Page 24 of The Chef

“Agreed. I’m wondering about his home situation before he was taken in by the courts.”

Jensen frowned at Char again but answered readily enough. “He was a street kid, as far as I’m aware. No home life to speak of.”

“Everything I’ve ever heard about street kids indicates they struggle to survive alone. I’ve seen the news articles about street gangs, or the so-called thieves guild...”

Jensen was already shaking his head as Char trailed off. “He was checked for any tattoos or any of the sashes or other clothing worn by those group members, and there weren’t any signs he was a member of a larger group. Besides, even if one of the gang members targets the military, they’re always sent to regular court instead. Only the unaffiliated ones go to a military tribunal. Karl’s not part of anything like that, but you’re probably correct that he was part of some kind of group, just to survive. I can look into it if you think that might be helpful.”

Char shrugged. “I’m wondering if any of his group members followed him here, perhaps someone small enough they can only reach the bottom shelves.”

Jensen’s eyebrow lifted in surprise, and then he grinned. “That would be something if they could sneak past the guarded gate of the military complex and are hiding somewhere inside the barracks for the elite royal guard. That would be someone I’d want to hire.” He grinned. “It sounds like you might have an idea of how to catch them?”

“Not really. I was thinking they know this is a poorly guarded room at night with easy access to food, and no alarm was raised this morning after last night’s theft. I figure they’ll come back tonight, and I’d hang around until they showed up.”

Jensen thought about Char’s plan for a few moments before he nodded once sharply. “Right. I’ll have your bodyguard assigned by then, and I’ll brief them on the situation ahead of time. After you catch the thief, come upstairs to Fen’s office so we can figure out how to deal with the problem.”

“Will do,” Char replied.

Jensen clapped Char on the shoulder and went to go fill a plate. Char returned to the griddle, where he would turn out another platter of pancakes before starting lunch preparations, which required making a massive batch of mayonnaise for the tuna, salmon, chicken, and ham salads he was going to offer in a make-your-own sandwich bar.

The rest of the day passed quickly; Char too focused on making food to worry about anything else. He taught Karl how to make the mayo, giving him a tutorial on whisking eggs, which he seemed to enjoy, and then moved into the frenzy of keeping fresh trays of pot pie cooked and ready as the rush of hungry diners descended for dinner.

And then Fen walked into the room.

He looked completely normal, as if he hadn’t been anywhere in particular the past thirty-six hours. Dressed in the same white shirt and brown pants as everyone else, he would have blended in completely had Char not had some sort of sixth sense for when Fen was around. Something under Char’s breastbone relaxed at the sight, and Char smiled to himself even as he continued placing rounded chunks of raw biscuit dough onto the next pan of pot pie to go into the oven.

Fen went to the end of the serving line and picked up a plate. Char tried not to watch him too obviously, sneaking glances to check whether he had any bruising or a residual limp to indicate he had recently been healed.

Char removed a cooked pot pie tray from the oven, slotting the new one in its place, and let his crew haul the food out to the serving area. When he looked up again, Fen was standing across from him, the width of the serving area and stovetop all that separated them. Fen opened his mouth to say something, but then Zain’s voice echoed through the room.

“Hey, Fen, get your ass over here!” she yelled from the table on the other side of the room, where she sat with Jensen and a couple of the other leaders.

Fen closed his mouth on a grimace and let out a sigh, before mouthing, “Talk to you later.” He finished filling his plate and left, Char trying hard not to watch him walk through the crowded tables.

Char forced his attention back to his big pot, which had been delivered freshly cleaned and dried. He made a quick roux, added milk and chicken stock and waited for it to thicken and boil, before tossing in all the already cooked vegetables and chicken. He added spices, waited for the concoction to return to a boil and thicken properly, and then poured it out into another massive baking dish. He moved over to a counter to start dotting it with biscuit dough. By the time the new dish was ready, the cooking one was complete, so he swapped them. The rest of the evening continued in the same endless cycle, the pot pie vanishing alarmingly fast as diners returned to the serving area for seconds or even thirds.

Finally, the rush died down. Char slotted another pie into the oven, and when he stood, he took a moment to stretch his back. At this point of the evening, Karl and three of his fourhelpers were busy washing dishes while the fourth maintained the serving area and bussed the dish return station.

“Let’s take a break and have dinner,” Char called to them. He didn’t need to repeat himself as all five immediately stopped what they were doing and headed to fill their plates. Char followed them.

The beauty of pot pie was it was an entire meal in one bite. Vegetables, protein, and starch—everything hungry soldiers needed to refuel after a busy day—were all encompassed within the bake itself. The side salad Char had also served was almost untouched. That was okay, since the lettuce was fresh enough, so he could serve it again for lunch tomorrow. The chocolate cakes were almost gone, another dish for which people had gone back for more. He cut himself a small slice and added it to his plate next to the pot pie and then joined his crew at a table to eat.

Sage, garlic, onion, hearty cream, redolent chicken stock. Different textures between the springy chicken, soft potato, and gentle snap of the vegetables. The crunch of the biscuit, plus the buttery bread cutting through the heavy roux. Perfection in a pot pie. