Page 12 of Stolen Dreams

The night I filmed the fancy romantic meal video, I elected to make it literal food porn. From how I ran my finger through the splayed spine of the shrimp to the way I rapidly flicked my fingers through the melted chocolate for the cake.

Food. Porn.

The viewers wanted more. So, I gave it to them. It’s been a whirlwind since.

Arms loaded with ingredients, I amble out of the walk-in and set everything on the prep station counter. Heading for the back room by the office, I unbutton my chef coat, toss it in the dirty hamper, and swap my work shirt for a fresh, white T-shirt that fits like a second skin.

Fin is waiting when I return to the kitchen, his hip against the counter as he scrolls through his phone.

“Thanks for another great night, man,” I say as I sort the ingredients in order of when I need them.

He locks his phone and stows it in his back pocket. “Tonight was fire. How many plates went out?”

Calhoun’s Bistro is more of an experience than the average restaurant. With fifty-four seats in the dining room and our doors open for six hours in the evening, it’s rare for us to fill tables twice Monday through Wednesday. Thursdays are hit or miss. And the private rooms seldomly book during the week.

Weekends are a different story. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday reservations are fully booked three months in advance and further out for holidays. Private rooms are reserved as far out as six months to a year, but we keep one off the reservation list and available in case a large party calls in. The only exception we make on the weekend is for the Seven or close friends with my grandfather, Ray Calhoun Sr., or his business partner, Roger Kemp. If a founding family calls and asks for a table last minute, we do our best to squeeze them in.

“Sixty-three,” I answer with pride. “A damn good night.”

“At one point, I checked my phone to see what day it was.” Fin laughs. “Tonight felt more like Thursday than Tuesday.”

“Agreed.”

Fin surveys the ingredients on the counter. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

Tuna, salmon, chicken, shrimp, precooked sushi rice, vegetables, sake, and wonton wrappers are spread across the counter. I still need to grab ingredients for the sauce and tempura batter.

“Bento box, Tré style.” I use the nickname many call me when my dad or grandfather are present. Mom tried to make my middle namecutewhen I was young, but I vetoed Georgie as my sobriquet before age ten.

Fin hums as his eyes roam the ingredients again. “Love it.”

After I collect the remaining ingredients, I hand Fin my phone.

Not long after he started here, Fin asked to join me when I film. Sounded fun, so I agreed. After a couple videos, he learned being in front of the camera wasn’t for him. Still wanting to be involved, he offered to help record. Not only did it make the process more entertaining, it also cut recording time in half.

The next hour and a half flies by as I slice sashimi, roll sushi, fry tempura, steam dumplings, and grill chicken. Every move I make is planned. Intentional. The way I trail my fingers over the meat and between the slices. How I dip my first and middle fingers in the batter and flick them rapidly back and forth. How I dunk my middle finger in the teriyaki sauce then glide it over my tongue.

The raunchier I make the videos, the better.

Lucky for me, Chef Beaulieu encourages my social media presence.“We’ve seen a boom in business since you joined us,”he told me during my ninety-day evaluation. A month later, he created his own account and started sharing his own passion for food—chocolate and pastry. A literal chocolatier and master in the kitchen, his following surpassed mine in a matter of days.

Oftentimes, he attests the restaurant’s success to my provocative videos. But I wave off the notion and tell him it’susand our team who are responsible for the growth at Calhoun’s Bistro.

Once we get a shot of the completed food, Fin and I devour every morsel. When we finish, I clean the kitchen and Fin records.

Everything back to rights, we shut off lights and grab our stuff to leave. As we near our cars, I pause and spin to face him.

“My place in the morning? Film a couple easier dishes.”

“Ten?” Fin unlocks his SUV.

“Perfect. Gives me time with Tucker before school.”

Fin opens his door and slips behind the wheel. “See ya in the morning.”

I get in my own car and wave before I shut the door. Cranking the engine, I wait for Fin to drive off and then follow. Not a soul on the road, we drive the same path until we reach Granite Parkway. As Fin turns left at the light, he sticks his hand out the window and waves. I do the same as I turn right.

Stars glitter in the sky as my tires eat up the miles. Trees blend in with the darkness and pass in a blur. The scent of pine and earth mingle in the crisp night air as it dances over my skin.

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