- Book Title: Devil’s Food at Dusk
- Author: M.J. O’Shea
- Publisher: Dreamspinner Press; 1 edition (June 22, 2015)
- Book Length: 203 pages
- Genre: Gay, Contemporary, Romance
- Reviewed by: Scott
- Posting Date: June 30, 2015
Just because there isn’t some half naked guy on the cover with killer abs it doesn’t mean that this book doesn’t contain it.
The beginning of the book starts out predictable, we all know the suave character at the bar is going to be the investor and then the awkward meeting is going to happen. That is where the predictability ended. There was a point near the end of the book where I closed the cover on my Kindle and I told Greg, “if the Authors take this book in a certain direction I was going to be so mad” that is how wrapped up in Remy and Joe I got while reading.
Remy is a “Nawlins Native” and running a multi generational family restaurant, Lumiere’. Joe is the high paid developer tasked to buy the building that Lumiere’ resides in and turn it into a “Tourist” Pineapple Joe’s. For Remy and his younger brother Andre, Lumiere’ is everything, it represents family history, it is also what has kept the family together with 3 generations residing in the same household. Joe is the slickster, he doesn’t care about history or family, he is all about conquering and moving on. (I know I didn’t like him much either)
Guess what? There is a load of angst in this book for both the characters and the reader and my gosh it has you reading non stop. I also want to point out that Joe’s and Remy’s sex life together is really really hot. The sex is what started this whole dance between Remy and Joe and they never expected to fall in love. Here is where I found the book so well balanced, how can the guys begin a relationship where one party wants to take away everything that means anything to the other. As Remy fights for Lumiere’ through seduction and cracking through Joe’s corporate steel exterior, Joe is using back channels to achieve his goal. For the rest of the story you will just have to read the book.
I put this book on my Highest Recommendation list, for a compelling story, hot sex and loads of loveable characters, (Yes, even Joe).
The Book Description:
Joe Fitzgerald hates New Orleans, but he’s stuck there until he convinces one stubborn local family to sell Lumière, the crumbling French Quarter restaurant they’ve owned for generations. The place is a wreck, and it’s hemorrhaging money. Joe figures he’s their best chance for survival.
Remy Babineaux despises Pineapple Joe’s and everything the chain stands for. He refuses to let Lumière become some tacky corporate tourist trap. Theme drinks and plastic beads in his restaurant? Yeah, right. Over his dead, rotting corpse. The last thing Remy wants is a meeting with the restaurant chain’s representative, but his father agreed to at least listen to the proposal. There’s nothing Remy can do about it.
Remy figures an anonymous hookup is exactly what he needs to decompress. When he ends up across the table from his fling the next morning, real sparks fly. Joe refuses to give up his prime location; Remy refuses to give up his legacy. It’s war, and they’re both determined to win at any cost. Neither of them counted on falling in love.
Dawn always seemed to come a little later in the French Quarter, molasses-sweet and slow, still soft but with hints of the sticky heat to come. It spread, languorous, over the weathered painted walls and wrought-iron railings, crooked cobbly streets, and leaded glass windows that had seen hundreds of years of people passing by. Morning was quiet. Peaceful. Mellow.
Remy Babineaux had lived in the city all his life, in the same house on the same street covered by the same winding, purple-flowered bougainvillea vines and creeping ivy, but still, sometimes, in the pink blush of an unhurried morning, he was struck with just how much he loved it. How much he never wanted to live anywhere else.
He pulled his tired body out of bed in the barely there brush of light and stretched. He hadn’t slept much the night before—five hours at most—and he felt every one of his very busy, thirty years in his creaky muscles and sore back. It had been easier to get up with the morning sun when he was nineteen. To a point. Truthfully, Remy hadn’t ever been a morning person. He’d always preferred sleeping in to experiencing the unusual stillness that came in the Babineaux household hours before brothers and sisters, mother and father, and one rather eccentric grandmother started shouting and laughing and singing—and usually all at once. But he had to admit the morning was beautiful. And even if it wasn’t, he had fish to buy.
Next time I’m making Andre go so I can sleep in.
Remy knew that wasn’t true. He trusted his little brother with his life, but with the fish selection? Never. Nobody but him had had the coveted job of fish selection since he was a teenager. He pulled on a threadbare white henley and a pair of khakis that he didn’t mind getting fish juice on. Then Remy tugged his wavy hair into a thick, high bun, slipped into a pair of shoes, and was out the door. Time to greet the day with rack after rack of amazing, delicious, smelly fish.
Thursdays were usually the best day at the fish market. It was one of those things that had no logical explanation but a long history of somehow working out that way. The market was open three days a week, and he usually liked to make it to two of them, but Thursdays were for some unknown reason when the magic seemed to happen. He liked to get there early for the pick of the catfish, local trout, and sweet, tender gulf shrimp. Wandering through the fragrant stalls, which should be unpleasant but somehow smelled of home and happiness, was something of a Zen experience for him. One of the highlights of his week.
The market was crowded and loud, even in the bare light of early morning. Chefs and restaurant owners haggled with fishermen who’d become their friends over the years, laughed at well-worn jokes, argued the same arguments like a dance that had been practiced over time and perfected. The fish market was a tradition, and his city was nothing if not steeped in traditions.
Remy spent a few minutes soaking it all in, checking out what was new and interesting and delicious before he got down to business. It was important, he thought, to experience things, and not just go through his day completing tasks. His food was better if his feelings for the moment seeped into the dish. Made life better too if you asked him. His little sister, Grace, gave him shit for his “stop to smell the roses” way of looking at things. She was only fourteen, in a race to grow up and become something. Someday she’d understand that the becoming part was just as important as the getting there.
He stopped at a stand and stared down at piles of glossy pearly gray shrimp, barely touched with hints of blush pink. He’d steam them perhaps, on a base of pasta with clams and roasted vegetables, a little garlic, some cumin, cayenne, local butter, and a ton of French thyme. Remy could nearly taste the sauce exploding in his mouth—butter broth and seasonings and sweet, firm shrimp. Yes.
“Twenty pounds, Remy?”
“Hmm? Oh yes. Sure thing, Renee.” His favorite shrimp dealer knew him well. He could easily go through that much on a weeknight. Four times that on a busy weekend. Remy signed off on the
purchase order. The shrimp would be delivered to his cafe, Lumiere, in a few hours with the rest of his purchases, just in time for him to start cooking.
Remy worked his way through the crawfish and catfish, the mussels and clams, smelling and sampling, weighing and ordering. It was his ritual. He never rushed it.
When Remy was nearly ready to call it a morning and head back home, his phone buzzed with a text from Andre, his little brother and one very pushy sous chef.
Don’t forget my halibut.
Remy made a face. The halibut at the fish market was good, but it was shipped all the way from the north Pacific on ice. He’d far rather use local catches to make his spin on traditional dishes, but sometimes Andre got his way. The halibut and chips was one of those times. Andre had tried it, fallen in love, and decided it should be a regular menu item at Lumiere, after a lot of protesting from Remy. It had become popular with the customers, much to Remy’s annoyance. He was even more annoyed by the fact that he liked it himself—especially with Andre’s signature tangy tartar sauce. Most of the time he pretended he didn’t, but Andre knew better and liked to flip him all sorts of shit for it.
I’m getting your damn halibut. Go back to bed.
All he got in return was a winky face and a string of fish emojis. Remy chuckled. Child.
The Social Links:
Go to the M.J. O’Shea or Anna Martin Author Page on GGR-Review
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