fists. “But?”
He shrugged. “I’m not crazy about dill pickles in my potato salad, but that’s a personal quirk—I’m more a sweet relish man myself. And if you’re going for crunch I’d say celery.”
Darcy narrowed her eyes. “Celery isn’t standard.” She’d read enough potato salad recipes by now to have a pretty good idea of what constituted the basic ingredients.
The King shrugged again, grinning. “Call it a licensed variation.”
She managed a dry smile of her own. “I can live with that. So overall?”
“Overall…” He set the plate down on the counter. “Overall it would pass muster at a standard barbecue. Tastes like potato salad’s supposed to taste.”
Her jaw tightened. Standard didn’t sound like much of an endorsement. And she happened to know this was damn good potato salad. “Is that a yes or a no?” If he shrugged again, she might have to hurt him.
He raised his eyebrows. “I said it tastes like it’s supposed to taste. That’s a compliment. So yeah, you did what I told you to do.”
“For the record, you didn’t tell me to do anything. You challenged me. And I won.” She folded her arms across her chest.
His grin widened. “My, my, you are a prickly little thing, aren’t you? Not used to faint praise, I guess.”
Darcy decided to ignore the little thing bit. Not remotely accurate and clearly meant to distract her from the main point. “I’m merely stating a fact. This was a challenge—my potato salad in exchange for you showing me how to cook barbecue. You just acknowledged that I accomplished my end of the challenge.” She felt like flexing her tight shoulders, but she also felt like he’d notice if she did. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that she cared what he thought.
He held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not arguing with you, sweetheart. You did what I said to do. So are you ready to cook some barbecue?”
White teeth flashed against golden skin as he smiled, and she felt that diaphragm tightening thing again. Really annoying. “I’ve got to work tonight. If you’ll give me a schedule, I can set something up with Joe.”
“Ah, a schedule.” He shook his head. “Not as easy as it sounds. You put the meat on when the fire feels right. You take it off when the meat feels right. Sometimes that might be a couple of hours, but sometimes four or five. All depends on the size of the cut and the type of meat you’re working with. You’ve got to develop a feel for what you’re doing.”
Unfortunately, he was right about that—all cooks developed a feel for their work. “I understand that. Only I’m trying to schedule this around working full time as a sous chef. I figured you did most of your cooking at night, right?”
He shrugged. “Like as not. I usually put the meat on in late afternoon or early evening, then get it wrapped for the truck around midnight or so. But there’s prep to do before I put it on.”
“Prep as in…”
“As in basic butchering, putting the rub on the meat so it can sit for a couple of hours, getting the meat on and off the grills.”
She nodded. “So if I did breakfast and lunch at the Rose then came up here mid-afternoon, would that do it?”
He frowned. “You’re doing my sides, remember?”
“I remember.” She raised her chin. “I’ll do them the night before.”
For the first time he looked less than absolutely confident. “When are you going to sleep, sweetheart? Sounds like you’re going to be spreading yourself pretty thin.”
She shook her head. “I’m a cook. I’m used to it. Besides, it’s my choice.”
His grin was dry. “That’s right. It’s your choice.”
She sighed. Why had she ever thought this would be simple? “So say I show up here at three or four in the afternoon a few times a week. Would that work?”
He nodded. “I’ll be back from running the truck in Konigsburg by then. It’s when I do the meat for the next day. Don’t suppose you’re
He shrugged. “I’m not crazy about dill pickles in my potato salad, but that’s a personal quirk—I’m more a sweet relish man myself. And if you’re going for crunch I’d say celery.”
Darcy narrowed her eyes. “Celery isn’t standard.” She’d read enough potato salad recipes by now to have a pretty good idea of what constituted the basic ingredients.
The King shrugged again, grinning. “Call it a licensed variation.”
She managed a dry smile of her own. “I can live with that. So overall?”
“Overall…” He set the plate down on the counter. “Overall it would pass muster at a standard barbecue. Tastes like potato salad’s supposed to taste.”
Her jaw tightened. Standard didn’t sound like much of an endorsement. And she happened to know this was damn good potato salad. “Is that a yes or a no?” If he shrugged again, she might have to hurt him.
He raised his eyebrows. “I said it tastes like it’s supposed to taste. That’s a compliment. So yeah, you did what I told you to do.”
“For the record, you didn’t tell me to do anything. You challenged me. And I won.” She folded her arms across her chest.
His grin widened. “My, my, you are a prickly little thing, aren’t you? Not used to faint praise, I guess.”
Darcy decided to ignore the little thing bit. Not remotely accurate and clearly meant to distract her from the main point. “I’m merely stating a fact. This was a challenge—my potato salad in exchange for you showing me how to cook barbecue. You just acknowledged that I accomplished my end of the challenge.” She felt like flexing her tight shoulders, but she also felt like he’d notice if she did. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that she cared what he thought.
He held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not arguing with you, sweetheart. You did what I said to do. So are you ready to cook some barbecue?”
White teeth flashed against golden skin as he smiled, and she felt that diaphragm tightening thing again. Really annoying. “I’ve got to work tonight. If you’ll give me a schedule, I can set something up with Joe.”
“Ah, a schedule.” He shook his head. “Not as easy as it sounds. You put the meat on when the fire feels right. You take it off when the meat feels right. Sometimes that might be a couple of hours, but sometimes four or five. All depends on the size of the cut and the type of meat you’re working with. You’ve got to develop a feel for what you’re doing.”
Unfortunately, he was right about that—all cooks developed a feel for their work. “I understand that. Only I’m trying to schedule this around working full time as a sous chef. I figured you did most of your cooking at night, right?”
He shrugged. “Like as not. I usually put the meat on in late afternoon or early evening, then get it wrapped for the truck around midnight or so. But there’s prep to do before I put it on.”
“Prep as in…”
“As in basic butchering, putting the rub on the meat so it can sit for a couple of hours, getting the meat on and off the grills.”
She nodded. “So if I did breakfast and lunch at the Rose then came up here mid-afternoon, would that do it?”
He frowned. “You’re doing my sides, remember?”
“I remember.” She raised her chin. “I’ll do them the night before.”
For the first time he looked less than absolutely confident. “When are you going to sleep, sweetheart? Sounds like you’re going to be spreading yourself pretty thin.”
She shook her head. “I’m a cook. I’m used to it. Besides, it’s my choice.”
His grin was dry. “That’s right. It’s your choice.”
She sighed. Why had she ever thought this would be simple? “So say I show up here at three or four in the afternoon a few times a week. Would that work?”
He nodded. “I’ll be back from running the truck in Konigsburg by then. It’s when I do the meat for the next day. Don’t suppose you’re
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