Not quite the same thing.
It was his fault. Ewan knew it. Last night while Kate was creating her innovative menu because of her usual tangents, he’d zoned out. Norah Jones was playing in the background on the stereo and she was like a tranquilizer and aphrodisiac rolled into one but with Kate talking, “Come Away with Me” was a sleeping pill.
Today he heard “injera” rolling incredulously off the tongues of the kitchen staff. “What’s she thinking? It’s a restaurant death wish.” Murmurs reached his ears.
Crap was his first thought. His next ones were a lot more graphic. He rounded into the kitchen where Kate explained the beauty of injera.
“Kate, hon.” He realized those were the words he used when he needed to pacify, which she might recognize and get even more pissed about.
Her green eyes flickered to him before moving away. He knew the signs. She was pissed. At him. Because he fell asleep? Because? It was anyone’s guess.
“It’s Saint Patrick’s Day. Why not Irish Soda Bread?”
“Because no one would expect injera,” she said with a laugh.
He nodded. With good reason, he thought. “How would injera work into the menu?”
Her eyes were a little wild, her mouth open, her arms were held outward. “Like any bread, duh.”
“But it’s not any bread. It’s sour and meant to sop up food and eat it with one’s hands,” he said patiently as if explaining to a child.
“What’s your point?”
He moved closer to her, hoping none of the staff could hear. “Kate, you must know injera’s not right. You’re doing corned beef and cabbage as the special. Please, sweet one—”
“No, Ewan. I’m tired of you second guessing me and the decisions I make. We’re a fusion restaurant.”
Crap. He couldn’t imagine Irish and Ethiopian fusion. He lowered his eyes, so his expression didn’t set her off.
“For one night, can we not be traditional? Maybe Irish with a little stout and corny music?” he asked. “For me?”
“For you? You’re Scottish.”
“My people came from Ireland.”
Her eyes flickered. Her expression softened. “Yeah?”
“Well, maybe. Okay. Sure. For you and your Irish heritage.”
He turned away. The sous chef, Karen, smiled at him. He averted his eyes. The last thing he needed was to encourage her. Accounting was looking better and better these days. Actually, so was Glasgow.
When I was a little kid, the Irish soda bread had seeds in it. I guess I mis-remembered it as being rye. The recipes come up with caraway. Here’s one: