I wiped my hands on my apron, fingering the outline of my phone in my pocket. I hadn’t had a text from Meg in over an hour. “Chef?”
He looked over from his discussion with the sous, one eyebrow lifting. A big, dark-skinned man closer to forty than thirty, totally in command of himself and his kitchen.
My heart hammered under my white coat. “Could I talk to you a minute?”
Ray, the sous, scowled.
But, “Sure,” Chef said easily. “I’ve got the squab,” he said to Ray. “Get Lucas on the tagliatelle while you do the pork belly, yeah?”
“Yes, Chef.”
He approached, his keen gaze sweeping my bloody station. “What’s this?” he asked, indicating the flat stainless pan filled with the heads and bones of decapitated fish.
“I’m prepping the sardines. With the carrot fennel slaw? I thought I’d make a fish stock later,” I added, proud of my initiative.
Chef shook his head slowly, almost sadly. “Snapper and bass, March. Halibut, okay, or cod. But not sardines. Nothing dark or oily. Not for fumet.”
His voice was kind, his rebuke audible throughout the kitchen.
My face burned. I should have known. I should have tossed the scraps to the skinny black cat that lurked around the Dumpster outside. Ray smirked.
Bite me, Ray,I thought.
“Yes, Chef,” I said.
“Was there anything else?” he asked gently.
From across the kitchen, Lucas, one of the line cooks, shot me a sympathetic glance.
I should say no. I needed this job. Not so much for the pay. I could have made more as a dog walker in Manhattan or working front of house almost anywhere. Although, as an out-of-work writer, I didn’t have the looks or the moves to command the kind of tips the auditioning dancers and aspiring actors could earn. But I didn’t want to lose my front-row seat to the food show, my chance to learn from an award-winning chef who didn’t throw tantrums or knives in the kitchen.
“Amy would come,”my sister had said.“She has to work.”
I stuck out my chin. “If we could... I only need a minute.”
A long pause, measured in heartbeats.
“Sure,” he said at last. “Let me see the reservation book,” he said to Ray, and turned on his heel.
I trailed after Chef toward his office, resisting the urge to poke at my hair, bundled for work on top of my head.
The room was the size of a closet, cramped, cool, and dim. Chef tossed his leather jacket on top of the desk, which was already spilling over with invoices, menus, and samples.
“Talk to me,” he ordered.
Unlike a lot of top male chefs, Chef didn’t treat his staff as thoughhaving a dick entitled him to act like one. I took a breath. “I can’t work Thanksgiving.”
He grabbed the neck of his sweater, tugging it one-handed over his head. “Tell Ray.”
“I did.”
His face emerged from the pullover. His gaze met mine. “Ah.”
I stood my ground. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
The sweater joined the jacket on his desk. Stripped, his shoulders and arms were broad and hard, his belly slightly soft. A chef’s body, sculpted by years of commanding the pass, hefting and hauling, tasting and testing, marked by full-sleeve tattoos.
I averted my gaze, uncomfortable seeing him out of his professional whites. At the same time, my hands itched for a camera to capture those tattoos: kitchen knives, a flying pig, and a single word,soigné.I recognized the reference from Julia Child. It meant good cooking or elegance in preparation. Something like that. I was already framing shots, writing captions in my head.Under the white coat? No, too medical.Chef, Exposed. Ick. That sounded like a porn flick.
