Local Flavour: Big Apple (Book 3, the Local Flavour Series)

Part 2: The Present

"What is your favourite way to prepare salmon?"

It was the fourth time Quinn asked the question and he had gotten the same response every time. The current candidate was referred to him by one of the best up and coming chefs in New York but had so far squandered the recommendation with his attitude. All sizzle, no steak his mother would have said. Not much sizzle, in fact. More like a splatter.

The overly mannered hipster chef sat back in his chair, a look of sheer delight on his face as he considered his response. For the love of God, don't say sous vide.

"Sous vide," he announced confidently. Quinn frowned and studied the guy's resume, regretting leaving his reading glasses behind in the hotel room. He was closing in on 40 and he felt every one of those years.

The chef's name was one word, all capital letters: ZIP. For fuck's sake.

Quinn liked to look at an actual resume and talk to a chef before he took the next step of watching them in an actual kitchen. He skipped over the next few questions, his mind pretty much made up. He only had the patience for one more.

"What's your favourite dish to make?"

This time there was no hesitation. "Vegan scallops with pickled ramps and a ginger-beet foam."

Quinn pinched the bridge of his nose. So much was wrong about that, he wasn't sure where to begin. He decided to start with the obvious. "What in God's name is a vegan scallop?"

"Portobello mushroom seared to perfection that looks like a scallop. The foam is finesse!" ZIP actually kissed his fingers like a stereotypical cartoon chef. It looked even more ridiculous given he had a huge, old-timey moustache that curled all the way up his cheeks.

'How about a side of artisanal air?' Lucy would have said. Quinn tried to hide a grin behind his hand. Although he felt like laughing in the guy's face, he figured he shouldn't actually be that rude. No doubt this one would go straight to the tabloids to talk about what an asshole he was, and Quinn had already been well down that road. No fucking thanks.

"It was good to meet you," he said, shuffling his resume to the back. "But you're not what I'm looking for." There, sweet as pie. He'd held back the snark; Lucy'd be proud.

Handlebar Moustache sat back in his chair, a baffled look on his face. He wasn't getting up.

"That means bye." Quinn glanced towards the door before reviewing his notes. No one else was scheduled for that day. There was one more chef on his list, but she wasn't available to meet until the weekend. His heart sank. He wouldn't be on a plane to Nova Scotia that night after all. It was a long shot to think he could make it back for closing night at the brewpub, but he held out hope anyway.

When he looked up, the failed candidate was still there, his face a mask of stunned surprise.

"ZIP along, now. Off you go," Quinn said, a hard edge in his voice. The young chef grabbed his newsboy cap and bolted out of the chair, probably to a waiting unicycle. What is it with these young guys, styling themselves like mutton-chopped, Edwardian cricket players? He sighed. The city was making him irritable.

He interviewed chefs for days. Their common, defining characteristic seemed to be a giant ego and the certainty that they alone had invented molecular gastronomy. He needed a lot more than that. His new executive chef needed to be experienced, creative and passionate about food. The person also needed to show calm and steady leadership in the kitchen. Sure, someone could be all smiles in an interview, but how would they react when things went wrong? Would they take it out on his staff? He couldn't have that.