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AWOL.”
    â€œSorry, Liz. What happened?”
    â€œHe didn’t show up for work and Rick is covering for him.”
    â€œUh-oh, that can’t be good. Glad I’m not working there anymore.”
    â€œI know, he’s in a terrible mood. I need to talk to Daniel. Where’s the kitchen?”
    â€œThey won’t let you in without a pass. A couple of guests got food poisoning.”
    Those are words people in my business never want to hear. I gasped. “You’re kidding?”
    â€œNo, I’m not, and it’s hush-hush. Nobody wants the press to make a big deal out of it. Bad image for the first day of the show.”
    â€œAre they going to be okay?” I asked.
    â€œWho knows? Two people were rushed to the hospital after the eating a breakfast of steak and eggs.”
    â€œWhen did that happen?”
    â€œThis morning at a private press-release ceremony,” replied Martin.
    There seemed to be an awful lot of bad meat floating around these days, which reminded me why I was there. I had trouble believing that Daniel would be stupid enough to blow us off for another gig. Sooner or later, a chef’s reputation catches up with them. And Daniel was no exception. A phone call to one of the restaurants listed on his resumé hinted he was trouble, but the owner revealed nothing. The man refused to discuss Daniel’s history in detail. I wasn’t concerned. Most follow-up references were a waste of time. Recommending a lousy chef to another restaurant was a dirty joke to play on your competition, but it’s happened to me more times than I care to remember.
    A year ago after a brief telephone conversation with a highly respected chef of a chic uptown hot spot, and entirely on his say-so, I hired a previous cook of his who had listed him as a reference. I knew we were in trouble when on his first day our new chef was visited by three burly thugs with deep foreign accents. As a precautionary rule, no one is allowed in the kitchen during service except staff, so you can imagine my surprise when one of the waiters complained that the kitchen door was blocked on the inside by a customer.
    I managed to squeeze through the door, demanding with great authority that they leave at once. One of the men, who was licking his fingers and looking at me as if he would like to use me for a toothpick, said, “Nice place you got here, lady.” I bought them a round of vodka shooters and they left without incident. Not surprisingly, the new chef didn’t come in the next day.
    The labour board doesn’t allow character assass-ination that would purposely damage an employee’s chances for a job elsewhere. Admittedly, Daniel’s former employer said he could cook, which was all Rick wanted to hear. You know the saying, “Too many chefs, not enough cooks.” Rick liked to say, “Too many chefs and none can cook.” We were so hungry for talent that we didn’t care if Daniel was an axe murderer. A conceit I was starting to regret.
    Over the years, a few of our former chefs made it to the big time, but via the restaurant grapevine, we were often saddened to hear many had lost the battle to booze and pills, divorce, or anonymity.
    Until now, Daniel hadn’t caused us any problems, making me suspect it was merely a case of sour grapes between him and his former employer.
    â€œListen, Liz, I have to run,” Martin said. “I’ll drop into the restaurant soon and have a drink with you.”
    This last part was added as he quickened his pace down a service hall. He opened a door for the men’s change room and whispered, “The kitchen is up ahead. Keep going and follow your nose.” He blew me a kiss over his shoulder and disappeared inside.
    I already felt better. At least I’d have my one-on-one with Daniel and ask for an explanation. I was ready to forgive him and offer him more money if that’s what it took to get him back. On