Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

I glance at the glossy cover of the food magazine resting beside Naomi’s elbow. They printed yet another scathing review of The Jam. One line was particularly brutal: “Perhaps Elijah Jackson is only capable of making one restaurant work. Adding a second to the roster is not always a smart gamble for a chef like him.”

Chef like him. Meaning running two restaurants is clearly too ambitious for a simple country boy with unpretentious tastes like me.

Seriously, fuck that reviewer for life.

I’ve never compromised the faith I have in my cooking. Not once. Awful reviews notwithstanding, I don’t plan on starting now.

Then again, I’ve never planned on closing a restaurant, either. Especially not after the phenomenal success of The Pearl. Something about The Jam just hasn’t clicked with people. I don’t get it. Yes, today’s market is much different from when I opened The Pearl. But people have always loved my food. It’s honest. It’s made with heart.

I feel anxiety, tinged with panic, edging closer again. I don’t want to let it get too close. I’m worried it’ll swallow me whole if it does. And then what? The Jam isn’t bankrupt yet. We still have a chance to bring it back from the brink. Which means I can’t afford a breakdown right now. I need to set an example. Stay positive and upbeat so my cooks and my dishwashers and my wait staff do, too. The idea that all those people are at risk of losing their jobs because of me—

Don’t go there.

I quickly turn back to the stove. Grits are bubbling in a pot beside the succotash. Grabbing the towel off my shoulder, I lift the lid with it and stir in a little more half and half and a lot more butter to get the grits nice and creamy. Just how Mama makes them.

The heavy thoughts retreat.

“I know.” Naomi puts her hands around her sweating glass. “But I want to make sure we’re on the same page here, E. People aren’t coming to The Jam anymore. Maybe our food is too simple. Especially when you consider all the really cool, different things chefs are doing down here.”

Naomi makes a good point. I admire Charleston’s chefs for their creativity. There’s John Melrose, whose hipster-y restaurant serves Asian comfort food classics with a south-by-central-America twist. Abigail Edmonds is serving up a fresh, New England spin on southern seafood at her place. And at his restaurant, Hank Havens is digging up recipes from a hundred years ago and adapting them for a modern, elegant menu.

“They’re definitely pushing the envelope,” I say. “But so are we in keeping things simple. That in and of itself is radical.”

Naomi nods. “I believe that. Honestly. I don’t have to answer to the money, though. That’s your job.”

One of my least favorite parts about being executive chef. It’s also a painful reminder of the nice chunk of change I personally invested in The Jam. If it goes under, I’ll never see a penny of that money returned. Earlier this morning I was looking at my account balances, trying not to freak out over the idea that they wouldn’t be replenished like I planned they would. They’re much lower than they were this time last year.

“They won’t be thrilled about the review,” I reply, referring to the hospitality investment group that I’ve partnered with. “But I’ll just point them in the direction of The Pearl, and they’ll go back to being happy.”

By some miracle, the bad press The Jam has received hasn’t damaged the brisk business we do over at The Pearl. As proud as I am that we’re booked up months in advance, it means most people don’t get to eat there. Part of the reason I opened up The Jam (I know, I know, it’s way too fucking cute, but I love Eddie Vedder and make no apologies for it) is so more people can experience my food.

“Now you’re just bragging,” Naomi says with a smile.

I shrug, lighting another burner. Time to poach the eggs. “Damn fuckin’ right I am.”

The tags on Billy’s collar jingle as he lifts his head. He looks towards the open doors. Then he gets up.

Billy doesn’t get up for anyone.

I turn my head to see a woman standing in the doorway. She’s in a flowy silk dress that’s way too dressed up for Charleston any day of the week. Least of all a Monday morning. Shiny sandals. Jewelry. Enormous, fancy black shades—designer if I had to guess—that cover half her pretty face.

The only part of her that’s not impeccably put together is her hair. It’s a dark, wild, tangled mess.

It’s just fucked hair.

I like it.

I recognize her as the girl who almost ran over our neighborhood’s infamous Guinea Fowl last night. If her New York license plate didn’t give her away as an out-of-towner, her half-horrified, half-flummoxed expression would have. You’d think I was a yeti from the way she looked at me.