Culinary Cock-Up
Julie Johnson
Contents
Introduction
SEASON
STIR
SIMMER
SERVE
Also by Julie Johnson
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 Julie Johnson
All Rights Reserved.
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No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.
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Cover Design by: One Click Covers
When two cocky chefs at rival New York City restaurants clash over a famous chicken dish, sparks fly and sexual tension simmers.
Can their relationship take the heat?
Or will they go down in flames?
PLEASE NOTE: This short story was previously published as part of the Cocktales Anthology.
“If you can't stand the heat,
get out of the kitchen.”
* * *
US President Harry S. Truman
SEASON
Ask any tourist on the street about the busiest spot in New York City, they’ll tell you the same thing: Times Square. They’re wrong, though. Anyone who actually lives in this cockamamie city knows there’s no place more chaotic or crowded than the chef’s kitchen at a five-star restaurant in Midtown Manhattan on a Friday night.
Especially if I, Emmeline Pryce, am the one in command.
“Izzie, I said mince the garlic, not crush it,” I yell to the girl working the veggie-station, rolling my eyes as I move down the line. “And you’ll need to redo those tomatoes entirely. By coarse chop I was not referring to whatever you’ve allowed your hairstylist to do to your bangs.”
“Yes, Chef. Sorry.”
The knife in her hands trembles as her tempo increases, resulting in a mess of lopsided garlic chunks. It takes every bit of my self control to resist the urge to go over there and do the task myself. But that would only reinforce the reputation I’ve built for being, quote-unquote, intolerable to work for and, on the rare occasion, making the employees cry in the broom closet halfway through their first shift.
Spare me.
It’s called a French Brigade kitchen for a reason.
Male chefs frequently get away with being tyrants — I’m looking at you, Shmordon Shmamsey— and no one makes a peep about it. Meanwhile, we females are expected to coddle and comfort our way to the top, soothing our staff into basic competence instead of scolding them for lacking it entirely. Thankfully, expectations matter about as much to me as the nutritional merits of a Taco Bell burrito.
I don’t care about the words coming out of people’s mouths; I’m far more concerned with the taste of the food they put into them when they visit my restaurant.
Don’t give me that aghast look.
I challenge you to find a single head chef on the planet who isn’t a total control freak — at least, when it comes to the operation of their kitchen. Cockiness is part of the job. And I’m not talking about my frequent handling of raw poultry.
“Next on deck?” I call to the new guy running the pass, impatience creeping into my tone as I watch him flip through incoming order tickets. He’s greener than the parsley that garnishes my critically-acclaimed duck confit.
“Um, we—” He looks up at me, cheeks stained red, and swallows hard. “We—”
“We don’t have all day.” My eyes narrow. “Spit it out or start sending applications to restaurants where it’s acceptable to serve food forty minutes after the order comes in.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
My brows lift all the way to the edge of my tall white hat. “Did you just call me ma’am?”
“Yes, Chef. I mean, no, Chef. Never again, Chef.”
His babbles taper off as I stalk over and grab the stack of orders from his grasp. “I’ll handle the tickets. You—” I eye him speculatively. He’s in his mid-twenties, only a year or so younger than me, but he looks like he’s never stepped foot in a kitchen before this moment. “Go garnish the plates. Help Izzie with the veggies, if you can stop shaking long enough to hold a knife. Perhaps between the two of you, someone will manage to correctly chop a clove of garlic.”
“Thank you, Chef. I appreciate the opportunity, Chef. I won’t let you down, Chef. I—”
“Enough.” I hold up a hand. “Flattery will get you nowhere, nor will sucking up. Hard work, however, may convince me to keep you on my staff. So, go. Show me you can take the heat. Otherwise…”
Get out of my kitchen.
He scurries away as my eyes drop to scan through the tickets. I rattle off a series of sharp commands — meat ragout, ratatouille, bouillabaisse, steak tartare — and everyone jolts into motion.
For the next few hours, my world is a whirl of carefully controlled chaos. Every burner on my custom gas range is occupied, spitting fire like a demon through the wrought-iron gates of hell as we simmer, season, and stir raw ingredients into culinary perfection. Plates vanish like clockwork off the pass, servers rushing back and forth as tables turn over and the night wanes on. All eight members of my kitchen staff, from the salad prepper to the sauté chef, somehow manage to maintain the breakneck pace — even the new guy, whose name I haven’t yet bothered to learn. (There’s little point; he’ll probably quit before his second shift rolls around.)
I’m everywhere at once, a five-foot-three blur in a starched white chef’s jacket, moving too fast for camera frames to catch me in focus: my hands in every dish, my tongue unleashing a razor-sharp torrent of critique.
