The Chemist

Adam had remained hesitant, but the Hideaway had gotten Neil’s enthusiastic thumbs-up as well. Best food he’d had in the past three seasons.

There were always a couple of backups – a coffee shop in Parker and a breakfast-only diner in Littleton were on this list – but Adam very rarely had to contact the backups. The show had a track record of boosting business by a healthy percentage for the first two months after an episode aired, with an ongoing lift for the rest of the year. There were even a bunch of groupie types who tried to follow Chef’s journey and eat at every place he featured. Chef was always complimentary, and the show regularly pulled in almost a million viewers every Sunday night. It was the world’s best advertisement, and it was free.

So Adam was prepared for the reaction at the Lakewood barbecue place, Whistle Pig. As soon as he said the name of the show, the owner was screaming. Adam thought he could even hear her feet pounding against the floor as she jumped up and down. It was like showing up at someone’s door with one of those huge Publishers Clearing House checks.

Once the owner had calmed down, Adam went through the usual spiel, getting the date on her calendar, giving her the contact info she would need, prepping her for the kinds of access the show would require, et cetera. All the while, she kept thanking Adam and occasionally shouting the good news to someone who’d just walked into the room.

Adam had made this same call over eight hundred times now, but it always left him grinning and feeling like Good Saint Nick.

The call with the bakery was similar, but instead of screaming, the head pastry chef had an infectious belly laugh that Adam couldn’t help but laugh along with. This call took longer than the first, but eventually Adam was able to compose himself, even if the local chef never did.

Adam had saved the Hideaway for last, knowing that a Friday-night karaoke event would be a little more complicated to arrange. Adam thought it might be too much of a departure for the show, but he supposed they could get some footage from both the dinner hour and the performances, then cut it together to see what would work.

“This is the Hideaway,” an alto female voice answered his call. “How can I help you?”

In the background, Adam could hear the expected sounds – the clinking of clean dishes being put away, the chop, chop, chop of the prep work, the murmur of a few conversations lowered for the sake of the phone call. Soon they’d be plenty loud.

“Hello,” Adam greeted her heartily. “Could I please speak to Mrs. Weeks – Mrs. Ellis Weeks – or either of the Mr. Weekses?”

“This is Mrs. Weeks.”

“Great. Hi. My name is Adam Kopecky, and I’m calling you on behalf of the show The Great American Food Trip.”

He waited. Sometimes it took a minute to sink in. He wondered if Mrs. Weeks was a screamer or a gasper. Maybe a crier.

“Yes,” Mrs. Weeks responded in a cool tone. “What can I do for you?”

Adam coughed out an awkward laugh. It happened sometimes. Not everyone was familiar with the show, though it really was a household name these days.

“Well, we’re a cuisine-focused reality show that follows the food journeys of Chef —”

“Yes, I know the program.” There was a hint of impatience in the voice now. “And what can I help you with?”

Adam was a bit thrown. There was the strangest sort of suspicion in her reaction, like she thought this was a scam. Or maybe something worse. Adam couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

He hurried to set her straight. “I’m calling because the Hideaway has been chosen for our show. Our spies” – he laughed lightly – “came home raving about your menu and your entertainment. We hear you’ve become quite a local hot spot. We’d love to profile your establishment – get the word out to anyone who hasn’t heard of you yet.”

Surely now it would click for her. As one-third owner of the restaurant, she had to be adding up the financial possibilities in her head. He waited for the first squeal.

Nothing.

He could still hear the clinking, the chopping, the murmuring, and in the distance, a couple of dogs barking. Otherwise he would have thought the call had dropped. Or that she’d hung up on him.

“Hello, Mrs. Weeks?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Well, then, um, congratulations. We plan to be in your area the first part of next month, and we can be somewhat flexible within that time frame to work with your schedule. I’ve heard that Friday nights are a highlight, so we might want to plan for that —”

“I’m sorry – Mr. Kopecky, did you say it was?”

“Yes, but call me Adam, please.”

“I’m sorry, Adam, but while we’re… flattered, I don’t think it will be possible for us to participate.”

“Oh,” Adam said. It was half gasp, half grunt.

He’d had a few instances where schedules could not be made to fit, where exigent circumstances of the most weighty kind – weddings, funerals, organ transplants – had gotten in the way, but the dream had never died without a major effort on the part of the owners and major disappointment to follow. One poor woman in Omaha had sobbed into the receiver for a solid five minutes.

“Thank you so much for thinking of us…”

As if this were no more than an invitation to a distant relative’s backyard birthday party.

“Mrs. Weeks, I’m not sure you realize what this could do for your business. I could send you some statistics – you’d be amazed at what a difference in your bottom line a spot on the show would mean.”