Sebastian licks his lips, pulling up a nearby stool to sit upon. “I would like a Marseille- style shrimp stew to start, your take on a coq au vin for my main meal, and mousse au chocolat for dessert.”
Alexander frowns. “I’ll help.”
The wrinkly old man raises a stern hand. “That won’t be necessary, my boy.”
“But that’s a lot of work for one—”
“I’m sure our Eden can handle it. I expect nothing less for a sous chef of her caliber.” Sebastian turns and grins at Eden. “It’s not too much for you to handle, is it?”
Eden’s heart is in her throat. Her palms are clammy and her breathing’s shallow. She doesn’t know if this is normal or not. If she declines, how suspicious will that make her look? But if she agrees to cook for him, will a restaurateur like Sebastian be able to tell just how inexperienced she is? Eden knows she’s been relying on her palate more than her technique. And it doesn’t help that Sebastian is sitting right there, judging her every move. She can fool the layman, but him?
She has no choice.
“It’s not too much to handle,” she says calmly. “I’ll get started right away.”
She’s cooked her whole life, mostly out of her love for food, but also partially out of necessity. Parsons wasn’t exactly a talented chef. In fact, Eden was fairly certain he’d never stepped foot in a kitchen in his entire life. To him,buy-one-get-one-freepizza deals from the local pizzeria was fine dining. He’d sometimes throw in a two-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi when he was feeling particularly fancy.
Eden realizes pretty quickly that this isn’t cooking.
It’s a performance.
She prepares her mise, she gets the necessary pots and pans ready on the stove, she concentrates on the different cook times for all three separate dishes at once. It’s intense, trying to remember each individual recipe while working on them at the exact same time. To make matters worse, Sebastian never looks away.
It’s honestly terrifying.
“So, my dear,” Sebastian says casually. “Where did you work before this fine establishment?”
“A little Italian restaurant called San Ramo,” she answers, flipping the chicken in her skillet to ensure even cooking.
“San Ramo,” he echoes, a hint of haughtiness in his tone. “Never heard of it.”
Eden tries her best not to let this shake her. She really did work at a restaurant called San Ramo, but the place no longer exists thanks to poor reviews about service and a failing health safety grade. She might have over exaggerated her responsibilities there, too. She was no more than a fry cook there, not a sous chef like she had claimed on her resumé.
She gives the shrimp, which are now sizzling in their own delicious juices, a quick stir to keep from burning on the bottom of the pan.
“And what would you consider to be your favorite meal?” Sebastian asks.
Eden really can’t tell if he’s genuinely interested, or trying his best to distract her. Judging by how deathly still Alexander is beside him, it’s likely the latter.
“I’m a sucker for anything sweet,” she replies, checking on the chocolate she has melting over a double broiler. The rough square pieces she’d chopped up are slowly but surely transforming into a rich pool of dark chocolate.
“Knew it,” she thinks she hears Alexander mumble under his breath. It’s barely audible.
Sebastian pays him no mind.
Eden plates the shrimp stew and adds a bit of orange zest on top for a hit of refreshing citrus. The shrimp—now a beautiful bright red amidst roasted garlic and fennel—radiates steam. The soup itself is more of a sauce, hearty and thick and zesty.
Next is the coq au vin. She’s prepared a smaller batch in light of the fast serving time. It’s as traditional as they come, but Eden honestly can’t think of any way to make it ‘her rendition.’ She’s added a side of white rice and places a savory chicken thigh atop of the mound, broth soaking into each individual grain.
The mousse is a pain in the ass, but Eden doesn’t give up. As much as she loves to eat desserts, she has a hell of a time preparing them. Eden just doesn’t have the patience. Mousse itself takes forever to whip up to the right consistency, and considering the fact that she has a million other things to worry about, she can’t get it quite the way she likes. She tops it off with a healthy dose of whipped cream, sprinkling bits of hard chocolate overtop to cover up the fact that it isn’t the prettiest thing to look at.
Eden presents all three dishes to Sebastian and holds her breath, her guts tied up in impossible knots. Sebastian looks less than impressed as he picks up a fork.
“Where did you study, dear?” he asks, stabbing a shrimp with more ferocity than necessary.
“The Gagnon-Allard School of Culinary Arts, sir.”
“Just like you, my boy.” Sebastian pats Alexander on the arm. It’s hard for Eden to ignore how Alexander flinches away. “Who was your instructor? Wallace? Hilroy?”
