Taste on my Tongue

by Beth Bolden

  “If it’s perfectly executed it shouldn’t matter,” Quentin says confidently, but that isn’t really an answer and Landon knows it. He knows Quentin well enough at this point to know all the things he leaves unsaid. They twist the tension in his stomach tighter, and Landon is suddenly glad he didn’t eat before filming.

  Thirty minutes passes by quickly but not so quickly that they don’t have the time to take the right amount of care with their dish. It’s as perfect as they can make it.

  Quentin is precise in a way that Landon hasn’t ever witnessed before. He’s focused and there’s much less time for flirting or small talk, though they do discuss the dish and what Landon can do to help. He grates parmesan cheese, finds the right serving vessel, brushes the baguette slices with olive oil and is then put on broiler duty as they toast.

  “Just until they’re golden brown,” Quentin warns for the fiftieth time.

  “I know, I know,” Landon complains as he carefully slides them out of the oven. They look flawless, and he begins to get more excited. Is it possible they might win a second week in a row?

  He glances down the line. Nora and Rory are making a hearty seafood chowder. Rory is grilling oysters, bending over the flames as he watches them diligently. Reed and Diego have embarked on cooking an entire fish, stuffed with fennel and citrus.

  Will their simple pasta be enough to carry the day? Landon hopes, but he can’t help but be nervous as Quentin sprinkles parsley over their plated dish. Alexis counts down and suddenly Zach is back with the other judges, sans costume.

  Landon feels his heart beat a bit faster as the trio of judges start with Rory and Kimber’s oysters, which he describes as a modern take on Oysters Rockefeller.

  “These are delicious,” Simone observes. “Really delicious, in fact.”

  “They are good,” Jasper agrees, his brow wrinkling. “But with only a few more weeks in the competition left, I’d expect something a little more elaborate.”

  Landon’s heart sinks a bit more. Elaborate? When Rory has roasted vegetables as a side as well as a parsnip puree? How will the judges take their own simple pasta dish?

  When the judges move on to Diego and Reed, Zach speaks up for the first time and he effuses over their branzino. “Beautiful and ambitious,” he says. “Very tender fish, perfectly cooked and seasoned.”

  When the judges move on from Diego and Reed, they give each other a high five and Landon can’t help but wonder if they’re really the pair to beat.

  Oliver and Nora are next up and they present the steaming bowls of broth and seafood as a cross between cioppino and a traditional seafood stew.

  However, it becomes clear very quickly that something has gone wrong. “These vegetables,” Jasper says with a wrinkle of annoyance, “they’re very unevenly cut. Almost a bit too rustic for my tastes.”

  “Definitely too rustic for me. And unevenly cooked as a result,” Zach adds. “I just got a bite of raw onion.”

  “I’d also like to see a bit more flavor developed,” Simone points out. “Though for only a thirty-minute cooking time, it’s amazing what you did get into the broth. It’s pretty good.”

  Finally, it’s Landon and Quentin’s turn to be judged. Landon feels like they have a very strong chance of at least moving on to next week and a good shot at potentially second place or maybe even first.

  The judges dig into their bowls of pasta with gusto, Zach immediately digging for the chunks of lobster that Quentin tucked into the strands of spaghetti.

  “Delicious,” Zach pronounces and Quentin’s smile is so bright it could light the soundstage. Landon is unbearably proud. His boy is so damn good at what he does.

  “Really beautifully cooked. Great flavor. Love the herbs and the lemon. It’s a simple dish but it’s a damn good one. I can’t find a flaw.”

  “I’d say texture,” Jasper objects. “It’s all a little one note to me. But the garlic rubbed crostini does help a bit.”

  “Gives it a good crunch when you need one,” Simone agrees.

  The result is that when judging happens, Landon is feeling more relaxed than he ever has, facing Alexis.

  “Overall great food this week,” she says. “You should all be proud of what you’ve accomplished, making it to the final four. But I can only take three teams to the semi-final. And unfortunately, the team going home will be . . . Oliver Glines and Nora Hsu.”

