The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel by Newmark Elle

Author:Newmark, Elle [Newmark, Elle]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2008-12-20T05:00:00+00:00

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The next day was an agony of ambivalence and waiting. I tended to my chores with my head down, wrestling with Marco’s idea, and the chef took my subdued demeanor as a sign that I’d learned my lesson from the previous day’s humiliation. I tried to catch his eye, hoping for a small smile, for some tiny hint of forgiveness. My anger had subsided and any gesture of kindness would have made me abandon Marco’s plan. What I really wanted was a chance to talk to him, to ask him why he’d treated me so harshly. But throughout that long day Chef Ferrero addressed me as “apprentice” or “boy.” He ordered me about the kitchen with dismissive waves and never met my eyes. His coldness made me angry all over again. Worse, it hurt, and it confirmed the belief that Marco was right and I was, indeed, on my own.

After everyone left for the night, I faced the moment of decision. I toyed with the wire in my pocket and stared at the chef’s cabinet. Once again I tried to postpone the act because this time I knew it would be nothing but straightforward stealing. I attended to my night duties slowly, with uncommon diligence, and the impending deed hung in the air like the odor of chicken blood. With the last chore completed, I stood in the middle of the room looking for one more task, but the clean orderly kitchen had no need of further attention.

I removed the copper sauté pan and laid it on the floor, then faced the cabinet door and stared at it. I wanted to turn around and go to bed. If I opened that door I would embark on a path that did not include the chef. I felt sad and sick. My breath quickened, and I fiddled with the wire. There was an uncomfortable fluttering in my chest. To steal from the chef was a betrayal, there was no other name for it. But hadn’t he made it clear that I would remain a slave? Hadn’t I been forced to kill and eviscerate twenty hens and do the work of a charwoman simply because I knew two of his secret ingredients? How much clearer could it be that he had no plans to promote me?

The familiar lock opened easily. I took a deep breath and pulled the door open, exposing the shelves of neatly arranged bottles and jars. As I reached for the first jar, a voice froze my hand in midair.

Behind me, the chef said, “Why, Luciano?”

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