Steve, this marinade tastes like your personality: utterly flavorless.
Izzie, for god’s sake, it’s a paring knife, not a machete.
Kevin, you’re a saint, keep doing exactly what you’re doing.
Cooking is art. A dance, perfectly choreographed. There’s a rhythm to each sweep of my spatula, a cadence to each dip of my ladle. I lose myself in the music of every dish, reveling in the freedom I only ever feel when I’m totally in control of all variables.
I’m checking the progress of the mussels steaming in a massive pot on the front burner when a throat clears at my back. I turn to find a blonde server standing there, shifting nervously from foot to foot. My eyes scan from her squeamish expression down to the plate gripped in her white-knuckled fingers. A portion of my world-famous coq au vin — tender chicken braised in a white wine sauce with provincial mushrooms —sits untouched at the center.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, frowning.
“The gentleman who ordered this…” She looks down, as if she’s afraid to hold my stare. “He sent it back.”
There’s a collective intake of air from everyone in the kitchen.
No one — no one — sends back my coq au vin. It simply does not happen.
“Did he say why?” I ask, feeling my pulse kick up a notch.
She squirms again.
“Tell me.”
Her eyes flash to mine, full of apprehension. “He said it was bland and…”
“And?”
“Unimaginative,” she murmurs with a grimace. Her voice is no louder than a whisper, but it rings through the kitchen like a gunshot.
My coq — my award-winning coq — unimaginat
ive?!
Impossible.
I shove my ego down as deep as I can manage, trying not to let the anger creep into my voice or onto my face. Everyone seems to hold their breath as I step forward and remove the plate from the server’s hands.
“I see,” I say carefully, trying to slow my racing pulse. “Please tell the gentleman in question I will endeavor to put more imagination into my next attempt.”
And I do.
I braise and season with meticulous precision. I take painstaking care with every step, going so far as to chop the damn carrots myself. When I finally pull the cast iron skillet from the oven, fragrant and still bubbling, a contented smile crosses my face as I examine the utter perfection that is my coq.
“If he doesn’t like this, there’s something seriously wrong with his taste buds,” I tell the server as I pass the warm dish into her trembling hands.
She nods and disappears into the ornate dining room.
Crisis averted, I return my attention to more important matters — micromanaging my staff until they meet the exacting standards I demand. The night is winding down, less than an hour left before closing time, but our pace only seems to pick up speed as a steady stream of patrons filter through the front doors. They are faceless strangers, distinguishable only by the orders they place.
Foie gras with poached pears.
Escargot with garlic-butter.
Gratin dauphinois with crème fraiche and gruyere.
I am a constant flurry of motion, a ceaseless storm of activity… until the sound of a familiar feminine throat clearing brings me to a standstill.
“Um. Chef Pryce?”
My jaw locks. My hand clenches around my whisk.
No.
Not again.
Passing off the roux to my sous chef, I turn stiffly to face the server. She’s hovering there with another goddamned dish in her hands. My dish. My perfect dish. The coq au vin looks totally undisturbed, as though he — whoever the hell he is — couldn’t be bothered to try more than the smallest of bites before sending it back.
For the second time.
I swallow down a scream.
“I’m sorry.” The waitress winces. “He told me to return this one as well.”
“What is it this time?” I practically growl, striding forward and snatching the plate away. “Let me guess — too imaginative?”
Her lips press into a line. She looks like she might cry.
“Just tell me,” I prompt impatiently.
“He said…”
My brows arch.
She swallows hard. “He said he’s tasted better chicken at KFC.”
Izzie’s gasp is audible from across the kitchen. Kevin drops the whisk to the floor with a clatter. Even the new guy, who knows me only by reputation, seems stunned by this grave revelation.
“He said what?” I hiss.
“That he’s tasted better—”
“I heard you the first time!” I set the plate down on a stainless prep table with a bang. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“Just a normal guy, as far as I can tell. Sandy hair. Blue eyes. Expensive suit. Sort of familiar looking, but I can’t quite place him. And he’s dining alone, which is a little weird… but otherwise he seems super nice.” Her cheeks flush. “I mean, besides him sending back the dish.”
“Twice,” I mutter.
“Right. Twice.” She blows out a breath. “What do you want me to tell him, Chef?”
Tell him to go stuff himself.
My teeth grit to contain the less-than-prudent words. “Give me fifteen minutes. I’m going to remake the damn dish. Again. And by the time I’m done, come hell or high water, it’s going to be the best damn coq he’s ever put in his mouth.”
A strangled sound of amusement comes from Kevin’s direction.
I turn my gaze to him. “What was that?”
“Nothing, Chef.” His lips are twitching. “I wouldn’t dare laugh about your coq.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn away and get to work.
I have a job to do.