  Oliver looks chagrined but not surprised. Landon isn’t either. The box cutter was truly their downfall—though as Quentin said, maybe if they had adjusted their strategy, it might not have been enough to send them home.

  “Our third-place team, with a place in the semi-final, is Rory and Kimber.”

  Everyone claps politely and Rory looks less than pleased, for the first time in Landon’s memory. He was probably hoping he would get a better placement and therefore more money to use in the semi-final and final rounds.

  Landon reaches out for Quentin’s hand as Alexis announces the second-place team. “And in second, Diego and Reed with a beautifully executed branzino. Really impressive in the time you had,” Alexis says.

  Landon doesn’t get it for a moment then it hits them. Alexis didn’t say their name. That means . . . that means . . . they won. Again.

  Quentin’s throwing his arms around Landon as Alexis repeats their names, a bit of a smug edge to her voice. Landon doesn’t like to think these things are pre-determined, that maybe they’d have had a shot even without the interview and suddenly becoming a food world sensation, but he’s certain that it doesn’t hurt.

  “We did it,” Quentin whispers into Landon’s ear. “We’re almost there.”

  Landon hugs him back just as tightly. He no longer wonders if these shots will make the final edits. He knows. But it’s okay. He’s made his peace with how this has turned out. As long as Quentin gets his bakery, he’s good.

  Better than good, really.

  Quentin is in the kitchen, doing more recipe testing, when Landon comes bursting in, excited about the idea that just popped into his head.

  “We should be matchmaking!” Landon announces as he plops down on one of Quentin’s bar stools. Quentin hums and wanders over, hands floury. He brushes a quick hello kiss across Landon’s lips, keeping it short and sweet to avoid dusting Landon with any more flour than is absolutely necessary.

  Quentin raises an eyebrow as Landon’s words sink in. “We should be matchmaking?” he asks dubiously.

  “Rory!” Landon exclaims. “And Kimber!”

  Quentin’s dubious expression grows. “So you’re saying we should give one of our only advantages to one of the two groups of competitors that are left?”

  Landon frowns. He didn’t think of that. He’s just been sitting in the studio all day, unsuccessfully trying to develop a hook for one of the new tracks he and Julian are working on, and all he could think of was how sweet Kimber was in the green room and how much Rory clearly likes her.

  And if Landon has managed to get everything he wants, then surely some other people should be able to benefit too. It’s only fair.

  “What about this?” Quentin asks, leaning against the counter. “There was a space I liked so much today that Caleb thinks I should borrow it for an afternoon and see how I like it. It’s got a kitchen in it already. Why don’t we have ourselves a little double date?”

  “You found something you liked today?” Landon asks excitedly.

  “It’s definitely a front-runner. Great big space, beautiful light, a courtyard and a garden, but with a homey feel. The kitchen needs revamping but there’s something to start with, instead of having to build from scratch . . .”

  Landon feels a smile bloom on his face, and there’s no way he could even dream of holding it back, not when Quentin is so lost in his plans and the world of his new bakery, excitement ripe in his voice. It’s the way Landon feels every time he and Julian submerge themselves into a new song.

  “I can’t wait to see it,” Landon says and he reaches over, pulling
Quentin to him, never mind the flour. This is a big occasion. Quentin might’ve found his bakery today. And Landon, who’s been giving him plenty of space on this, didn’t mess it up.

  Quentin’s eyes are shining. “I can’t wait for you to see it. The more I’ve thought about it this afternoon, the more I want it to be the location.” His brow furrows. “I hope it works out.”

  Landon smooths a reassuring hand down Quentin’s back. He, usually a neat baker, has managed to get flour not just on his front, but all over his back too. Landon is hopelessly endeared. He wants Quentin to smudge him with flour forever.

  And well.

  That’s a thought.

  Landon’s brain stumbles at first then keeps going. It does make sense. He’s in love with Quentin. Why wouldn’t he want to spend the rest of his life with him? He doesn’t have to take the steps now to make that happen, but there’s nothing wrong with thinking it every once in a while.

  “It’ll work out,” Landon promises. “If it’s right, it’s gonna work out.”

