Sweet Girl by Rachel Hollis Read Free Book Online

that’s covered with every imaginable bit of produce you’ll find in season. Since we’re in California and it’s early summer, the assortment is extensive.
    Fresh fruits, vegetables, and herbs are spread out in every direction and are being sampled, sniffed, and discussed by the sous-chefs from all of the hotel’s restaurants. They’re all tattooed and grizzled, and every one of them looks as delighted to be awake before ten in the morning as I do. Since almost all restaurant-industry employees work late, we aren’t typically known to be joyful early risers. As the supplier hands out different seasonal produce to sample, it doesn’t escape my notice that I’m the only woman in this crowd and the only one who isn’t actually a chef. Typically the general manager of Gander should make all the decisions, but he doesn’t know anything about mixology, which is why I’m here instead. I step forward and sort through the herbs directly in front of me. In turn I pick up basil, rosemary, thyme, and lavender and rub them between my fingers until their scent saturates the air around me. All of them can be muddled in my drinks, infused within a simple syrup, or used to make a flavored spirit. The goal with any of them, at least as far as I’m concerned, is to find flavors that complement each other in unexpected ways. Like the bite of black pepper with the tartness of a fresh mango, or a dirty martini served with a white-chocolate truffle on the side. Or the acidity in heirloom tomatoes muddled against summer strawberries at the height of the season. Actually, we might just be close enough to that part of the season to try a version of that drink.
    I reach out to sample a berry, but a tiny hand slaps mine out of the way.
    What the—
    I turn to snap at my attacker, but the words die on my tongue.
    She can’t be more than five feet tall, and half of that height appears to be made up of salt-and-pepper hair that’s pulled up high in a topknot that defies gravity. She’s wrapped a scarf around her head too many times to count, and the effect is a brightly colored turban. Even though she just attacked me, she’s not even paying me any notice now. Her eyes are entirely on the berries, praising them like a beloved pet.
    I never knew it was possible to be jealous of fresh fruit.
    I’ve watched Avis Phillips through the window of Dolci more times than I can count. I’ve tried every dessert she’s ever served on her menu, and I’ve read all of her cookbooks cover to cover. I’ve seen celebrities and musicians; hell, I met the president a few years ago when my parents bought a table at his fundraising dinner. But I’ve never been as starstruck as I am now.
    “I am such a massive fan of your work!” It bursts out of my lips and falls in the space between us. I’m so shocked that I said it that I take a step backwards, as if the distance will erase my mortification. I look down, surprised to see my words aren’t actually flapping around on the ground like a dying bird.
    Avis squints up at me through gigantic purple bifocals.
    “What’s the best dish on my menu?” She barks it like an order.
    I take a step forward.
    “My favorite is—”
    “I didn’t ask your favorite, Stork; I asked what was best.”
    She looks back down at the table before her and starts inspecting the blueberries. I don’t even question the nickname. I’m tall, she’s short, whatever. Frankly, she could call me any name at all and most of the curse words I know, and I’d still answer to it. My career-crush on her is that bad.
    “The orange-zest Baumkuchen with the white-chocolate ganache.” I answer her without giving myself time to debate it.
    She barely moves her eyes from the berries, but there’s a little flicker of notice, and it’s enough that I can see I’ve caught her attention.
    I keep talking.
    “It’s incredibly labor intensive, and almost impossible to pull off. Most people wouldn’t attempt more than ten or twelve layers,