He turned his head and kissed my palm, his perpetual weekend stubble scratching the sensitive skin in a way that nearly made me lose track of the conversation.
Almost.
“You’re an ass.”
“And you’re adorable.”
Seriously, if his hair weren’t so short, I’d be yanking it out in big, painful clumps right now.
“Eddie—”
Another kiss to my palm—another shiver on my part.
“Peyton, it’s nothing that can’t wait until after you’re done with your version of Kitchen Nightmares.”
I sighed, my mind immediately returning to the impending test. Impending doom. “I’m hoping it won’t be that bad.”
“From what you’ve said about this guy?”
Please, to be noting—said. I’d shown Eddie no pictures and I was hoping he wouldn’t get it in his head to Google Belizaire. While I still thought Claudia had maybe overexaggerated Eddie’s possible reaction, I really wasn’t hot to test the theory. I had too much else to deal with.
“Yeah, I know.” I slid my hand around to his neck and leaned my forehead against his. “This sucks.”
He tilted his head up just far enough to place a gentle kiss on my forehead. “I promise I’ll make it up to you,” he whispered.
A choked laugh escaped. “Shouldn’t that be my line?”
“Does it matter?” A single finger traced a line along my jaw and down my throat, the calloused pad of his finger pleasantly rough against my skin. “We’re in this together, Peyton. Right?”
I leaned back far enough to meet his gaze, seeing in it not only a rare seriousness, but an even more rare uncertainty, only strengthening my suspicion that something was up. But I knew him well enough by this point to know he wouldn’t tell me until he was good and ready.
Until then, I’d have to trust him—just as much as I could see he trusted me.
Eddie trusted me.
So few people, as evinced by my parents’ own behavior, ever had.
Seven
“Again.”
Not for the first time did I wonder how many years evisceration carried with it as punishment.
But I said nothing—at least not out loud—and merely grabbed another large onion, hacking viciously at the ends and slicing through the first layer of skin with a deft, sure stroke.
Check that—I had to say something.
“What was wrong this time?”
Chef Kai looked up from where he was in discussion with the produce wholesaler, his pale, critical gaze flickering over the small mountain of sliced Vidalias in front of me. “Not thin enough,” he said, his voice colored with the lilting accent that was equal parts Hawaiian and French.
“Can practically read the damned newsprint through these,” I muttered as I cut the onion in half and began rapidly slicing thin, uniform slices of the “acceptable substitutes” for the Mauis he was having flown in to use in the actual dishes come Saturday night. To think, Claudia had mocked my obsessive watching of Julia Child’s The French Chef videos—along with more than a few viewings of Julie & Julia. Maybe I hadn’t had a formal class...yet—but it didn’t mean I was utterly lacking in instruction. No, French cuisine wasn’t Cuban, but Julia had used classic techniques to cook for real people. That was the secret.
“You shouldn’t have time to read the newspaper with all you need to accomplish before Saturday.”
I jumped, narrowly missing slicing my thumb. Swear to God, the man had ears like a bat and could move with the stealth of a fox through a henhouse and could I come up with any more hoary clichés?
“Do you mind?” I grumbled irritably as I resumed slicing onions.
“It’s my kitchen. Of course I mind.”
“Technically, not your kitchen,” I shot back because seriously, after less than forty-eight hours, I was already so over Mr. High-and-Mighty Cranky Bad-Ass French Chef Kai Belizaire.
A typically French noise, low in his throat, was his only response. I probably should have been worried, but honestly? I just didn’t care.
Done, I used the blade of my knife to shove the mound of onions to the side of the giant butcher-block island where I worked and automatically reached for another. I ignored the ache in my palms and fingers and the telltale chafing that signaled a blister would be developing if I wasn’t careful.
Yesterday had been proving I could julienne and brunoise and chiffonade. Hours of proving I could julienne and brunoise and chiffonade with a modicum of skill. Grudgingly—and only after more than a few sharp “agains,” and grumbling insults in French I don’t think he realized I could understand or, more likely, didn’t care—he’d finally admitted I could manage those basics that any primary-schooler in France could. This morning, we’d moved on to slicing onions to his exacting standards.
Clearly, my role for this week would be on the line as a prep chef—fairly low on the totem pole and a role I was more than okay with. The rest of his team, including his sous-chef for the event, would be arriving from New York Wednesday night and spending Thursday getting acquainted with the expansive and thankfully well-equipped kitchen of the Boston Esplanade Yacht and Rowing Club—longtime hangout for generations of Chaffees and the setting for Saturday night’s festivities.
Or as I called it, the Day of the Prom That Wouldn’t Be.
The upside—sort of—was because I’d been excused from school for the week to participate in this asinine farce, I wasn’t around to see Claudia in her pre-prom frenzy, packing and exchanging texts and hushed, giddy phone calls with David.
For as much as I never imagined I’d ever want to attend a prom, I was beyond disappointed to be missing it. I wanted a wrist corsage and to slow dance to some incredibly sappy song. I wanted to attend the after-party organized by the parents so we didn’t get into too much trouble before moving on to the hotel suite the boys had reserved weeks ago. I wanted to spend the night with Eddie and watch the sun rise over the Atlantic and know that as much as prom was meant to signify a bittersweet ending, for us, it was all about beginnings.