Namely: making Mr. KFC eat his words along with every godforsaken bite I serve him.
STIR
Thirty minutes later, we’re putting finishing touches on the last round of orders before closing. I’m smiling as I call out commands, finally feeling like myself again. That rattled sensation I experienced earlier has all but faded… until it happens.
A door, swinging.
A throat, clearing.
A server, shifting.
The very world stops turning beneath my feet as I spin around to meet her apologetic stare. I don’t even bother looking down at the plate in her hands. I already know what I’ll see there: an untouched helping of my most-beloved recipe. The same recipe I slaved over for years in culinary school. The one I perfected in every spare moment I had, while working my way up the hierarchy of kitchen after kitchen as my twenties slipped away. The one that finally landed me this coveted position at Mistral at age twenty-eight, the youngest head chef in the city — at least, at any restaurant that merits a visit.
My coq au vin.
The French may’ve done it first, but I do it better.
It’s my brand.
My signature.
I should trademark the damn recipe — it’s that good.
I’m that good.
And yet…
The server looks like she would rather be anywhere on the planet except standing in front of me. I recognize her expression easily — it’s the same one my last three dates have worn when they dropped me off on my front doorstep without so much as a kiss goodbye or a promise to call.
That’s what happens when you spend the entire evening critiquing the meal instead of making conversation, Emmeline.
I hold my breath until she speaks.
“He said—”
“You know what?” I cut her off. “Invite Mr. KFC back here. Let him tell me himself.”
She blinks slowly, stunned by the proposition. In the year I’ve spent running this kitchen, I’ve never once invited a patron into my domain.
A general doesn’t allow civilians into a war-zone.
Then again, I’ve also never had anyone send back an exquisite dish three times in a single night.
Desperate times, desperate measures.
He’s in no rush, that much is clear. He makes me wait nearly twenty minutes before he deigns to appear. My pulse pounds a bit faster with each passing moment. I try to focus on my orderly checklist of closing tasks, but my mind whirls in a maelstrom of untempered indignation and wounded pride.
Bland.
Unimaginative.
KFC.
* * *
By the time the kitchen doors finally swing wide, announcing his presence, the burners are off, the ovens are cooling, and my staff has switched modes from stir-simmer-serve to scrub-scour-sanitize. Bracing myself, I set down my inventory clipboard and turn to meet the arrogant ass who’s made my night a living hell…
And promptly suck in a sharp breath.
Cock-a-doodle-do-not-lose-your-shit-Emmeline.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. Someone significantly older, maybe. Someone significantly less attractive, definitely. The man standing there is a certified stunner with a crop of thick blond hair and a set of piercing blue eyes. His tailored suit drapes his chiseled frame like it was made for him.
Normally, just the sight of a man like this would be enough to make my mouth water. Normally, seeing such a fine specimen of manhood, when it’s been eighteen months, two weeks, six days, and five hours — give or take a few minutes — since I last had sex with someone other than myself, would be enough to make me strip out of my chef’s jacket and hurl myself at him like a heat-seeking missile.
Normally.
But not tonight. Because, in addition to the fact that I hate this man on principle for insulting my cooking… I already hate him for an entirely different set of reasons. Namely, because I know him. I’ve known him for ten years, s
ince I was no more than an eighteen-year-old kid enrolled in her first-ever cooking class, who thought bouillabaisse was something you might find in The Kama Sutra, not the Joy of Cooking.
Emmett Fox.
Former culinary school nemesis at Le Cordon Bleu, current rival executive chef at La Folie — our biggest competitor in the city. I haven’t seen or spoken to him for eight years, but as soon as our eyes lock, I feel a long-simmering rage begin to bubble to the surface…
SIMMER
“Emmeline,” he purrs, lush lips twisting into a smirk. “It’s been too long.”
“You.” I nearly spit out the word. “I should’ve known.”
“Oh, come on. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
My scowl intensifies. “We aren’t friends.”
“You’re right, Ems. Back in school, you were always far too focused to make time for friendship.” His eyes gleam with amusement. “Guess some things never change.”
“Don’t pretend you know me,” I snap. “And don’t call me Ems.”
“Touchy, touchy.”
“You are aware there are several lethally sharp blades within my reach? Test me at your own peril, Fox.”
He grins as if he finds my rage utterly adorable. “Aren’t you even a little glad to see me?”
“No.”
“So bitter.” He pauses. “Rather like your homemade tomato sauce, if memory serves.”
A squawk of anger flies from my mouth. “My sauce is not bitter!”
“If you’d loosen up those apron strings a bit, it might help — with your demeanor, not the sauce.” He waggles his brows. “A pinch of sugar should do, for that.”
Culinary Cock-Up Page 1