“You sweatin’ already?” A guy in a baseball hat and dirty shirt appears at my elbow, dropping a crate overflowing with produce on the counter. “It’s not even two! Dang, chef, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were nervous.”
Smiling, I drop my pen. “Nervous? Me? Naw. Just startin’ to stress about my veggies being a no-show.” I hold out a hand and he takes it, pulling me into a hug.
“How you been, brother?” he asks.
Luke is one of my oldest friends. He and I were dishwashers together at a local fish camp when I first came to Charleston seventeen years ago. I stayed in the restaurant business, but Luke went on to play major league baseball. After an injury sidelined him a few seasons back, he returned to town to play for our minor league team, the Charleston Pirates.
Now Luke splits his time between playing first base and tending to the enormous organic garden in his backyard on Sullivan’s Island. Man’s got one of the greenest thumbs I’ve yet to encounter. His produce, all local varieties that have been grown in the area for centuries, is second to none. I buy whatever he’s willing to sell me.
Today, that looks like some beautiful collard greens, enormous heads of purple garlic, garnet sweet potatoes, and a whole bunch of leeks. I inhale the rich, sweet smell of sun and dirt that rises out of the crate.
“Better, now that I’m seeing this,” I say, nodding at the potatoes. “What do you think? Sweet potato fries? Gnocchi? Maybe a simple syrup for cocktails?”
Luke grins proudly. “The gnocchi, definitely. Maybe throw some of those leeks into a sauce—they’re lookin’ mighty fine, if I don’t say so myself.”
“This all looks amazing. No surprise there.”
“And The Jam?” he asks. “Any news?”
My mood dims. “We’re hangin’ in there. How’re things with you?”
He shrugs, digging his hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans. “Garden’s good, baseball…not so much. We’re 27-81 for the season.”
“Ouch,” I say with a grin.
“Starting to think my playing days might be numbered.” He picks up a sweet potato, turning it over in his hand.
“And why is that?”
He shrugs again. “I don’t know. You know that girl I been seein’?”
I scoff. “Luke, you been seein’ half this city.”
“True,” he says, grinning. A grin that quickly fades. “Anyway. This girl told me I was washed up.”
“What?” I pull back in disbelief. “I hope you told her to fuck off.”
He’s still looking at the sweet potato. “Definitely got the hell out of there as quick as I could. Whatever. I know I should take it with a grain of salt. And part of me does. But another part…I don’t know.” Luke shakes his head, finally looking up. “What about you? Heard you had a cute stranger over for breakfast yesterday.”
I roll my eyes. “Word travels fast in this city.”
“Says the guy who not only loves Andy Cohen, but loves to gossip like him, too.”
Laughing, I watch Luke toss the potato back into the crate.
“That’s fair. You know how I like to feed strangers. And Olivia was hungry, so…”
“Olivia.” Luke pokes his tongue into his bottom lip, grinning. “Haven’t heard you actually mention a girl’s name in a while, E. Anything you wanna tell me?”
He’s right. I haven’t mentioned a girl’s name in this kitchen since I broke up with my girlfriend last year. I’m not the type to kiss and tell.
But Olivia and I haven’t kissed.
Yet.
“She’s a Yankee,” I say, turning back to my clipboard. “Don’t know what her story is beyond that.”
“But you’re gonna find out, aren’t you, you smug bastard?”
My turn to grin. “Hope to.”
“Good luck.” Luke claps me on the shoulder. “I gotta get goin’—we have a game tonight that we’re probably gonna lose. I’ll be back on Thursday with another delivery. Got some heirloom acorn squash coming up that are lookin’ mighty tasty.”
“I’ll take ’em. Be good, you hear?” I call after him as he heads out of the kitchen.
Luke flicks me the bird over his shoulder. “Couldn’t be good if I tried.”
Wasn’t that the truth. Man has a little black book as thick as all the Harry Potter novels combined.
Shaking my head, I pick up my pen. Glance at the potatoes in the crate.
Time to rice these beauties and get a start on the gnocchi.
I hope Yankee girl likes pasta.* * *“Ho-ly shit, chef. That’s out of this world.”
My head chef Maria’s eyes nearly roll to the back of her head as she chews.
I smile, turning to run a damp prep towel around the rim of the shallow pasta bowl. In it, the bright orange sweet potato gnocchi—tiny pillows of pasta goodness—glisten in the light gorgonzola sauce I’ve whipped together. I added a handful of spicy arugula, and another handful of earthy, slightly sweet hazelnuts, finely chopped.
Simple. Savory. Satisfying.
Exactly what I was going for.