I was aware, however, as excited as Claudia was, she was also feeling massively guilty about getting to experience all of that while I was stuck in a kitchen, undergoing a bunch of arbitrary tests designed to make me fail.
But how miserable are you, really?
Shut up. I am. This “test” is bullshit and you know it. And I miss Eddie.
He understands. And admit it, you’re enjoying this “test” more than you thought you would.
Seriously, shut up.
Hard, bronze fingers curled around my wrist before I could lay waste to yet another defenseless onion.
“Wait.” He kept my hand pinned to the cutting board as with his free hand he selected a slice of the most recent onion I’d decimated. Holding it up to the light, he examined it with a critical stare. So paper-thin and translucent, I could practically see his fingerprints on the other side, I nevertheless waited for yet another scathing critique.
My favorite so far? “You call this julienne? Lightning striking a tree produces more uniform cuts. Again!” Followed by more than a few colorful epithets in English and French for good measure. And that had been one of the nicer responses.
Turning the slice of onion to and fro, he nodded slowly, met my gaze, smiled and said, “Again.”
And again, I wondered how many years evisceration would net me in the pen. Hey, I could always get a job in the prison kitchens. But then again, as Claudia reminded me last night when I was bitching to her on the phone, “Prison orange would so not be a good color for you, Peyton.”
I swallowed a sigh—that particular response had garnered me another tongue lashing and a screaming invitation to leave if I found it all too tedious—and tried to pry my wrist free so I could reach for another onion. Bef
ore I could, however, his fingers tightened around my wrist.
“Oh, and make no mistake—so long as I am in charge, it is my kitchen. No matter what your name is or who your parents are.”
Furious, I lifted my head and met his challenging gaze, clearly reading in the pale green depths his absolute awareness that he held my fate in his hands. In that moment, I didn’t care how highly lauded a chef he was—far as I was concerned, he was nothing more than a toadying son-of-a-bitch bastard, selling out to the highest bidder.
It was entirely likely my fate was already sealed—in fact, entirely certain—but again, I was damned if I was going down without a fight. In this case, however, graceful retreat was the most effective form of battle.
“Of course, Chef.” Very gently, I pulled my hand free and reached for another onion.
For another hour I sliced onions, falling into an almost hypnotic rhythm, able to ignore the burning in my shoulders and the aches in my palms and fingers. As I worked, I vaguely noted the smell of olive oil heating up, followed closely by the unmistakable pop and sizzle of food meeting hot oil.
Done with the final onion in my pile, I lifted my head and wiped away the bead of sweat that had escaped the kerchief tied around my head. As my little personal bubble gradually expanded and burst, I noted the additional smells filling the kitchen—carrots, celery, the onions I’d been so diligently slicing marrying with the distinctive aroma of roast pork. However, rather than scented with sour orange and cumin, in typically Cuban preparation, there was instead a sweet, almost molasses-like aroma wafting through the kitchen along with a different sweetness—cinnamon and something...licorice-like. Anise. Yeah, that was it.
The one commonality I could perceive between a Cuban-style preparation and whatever he was making was garlic.
Lots and lots of garlic.
“How are you with sectioning chicken?”
One of the most basic lessons of cooking and one of the first I’d practiced. Ironically with help from a video tutorial taught by none other than Gordon Ramsay.
“Pretty good,” I said with what I hoped sounded like confidence.
A heavy, dark brown eyebrow, bisected by a thin scar, rose. Like he could hear every ounce of terrified bullshit in my voice. “Fine. Try not to make them look like a pack of wolves attacked.”
Through gritted teeth I muttered, “Yes, Chef,” as I eyed the pile of chicken carcasses—at least two dozen. With a silent apology to my poor, abused palms, I pulled the sharpening steel from my case, gave my already-sharp chef’s knife a quick honing and set to work.
After the first one, the lessons came flooding back and like with the onions, I fell into a rhythm. Pull out the drum, cut a slit in the skin at the thigh, cut through the joint, separate the drum from the thigh. Repeat on the opposite side, move to the wings, cut them away, then separate the breasts from the remainder of the carcass. Save all the remnants for stock because nothing needed to be laid to waste.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
From the edges of my peripheral vision I could see Chef Kai deftly measuring two different types of flour, combining them, then adding water in increments, testing the consistency of the dough after each addition. By the time I finished the final chicken, he was in a rhythm of his own, kneading the dough with powerful strokes that flexed the muscles and tendons in his forearms. His biceps strained the sleeves of his faded Green Day T-shirt, making his tattoos ripple like tribal warriors performing an intricate war dance.
Fascinated, I watched him roll the dough out with a long wooden pin, then use it to fold the dough over several times into a rectangle. Taking a wicked-looking steel blade, he trimmed the edges, then with a carved wooden board as his guide, used the same blade to cut uniform strips of dough. Every twenty strokes or so, he’d pause, separate the noodles and dust them with a bit more flour.
“Soba noodles,” he said without looking up.
