“That’s bullshit. You’re gorgeous, and I don’t care how many Michelin Stars he has or how his food makes you weak at the knees, there is no man on this earth who is worthy of you, Aspen. Remember that.”
“Thanks, Jude.”
“Wear the top. You look amazing. It’s actually sickening at this time in the morning.” She slumps back down onto her pillow before pulling the covers back over her head. “Now, get the fuck out of my room and let me sleep, woman.”
“Love you, bestie,” I say as I leave her to the rest of her morning.
“Yeah. Yeah. I want details when you get back.” I don’t answer, knowing that she’ll be bored to tears when I wax lyrical about Chef Stevens’ food.
As I grab my purse and head for the door, butterflies take flight in the pit of my stomach. What if he hates my cooking? Is he going to give me dishes to make, or will he let me concoct my own? Maybe this was a bad idea.
The subway ride seems longer than usual, my mind racing with trepidation as I near Dulip, but I’m going to be fifteen minutes early to meet Chef Stevens. Just the thought makes me nervous. So nervous, I’m not sure if my feet will take me the last few blocks as the train pulls into the station. I navigate my way up onto the bustling streets of Manhattan, filing into the crowd of people with places to be and jobs to do.
When the elegant entrance of the restaurant comes into view, my heart lurches up into my throat at the sight of Chef Stevens, ready and waiting for me. I steel myself when his gaze meets mine, picking me out in the crowd.
I can do this. I just need to remain professional. This could be my start as a chef. When I realize how much is riding on today, my hands begin to shake, so I take a few deep breaths as I close the gap between us.
“You’re early. I like you already.” His smile is disarming, and outside of the kitchen, he seems younger, closer to my age. It is both impressive and depressing. He was well on his way to being the hottest chef in Manhattan by my age.
“My dad always said being early is on time, and being on time is late.”
“Good. You need that work ethic if you want to be a chef. This isn’t an easy road, and you’re always going to be working when everyone else in your life is enjoying their timeawayfrom work.”
“I’m used to that already, sir.” He breaks eye contact, his brow furrowed. This isn’t a great start. “Waitressing for you is a nighttime pursuit, and I don’t shy away from a hard day’s work.”
“Let’s go.” I get in step behind him as he leads me to his car. Although he’s quiet, he’s a perfect gentleman, opening my door for me before getting in himself.
“Do you do this every day?” I say as he pulls into traffic.
“I used to. I tend to split it with my head chef now.” He keeps his eyes on the road with his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.
“I love that you still run the kitchen. So many chefs who’ve made it to this level of success don’t even cook in their own restaurant anymore.”
“Everything else is just white noise. If I don’t get to cook, then none of this means anything.”
“I really admire that, Chef.” His shoulders loosen, and he affords me a quick glance.
“Please just call me Ryder. I’m not Chef, Mr. Stevens, or… sir.” The furrow of his brow mars his chiseled features.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that… I respect you.”
“And if I were fifty, I’d accept it, but we’re close to the same age. For this exercise, consider us peers. At least for today. Anyway, let’s talk about what we’re looking for this morning.”We fall into easier conversation as I absorb everything he says. His enthusiasm is contagious, and by the time we reach the market, my nerves have settled.
I’ve never been here, and the second we walk in, the hustle and bustle is electric. Restaurateurs from all over the city are picking out the best ingredients to create a culinary masterpiece.
When Ryder—I need to get used to that—finishes getting everything he needs for Dulip tonight, he turns his attention to me. “So, what are you going to cook for me today?”
“I wasn’t sure if you would task me with making one of your dishes or creating one of mine.”
“There’s no point in having you follow a recipe. Anyone can do that. I want to see if you have the chops to be in my kitchen. What is your favorite dish?”
“I’m partial to Italian food. Authentic Italian.”
“Them’s fighting words. Freshly made pasta?”
“Yes, sir. Ryder. I make a good lasagna.”
“Say it with conviction. It’s not enough to say it’s ‘good.’ It needs to be fucking great. If you don’t have confidence in your abilities, then no one else will. This job is so much more than just cooking. It’s imaginative and instinctive, but if you want to run a kitchen, you need to command the room. You have to be a leader. Can you do that?”