  Quentin leans his head on Landon’s shoulder. “It’s a lot to take in,” he finally admits quietly.

  “Then maybe we should do what you suggested, make a night of it, hone our matchmaking skills a bit. I know mine are rusty.”

  Quentin raises his head and shoots him an incredulous look. “You tried to matchmake the mailman and your neighbor across the way just last week!”

  “That was amateur hour,” Landon sniffs. “Rory and Kimber deserve my finest work.” He pauses. “And your finest work too.”

  “Does that mean we’re on?” Quentin asks. “Should I call Caleb and make some arrangements?”

  “Tell Rory he’s responsible for at least asking her himself.” Landon sniffs again. “No shirking.”

  “So if the point is to test out the kitchen, we should really make our own dinner.”

  Landon makes a face, but it’s not a bad idea. Sadly, he’s reluctantly come around to the idea of cooking lately, but it’s never going to be his first choice. And why would it be, if he has such a brilliant cook for a husband?

  Landon freezes, even though he didn’t even say the word out loud.

  Husband.

  The word reverberates inside his head like bass in an underground club. In an instant, he can see it: Quentin in their kitchen with their kids, baking sugar cookies, and decorating them with a mess of pink and purple icing. There’s glitter in his hair, but he’s laughing like he can’t stop. And Landon is there, and there’s an impromptu singalong, everyone grooving in their stocking feet to Landon’s latest album.

  And the only word Landon can come up with to describe it is right.

  It feels right.

  It’s magical and staggering, to realize your life is laid out in front of you and you suddenly know exactly what you hope it’ll look like. And who you hope to share it with.

  “Landon?”

  Landon comes back to reality with Quentin repeating the name with amusement as he returns back to his mixing bowl.

  “What are you making?” Landon asks stupidly, even as he thinks sugar cookies. With pink and purple icing. And you’ve got glitter in your hair.

  Quentin smiles back at him. “Apricot tarts with an almond macaron shell,” he says, and Landon lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

  “Sounds fancy.”

  He’s both relieved and disappointed they’re nothing like the big clunky sugar cutouts that he was envisioning in his dream. It’s wonderful to know what he wants, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready. He hasn’t even managed to tell Quentin he’s in love with him yet. An important first step that he still needs to take. At some point.

  They’re good together, but the fight last week proves they aren’t perfect.

  “It is, but it isn’t, if you get my drift,” Quentin explains as he carefully dusts almond flour into the bowl. “The hearty filling of the apricots, and the gentle, delicate shell, traditional and French. A beautiful juxtaposition.”

  Landon laughs and leans back against the counter. He loves to watch Quentin in the kitchen, his arm muscles straining against the sleeve of his t-shirt as he whips the egg whites by hand, moving terrifyingly fast and with such confidence it takes Landon’s breath away. He’s never been that confident a day in his life. He has to let the songs he and Julian write grow on him, needs to talk himself into knowing they’re good. But Quentin always knows. If he adds sugar and butter to flour, he knows what he’ll get, every single time, and it never fails to be delicious.

  There’s a beautiful certainty to Quentin that Landon loves. And really, Landon could rant and rave about that all day, but he’d sound like a lunatic. So he keeps it simple instead. “Juxtaposition?” he teases. “And here I thought you were a simple purveyor of baked goods.”

  “Food is most extraordinary at the intersection of opposites,” Quentin tutors. “Sweet and sour. Hot and cold. Bitter and sweet.”

  “Like dark chocolate,” Landon says.

  “Or like those sour peach gummies rolled in sugar that I know you hide and eat by the bagful,” Quentin teases back.

  Landon blushes. “Like those.”

  “You always want different flavors, different textures. People don’t want to be bored when they eat. They want to be surprised, even when they claim they don’t.”

  Over the last week, Quentin has been imparting these tidbits of food philosophy to Landon, as if he has some inkling of what is to befall them in the next two weeks of Kitchen Wars filming. And Quentin’s probably not wrong. At some point, Landon will have to stand on his own, without Quentin holding him up.

