I also have my amazing dish on the other side of the large silver tray. Naturally, I have a starched white napkin over my arm.
Grumpy is sitting in a black suit today, reading a newspaper in the sun. We avoid each other’s eyes, and I leave the food in silence.
It is odd, considering what we’ve been through, but I force myself to rise to the occasion and contain my actions.
Ten minutes later, a small bell rings. I figure it’s for me, so I walk out to serve my wicked master.
“Thank you, the poached eggs were good.”
I pause; he has not touched the other dish. He flicks the newspaper as if he is going to read on, and the conversation is over.
“You did not try the other,” I note stupidly.
“No, thank you. I know what I like and need.”
I go to take it away, but I pause. Even if I know I should keep my mouth shut, I can’t. I can’t because I have no discipline.
“Does the master not like trying new things in life?”
Grumpy lowers his paper, but he raises a brow, intrigued. “The master is not fixed in his ways; he just has systems.”
I mess up big time because I snort. The master then huffs and shakes his head. “Okay then, I’ll try it. Just to prove my point!”
I cross my arms and watch the cold bastard below me. I am intrigued.
Grumpy takes a classy silver fork and looks up at me. I laser-eye him while wearing my black rock and roll T-shirt, black jeans with ripped knees, and my white Converse.
Grumpy takes some of the salmon, a little of both sauces, plus some of the cheese. He places it in his mouth as if bored and clearly not expecting anything.
I watch his face change fast. As a chef, I’ve watched people’s faces try dishes around the world. I have seen over a thousand dishes tested on people.
First, the edge of an eye twitches. I then see his cheek budgeout ever so slightly. That means his tongue is swirling around the flavor. And bam, there it is. His taste buds are ignited, and saliva flows.
Grumpy’s eyes then close!
He opens them, looking back at me. Our eyes meet, and I go to take his fork. He whips it away. “Thank you, but I’ve not finished.”
Smiling wickedly, I take the used poached egg dish. I then feel his eyes on me as I walk away.
Ten minutes later, as I am cleaning up, the annoying bell rings again. As I walk back in, Grumpy shakes the newspaper closed. “That was rather good, Chef. Does it have a name?”
“Not yet, it is custom.”
Grumpy stares at me. He doesn’t like it. “So, let me get this right. No one else can deliver it if I, say, want it again?”
“That’s right,” I say, hands on my hips but not pushing it too far.
We stare each other out, then he quickly stands, ending up inches from my lips. “Well, I’d like it again tomorrow.”
“As you wish,” I say, smirking.
As the grump is halfway towards the door, he turns. “Oh, one last thing.”
“Yes?”
“You are expected to wear a uniform.”
“You are kidding, right?”
