Page 18 of The Chef

Fen waved to the waiting hostler to ask for their horses to be brought. “Then let’s go get started.”

Chapter Ten

A SHOUT OFlaughter came from one of the tables by the windows. Char looked up, already smiling, to watch the group of four enjoying their breakfasts. The past three months of long hours and sleepless nights, trial and error, and a lot of planning had transformed the place. The dust was long gone, the cold and ice boxes and pantry fully stocked, and all the neglected cookware shined. The kitchen had really only been fully operational for the last two weeks, although Char had done his best to cook in the meantime as he finished all the setup. Ensuring he had all the proper cooking and serving items, obtaining regular vendors to send him new stock, organizing help, and all the other little things that had to been done had seemed endless at first. He had been so busy, he had barely seen Fen, which had helped keep him focused on the multitude of tasks at hand, even if that absence twisted something painful inside whenever Char thought about it. Finally, though, Char could say all his preparations, all the failures and successes of setting up a brand-new kitchen for the very first time, had been successful. He had happy diners and a good process down for cooking and serving, and he finally felt he could settle in to this new life he had chosen for himself.

Char lifted a pan off the burner, flicked his wrist, and the omelet inside flipped perfectly, landing back in the pan without even a wrinkle in the egg. He added shredded cheddar and looked up at the woman waiting on the other side of the island.

“Veggies?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes, please.”

Char added a generous scoop of sautéed vegetables—mushrooms, onions, red, yellow, and green peppers, and spinach—carefully folded the delicate egg in half to cover the veggies and cheese, and turned the burner down to low to give the cheese a chance to melt and incorporate with the vegetables. The serving side of the island was full of food too. Fresh bagels and sliced bread, blueberry and cranberry muffins—all of which he had made this morning—homemade jams—which he had been bottling all summer in between everything else he had worked on—and his carefully curated purchases of cream cheese and lox. He had a fresh berry salad and some yogurt set out as well. He only did individual orders for omelets on rare occasions like this morning, when he knew the diners would trickle in throughout the designated breakfast hours between six and ten in the morning. Some mealtimes it was all Char could do to keep the serving platters full, but today was morning drill, so only those with evening shifts who were exempt came down for breakfast. The herd of locusts that comprised the postdrill fighters would descend on the muffins around eleven, which was why Char was keeping an eye on the double batch currently in the oven. They would eat double portions when lunch opened an hour from then, so the respite was short-lived.

Char slid the finished omelet onto the outheld plate and set the pan aside on a cool burner. He turned his burner off. No one else was in line, so Char went over to where the rolls for lunch were proofing under a cloth. They had risen nicely, plumpand about the size of Char’s palm, so he removed the cloths and slotted the trays into racks in the oven Char had designated for bread. A glance at the clock on the wall said it was 8:15. He would take them out when they had doubled in size, had turned golden brown, and developed a firm crust and chewy internal texture, which was about twenty minutes. He couldn’t fit all 300 rolls into the one oven, of course, but they would all be ready to eat by the time the kitchen opened for lunch.

One task done, Char went to check on how today’s assigned helpers were doing. Each of the four barracks supplied one worker each meal to help Char out. Two were currently busy scrubbing the ever-present pile of dirty dishes, but he had two more working as sous chefs to help prepare lunch. Warren was tasked with zesting and juicing about a hundred oranges, while Marcus was peeling and grating an equal amount of ginger. Both were doing well enough, but they weren’t trained to be sous chefs; Char could see the inconsistencies in their work. Still, help was help. As he had quickly learned, there was no way Char could handle the entire kitchen without them.

He moved over to his own cutting board where he was almost done slicing more red, yellow, and green peppers. The colorful strips would balance nicely with the chicken, cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, and mushrooms he also still needed to prepare for the chicken stir-fry in an orange-ginger glaze he was making for lunch. He had made the rotini earlier at the same time as the bread, so at least that was ready to go, and the rolls were cooking. He wasn’t behind schedule, per se, just wishing he had a few more pairs of hands.

Char had finished the peppers and moved on to the cauliflower when a group of two walked in, grabbing plates and waiting expectantly. Char abandoned his vegetables and went to the other counter to start cracking eggs.

Heat the pan on medium with a large pad of butter melting inside. Three eggs, a dash of milk, a dash of salt, and a couple twirls of a pepper mill, then beat with a whisk. Pour over the melted butter, then use a spatula to carefully lift the edges so the liquid could drain underneath. A flip, then cheese, a fold, and done. Repeat, the second one with veggies added to the cheese, and Char was setting the pan aside in record time.

He pulled the muffins out of the oven and set them on a cooling rack, checked on the rolls—which needed another two minutes judging by their too-pale color—and returned to his cutting board until another diner entered the room.

