The Solace of Bay Leaves

it was mine. Nobody else’s.”
“And so it is.”
“Then how come another chef is using my spices?” “What? No! Edgar, that’s impossible.”
Cayenne had come behind the counter to ring up a sale and gave me a worried look, her nearly black eyes wide. If we mix a blend for a commercial customer, whether it’s our creation or theirs, we hold that recipe in confidence. We don’t sell it in the shop and we certainly don’t share it.
It’s a promise we make, and I keep my promises.
“Look at his menu. The description, it is the same.”
That couldn’t be. “Edgar, let me go to my office. Hang on.”
I handed the phone to Cayenne and sped to the back room, closed the door, and grabbed the other receiver. The computer was on, thank goodness. “Okay, I’m back. Who is it?”
I heard the click of Cayenne hanging up. Edgar told me the name of the other restaurant. “We have never done business with them,” I said, and cradled the receiver between neck and shoulder while typing in the name. “Not in the two years I’ve owned the shop. I’ve never even met the chef.” I’d heard the name, though, in Madison Park. I’d thought about calling on him but hadn’t gotten around to it.
I found the website and started scrolling. “I’m looking at the menu. At the crab cakes. Ohmygosh.” The entry was virtually lifted from Edgar’s menu, down to the description of the flavors, though no individual spices were listed. “How did you find out?”
“Customer told me she had crab cakes at his place but mine was better. ‘Yes,’ I say, ’because of my own special spices.’ ‘No,’ she say, ‘spice the same. You use better fish.’ When she leaves, I look up his menu and see the same as mine. But those are my spices.”
You can’t copyright a spice blend, like you can’t copyright the list of ingredients in a recipe. After all, you need certain things to make brownies or a cake. But it’s entirely possible for more than one chef or spice merchant to come up with the same combo, independently. I created my Italian herb blend from scratch, to give my customers a flavor profile that would please nose and tongue, but it isn’t much different from others on shelves around the country.
“Edgar, that blend is yours. You came to us with an idea, and we worked to find exactly the right combination until you were satisfied.” Trial and error. So. Much. Trial and error. “We have not given the recipe or the finished product to anyone.” No need to mention the small jar in my kitchen. No need to muddy roiling waters.
“Then one of your staff . . .”
Impossible. Only Sandra and I have access to the Blend Book, safely stashed in our commercial kitchen. The electronic version is password-protected. I’d planned to bring Cayenne into the mixing and blending side of the business, but put that off until her health stabilized.
But defending my staff would sound like I was blaming his. “It could be completely innocent, Edgar. Maybe your rival had a bite of Speziato’s crab cakes—”
“Never. Never has he been in here.”
“Or someone described them to him. Heck, maybe he spotted them on your menu and was inspired to make his own blend.”
“No,” Edgar barked. “He is not that good.”
“I’ll figure this out, Edgar, I promise. But you have to understand that we can’t stop him from using the same ingredients you use. All we can do is talk to him.” Would that be true if he had stolen the recipe, not just managed to recreate it? I wasn’t sure.
“My recipe,” he repeated. “Mine.”
I suppressed a sigh. I didn’t think Edgar would make a big stink, but the best way to protect our reputation and our relationship with Speziato was to figure out what had happened. Even if I couldn’t prevent the rival from sprinkling the blend on everything from crab cakes to ice cream.
“I’ll figure this out,” I repeated, and we hung up.
I flopped back in my chair. For the love of cardamom . . . Edgar had stopped short of accusing me of impropriety, but I didn’t blame him for being upset. So was I. We’d put tons of time into creating that blend—I’d been generous because Edgar works hard, treats his staff well, and is a tremendous cook. He’d learned from one of the best chefs in the city, the disgraced Alex Howard, now traveling the world and blogging about it. I’d wanted to help Edgar create his own place in Seattle’s lively restaurant community.
It crossed my mind that maybe he’d learned this bluster from Alex, too.
For shame, Pepper, I told myself. That is beneath you.
I checked the other restaurant’s website. Closed Mondays.
Good. I had time to make a plan.
I was going to need one.

Eleven
In Europe in the Middle Ages, designated “market towns” had the right to hold a public open-air market where growers, butchers, and other merchants could offer their wares, fostering trade and a cash economy.
I TEXTED LAUREL TO ASK IF SHE KNEW THE MAN I’D DUBBED RC, for Rival Chef. No, came the swift reply. Sent a similar note to Sandra, on her day off. She, too, had never heard of him.
Meanwhile, more deliveries awaited. I hot-footed home to fetch the car, then eased my way down Pine, parking on the steep slope beside the shop, emergency brake and flashers on. Popped in the side door, and Matt helped me load.
Dog nails clacked on the wood planks. I crouched and scratched Arf under his chin. “You sure you want to go, little buddy? Your bed is nice and warm.” In answer, he sat and cocked his head, offering his collar. I air-kissed his little black nose and found the leash, and off we went.
Edgar’s