I didn’t say anything because honestly, there didn’t seem anything I could say that wouldn’t leave me sounding like a monumental idiot. I continued silently watching even as I cleaned my knives and work station and washed my hands, wincing as the hot water hit the tender skin of my palms.
“Learned from a Gordon Ramsay video, did you?”
I glanced up from sliding my chef’s knife into its slot in the soft leather case to find him studying my efforts. Again, I wasn’t sure how to answer—for all I knew, he hated Ramsay. Thought he was a hack, which left me feeling oddly defensive. Terrifying as the man was in his reality-show persona, in the demonstration videos I’d discovered on YouTube, he was remarkably affable and a clear, concise instructor with an obvious love for his craft.
You know, screw it.
“Yes, Chef.” After a pause, I asked, “How did you know?”
He lifted one of the carcasses. “You cut through the wishbone. One of his favorite techniques.”
I shrugged. “Made sense the way he explained it.”
“It does.” He studied the rest of the chicken parts, arranged by meat color. “Well, at least the homeless won’t mind,” he muttered, lifting a drumstick, neatly trimmed, the knuckle cut away to ensure even cooking.
I breathed deep—in through the nose, out through the mouth, for once grateful for the yoga classes Claudia had dragged me to. “Homeless?” I finally asked and was proud when my voice didn’t shake.
“You didn’t think we were going to let this food go to waste, did you?”
No, I had no idea what the hell he had expected to do with the food he’d made me chop, slice, julienne, brunoise and chiffonade. For all I knew, he intended it as rabbit food for the little beasts he’d then turn into a nice, tender lapin à la cocotte.
He turned to one of the two enormous professional-grade gas ranges that dominated a wall of the spacious kitchen. “We’ll use the stock I made last night. Bag the carcasses you sectioned and put them in the walk-in—we’ll use them tomorrow to make more for the weekend.”
With a nod, I followed his instructions and returned in time to see him pulling a pork loin from the oven, deep reddish-burgundy in color. Its mouthwatering aroma wafted through the kitchen and reminded me I hadn’t had so much as a spinach leaf since my coffee and croissant this morning. But I instinctively knew better than to go poking around his kitchen for something with which to satisfy the munchies. Not without permission at any rate. And I wasn’t about to interrupt him to ask. Food would simply have to wait until I got back to Beacon Hill tonight.
I sighed and gazed longingly at the pork he’d set aside to rest, before returning my attention to where he stood at the range searing chicken and humming under his breath in a surprisingly melodic voice. Honestly, I might as well have been one of the recently dissected chicken carcasses for all the attention he paid me.
Check that—he paid the chicken carcasses more attention.
Soothing as the kitchen sounds—and lack of his bitching at me were—my natural curiosity couldn’t help but rear its head. At the very possible risk of incurring his wrath I finally asked, “What are you making?”
The humming stopped. “Wondered when you’d get around to asking.”
“I wasn’t aware questions were permitted.”
“Don’t be an ass. Questions are always permitted. I’d rather have a question than have you fuck up.” That same scarred eyebrow rose, nearly disappearing beneath the bandanna he had tied around his forehead. “Of course, it would be vastly preferable if you were well-trained enough to not have too many questions.”
And he was calling me an ass?
Ass.
“Look, this wasn’t my idea, you know.”
“I know.”
But nothing more. Just a resumption of that humming as he lifted a huge container of clear golden stock and poured it into the pot. With a jerk of his head, he said, “Cut the pork. Quart
er-inch-thick rounds, then cubed.”
As if on cue, my palms ached, but I told them to shut up as I did as requested.
“Try it.”
I paused, my blade hovering over a tender slice of the pork.
He huffed out an impatient breath. “How can you know if it’s prepared the way you want if you don’t try?”
His warning about questions still ringing in my ears, I ventured, “How is it supposed to be prepared?”
“Should have a sweet, smoky flavor, good balance with the spices between savory and sweet. Make sure you taste the glaze.”
I cut a long strip off the edge of the slice in front of me and cut it again in half, putting the second piece in his outstretched hand.
Oh, dear God.
I chewed slowly, in hopes of not diving in and gnawing on the entire loin like a rabid dog.
“What do you taste?”
I tried to weigh all the tastes lingering on my palate. “Light smoke, fruity sweetness, warm spices...cinnamon and anise, yeah?”
He inclined his head. “That’s the Chinese five-spice—and the smoke actually came from a smoked sea salt that I used in the rub. Works in a pinch if you lack the time or equipment with which to actually smoke.” He turned back to the pot. “The dish is called char siu—barbecued Chinese pork. A staple in the saimin.”
I resumed cutting the pork and resisted the temptation to shove another piece in my mouth. “Saimin?”
“Hawaiian soup.” He looked up briefly from the sausage he was slicing into neat disks. “Technically, this should be SPAM.”
“SPAM?”
“It’s considered a Hawaiian delicacy, man.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
For the first time since we’d been introduced, a grin—an honest-to-God, teeth-and-all grin—crossed his face, softening the stern lines and also for the first time, revealing his true age.
Prom Ever After Page 13