He loved being this busy though. Constantly moving around the kitchen, getting to work on different projects, and the autonomy to meal plan however he wanted; no other kitchen allowed for that freedom. In all his previous jobs Char had been tethered to one station doing the exact same task over and over day after day.

The lunch rush came and went, the stir fry vanishing quickly, and as the quiet returned, Char focused his attention to marinating steak rounds. Ralph and Isa were on dinner duty, and one was peeling potatoes while the other snapped the tips off green beans.

And then Fen walked into the room, and the Zen calm Char had been enjoying vanished like a balloon popping. Three months and those darned butterflies were still a persistent menace. The memory of Fen, naked in the shower liked to pop up at inconvenient moments. Even his smile reminded Char of all the times Fen had pulled Char aside for a private chat—just the two of them standing close, heads bent together—all those times in the forest.

“Hey, Char, can I steal you for a second?” Fen asked.

Char schooled his face into nonchalance, since Fen really didn’t need to know how Char’s heart jumped at those words. Char’s reactions to Fen were beyond ridiculous, and he had no wish to burden Fen with this insanity. Char would get over it eventually; he was certain. He rinsed his hands at the sink and walked around the island to Fen’s side. “Sure. What do you need?”

Fen waved behind him, and Jensen walked up, tugging along a teenager who looked sullen and very unhappy to be there.

“This is Karl. We caught him with his hand in Jensen’s pocket last week while we were helping with a patrol in the city market. Military court procedure is to sentence anyone caught committing a nonviolent crime against one of the guard groups to serve their time in some sort of support capacity to the group they slighted. Karl was sentenced to six months with us. Problem is, he’s as bad with swords, running, and pretty much everything military-related as he is at pickpocketing. I was hoping you could take him under your wing instead?”

The sullen look was replaced by shock as Karl stared at Fen. He was maybe sixteen years old and definitely too skinny. He was dressed in the standard daytime fare given to everyone working for the royal guard—brown pants and a white shirt—but the white did nothing for his skin tone. He had lank brown hair, but striking gold-brown eyes that would serve him well when he grew up a little more. Poor kid looked washed out, tired, and defeated, once the façade of angry teen was stripped away.

Somehow, Fen had heard Char’s inner monologue wishing for more help and had delivered. The slight upturn of his lips said Fen knew exactly what Char was thinking, and that he was happy to have a solution to offer, at least for the next six months.

“I’m sure I can find work for him. Let me get him an apron, and he can help Ralph with the potatoes.”

“Yes!” Ralph hissed under his breath.

The apron Char pulled out of the closet hung down to Karl’s knees, but it would protect him so Char left it. He waved toward the sink and draining board where Ralph was working.

“You take this brush here and use it to remove any dirt left behind on the skin,” Char explained, demonstrating on one of the potatoes for Karl. “You don’t need to push hard, just get any clumps off for Ralph to peel. When you’re done with the potatoes, you can start on cleaning the mushrooms.” He pointed to the basket of baby bellas on the draining board next to the box of potatoes. “It’s the same brush, just be a little gentler. You’ll get the hang of it,” Char finished, handing over the brush and letting Karl get to work. The sullen look was back, but he took the brush from Char and started scrubbing.

Fen hadn’t left. Even while focusing on Karl, Char had felt Fen’s eyes on his back like twin foxes focused on a bunny. Char didn’t mind the intensity or the attention, but he knew he ought to. Had any of his previous acquaintances concentrated so exclusively on Char like that, distracting him from his cooking, Char would have been furious. Yet, when Fen’s presence filled the room, Char wanted to baste himself in it as if he were a turkey roasting in the oven. Rather than returning to building his marinade, Char helplessly returned to Fen’s side, hoping his eager joy at spending more time with Fen wasn’t plain on his face.

“You need something else?” he asked.

Fen nodded. “Yeah.” He turned so his back was to the rest of the helpers in the kitchen, leaning close and sending Char’s heart fluttering. “A select group of us are going on a mission. Leaving tomorrow morning, gone overnight, and if all goes well, back the next day. I’m leading with five others in support. It’s the first time I’ll be gone for more than a day since you startedliving here, so I wanted to let you know.” He paused to study Char’s face, and whatever he saw there made him grin. Since Char thought his face was neutral despite the sudden increased thumping of his heart, he had no idea what Fen was seeing. “I didn’t want you to worry. Zain is taking temporary commander duties, and Jensen is acting captain for my unit, so go to them if you have any issues.”

“I appreciate your letting me know,” Char replied, trying to continue his attempt at sounding neutral. Except, his traitorous mouth suddenly added, “Stay safe.”

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