Chef's Table by Lynn Charles

Author:Lynn Charles [Charles, Lynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Interlude Press
Published: 2014-12-01T14:00:00+00:00

VI. Plat Principal, Deuxième Partie

The main course.

“Two out on osso. Perci, still waiting on that farro.”

Evan watched from his expediting station as Perci took the plate he had sent back and put on another spoonful of undercooked grain. As the next cook grabbed for the plate to finish it, Evan held up a hand to stop her and slipped a spoon into the edge of Perci’s plate, tasting the farro and shaking his head. “Are you fixing the error or just continuing to serve me the same unacceptable shit?”

“I added an extra minute, Chef. I prefer my farro to have a crunch.”

“You prefer?”

“Oooohhhhh. Look out.”

As if directed to do so, the kitchen full of cooks shouted in unison, “Shut it, Rosey!”

Rosey lifted his hands and disappeared into his cubby with a stack of hotel pans to wash, singing along to “Rock the Casbah” with his own special flair. “Drop the pasta, drop the pasta.”

Not only was this was the third plate of undercooked farro Evan had sent back to her, but twenty minutes into the rush, Perci had inexplicably swiped minced shallot from Theo’s mise—an act that, had Evan witnessed it rather than hearing the fallout after the fact, would have resulted in her being sent home on the spot.

You do not swipe someone else’s mise.

So, Evan was on edge again, a condition he honestly hadn’t found himself in since—well, since The Night of the Bloody Polenta Debacle. Because since that night, his focus had been on Patrick. On his heart and his soul and how amazing it felt to draw focus off of himself and onto someone else. How fulfilling it was to play and create in the kitchen with another cook. How intensely he could feel the words “I love you,” and know them to be true.

He hadn’t been looking for a relationship; he honestly hadn’t even wanted one. But the past few weeks proved that sometimes not having a goal allowed you to run into some pretty amazing things.

Unfortunately, focusing on Patrick and his lips and his ass and his hands and tongue and laugh and heart and—focusing on Patrick was not going to get this run back on track. And it most assuredly was not going to get Perci to suddenly hone in, pay attention and give a good goddamn.

He blindly grabbed orders as they came ticking in, moved plates as they hit the pass, talked to his kitchen and waitstaff in tandem and waited for Perci to finally acknowledge him after challenging his palate.

You not only do not swipe someone else’s mise, you also do not challenge the chef’s palate.

“Natasha! Table fifteen! Carlos, we have stuffed pepper, galletto, salmon. That’s pepper, chicken, two salmon, two rib-eye mid-rare, one medium rib-eye, one osso, all day. Where’s the sauce for my swordfish?”

Theo slid his plate to the pass, properly plated and sauced. “Selling sword.”

Evan stuck a thermometer into the fish, read it, pulled it out and called out again. “Come on, breast for this table, let’s move.”

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