Page 64 of Juniper Hill (The Edens 2)

Shit. What had I cooked? It hadn’t been all that busy, and I’d rushed through the last hour because I’d been anxious to get home before Memphis fell asleep.

There’d been a few burger orders. Lester might have been one, but given that his reviews of anything with red meat were rare, I was guessing not. Maybe he’d been the grilled trout tacos. Or the sunny-side-up pizza.

“And?” I asked.

“I don’t eat a lot of burgers.”

Damn. He’d had a burger. They were good, all my food was good. But they were just burgers. It was hard to get truly creative—which was why my father, a lifelong cattle rancher, thought burgers were beautiful.

The burgers were a local favorite but I could do so much better with so many other things.

“It was . . .” He stroked his mustache. Plain. Repetitive. Ordinary. “Fantastic.”

Oh, thank fuck. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“The waitress mentioned that you source all of your beef from your family’s local ranch.”

“I do. My older brother runs the ranch. Every year he finishes a handful of his best steers for me.”

“I particularly enjoyed the ketchup. That’s not a condiment I’ve ever been able to compliment before.”

I laughed. “I’ll have to give credit for that recipe to my mother.”

“There’s a story there, isn’t there?”

“There is.” I grinned. “Growing up, there were six of us kids. We went through ketchup like crazy. One day we ran out. It was the middle of winter and Mom didn’t feel like driving into town on bad roads, so she decided to make some of her own with some tomatoes she’d canned from the garden the previous summer. I don’t think she’s bought a bottle of Heinz since.”

Lester laughed and pulled a notepad and pen from the pocket of his blazer. “Would you mind if I used that story in my review?”

“Not at all.”

He went about making a few notes, all while my mind reeled.

Quincy, Montana, was not known for its food scene. The locals didn’t give a shit about a critic’s review. They didn’t worry about presentation. They cared that the food was hot when it reached their table and the prices were fair. It was a bonus if I sourced items from local producers.

That was the fantastic part about living here. There was no posh. Food was to nourish hard-working bodies and if it tasted good, well . . . that was the goal.

A review from Lester wouldn’t drive foodies through Knuckles’ front doors. But it was an accomplishment for me. It was something I’d be proud of for years to come.

“I’ve just started writing a monthly piece for Travel and Leisure magazine.” Lester tucked his pen and notepad away. “I’d like to feature Quincy, The Eloise and, in particular, Knuckles.”

“I’d be honored.” I didn’t bother hiding my smile.

“I’ll be staying tonight and am looking forward to another dinner.”

“Friday nights I run a special. I haven’t decided what it will be yet. Any requests?”

He rubbed his hands together. “Surprise me.”

“You’re on.” Ideas raced through my mind. Dijon chicken. Pork medallions. Beef Wellington. I dismissed them all instantly, needing to hit the walk-in to see what I had on hand. Maybe a fish?

Quincy was all about comfort to me. It was home. Maybe I’d make Memphis’s mac ’n’ cheese and fry up a chicken with my favorite chipotle batter.

“For the article, the magazine will want to send out a photographer,” Lester said. “Would you mind?”

“Not a problem. Just tell me the day.”

“Excellent.” Lester stood, holding out his hand once more.