“Wow. That was quick.” Nick shut the restaurant’s back door behind us. He was in his chef’s jacket, looking better than ever. But anxious. Very anxious. “Thanks for coming so fast.”
Immediately, I picked upon the wonderful, rich scent of fresh salmon and dill. “Smells great, what were you ma—”
“Come.” He tugged on my hand. “In here. Need to do this before I have a heart attack.”
“Okay…” I followed him through the small kitchen. The place was immaculate. Cleaner than I could have imagined, and atop one of the industrial gas ovens, a huge pot filled to the rim with brown liquid, simmered gently. “What’s that?”
“Brown stock.” Nick pulled me away from the stove. “Come on, O’Reilly. Hurry.”
We passed through the swinging doors, into the dining room. I heard a child babbling something.
“Sa