  He’s not sure he’s ever really going to be ready for that, but Quentin’s going to make sure he’s properly armed when it’s just him and the stove.

  “Did you finally figure out the savory pastries?” Landon asks. “This is the first sweet you’ve made in a while.”

  “Put the finishing touches on the chicken and tarragon puff this afternoon,” Quentin says as he carefully pipes out tartlet shells onto the parchment paper-covered baking tray. “And it felt like the right time to start something sweet.”

  Landon bats his eyelashes and Quentin giggles, bubbles escaping from his pastry bag. He makes a face at the ruined shape and scoops the batter back into the bag, one quick movement after another, so he can start over. “Yes, you’re definitely sweet enough.”

  “What’s for dinner then?” Landon asks.

  Quentin’s piping out the almond tart shells now, his concentration locked in and so Landon wanders over to the takeout drawer and starts debating between curry and kung pao.

  Quentin doesn’t emerge from his zone until he carefully slides the tartlet shells into the oven. He rises, stretching his back. “Sorry,” he says, “didn’t want the egg whites to fall.”

  “It’s okay.” Landon waves a hand absently. “I was just trying to decide on dinner.”

  “I could whip something up,” Quentin says, because of course he can. But he sounds tired, there’s the edge of it in his voice. He’s been cooking for most of the day. He could probably use a break.

  “Nah.” Landon smiles over at him. “Let’s get takeout. Maybe watch a movie.”

  “Maybe pizza?” Quentin wonders as he wanders over to examine the menus over Landon’s shoulder.

  Quentin’s arms wrap around Landon’s body, coasting down his chest, and resting perilously close to the zip of his jeans. Landon feels himself go a bit breathless. He keeps expecting this to start feeling normal or routine, but it never does. His blood still, always, heats like it’s the very first time Quentin put his hands on him. He’s beginning to think maybe this feeling is endless.

  “So what do you think?” Quentin asks, as they walk into the cavernous space, loaded with grocery bags.

  Landon is still trying to get his bearings. The outside of the space is not much to look at—it’s rather narrow and dark and unassuming, actually—but once you step inside, the entry widens into this great hall of a
room, with soaring ceilings and god, the light coming from the enormous skylights. It’s like they’re filtering in the best of the California sun into this room. There’s a counter installed along the side, long and topped with a slab of incredible natural wood, buffed to a high gloss finish. The glass cases look like they’ve been removed along with all the tables and chairs in the room. There’s just that incredible counter and a huge expanse of hardwood floor.

  “It’s so empty, I know,” Quentin continues, before Landon can even get his breath back to answer. “The previous renters took most everything with them, anything they could really, though thank god they couldn’t seem to move the counter. And of course, most of the kitchen equipment. I’ll have to go through what’s left and see if any is even worth salvaging.”

  Landon knows how bright his smile is when he turns to Quentin. “It’s perfect though. Empty or full, really.”

  Quentin sets his bags down gently on the counter and gazes around. “It is. The light is spectacular. And,” he continues, clearly enthusiastic about the possibilities, “there’s enough room that if I wanted to expand to a full breakfast or lunch menu, it’s got the space.”

  Landon would be daunted by the logistics and work required to put this kind of operation together from scratch, but Quentin isn’t even the tiniest bit. He’s buoyant with happy enthusiasm, his nerves from earlier seemingly gone.

  “You want to see the kitchen?” Quentin asks.

  “I’m the worst possible judge of a kitchen,” Landon laughs. “You know I never used mine before I met you.”

  “A regular Carrie Bradshaw you were, darling,” Quentin says with an indulgent smile and a squeeze of Landon’s bicep as they walk behind the counter and through the doorway to the kitchen. “Practically kept your sweaters in the oven.”

  It’s all stainless steel, gleaming and spotless. Quentin said Caleb had sent a cleaning crew in preparation for tonight, and they did a great job because Landon thinks the floor looks cleaner than any of the surfaces in his apartment.

  There’s a lot of big equipment, some of it more worn than others, and Quentin goes around pointing out the huge ovens and the mixers and the stoves.