s width from hers. “They aren’t you.”
Alina’s brows drew in, an adorable frown forming. “What does that mean?”
“It means, Alya, that you deserve to shine, and I will not be a reason that holds you back.”
“Sasha.”
She pushed him this time, jumping up a bit and barely giving him time to catch her before he fell back against the bar. Alina mumbled apologies but he paid them no mind, savoring her kiss, holding her tight. When a moan escaped her lips, Aleksander pulled away with a dark chuckle.
“Sasha.” She said his name again, this time in frustration.
“Finish closing up, solnyshka , so I can take you home. Tonight’s dessert wasn’t nearly enough for me.”
Alina almost took offense to his words until she saw the wicked gleam in his dark eyes. The lights of the restaurant had never gone out faster.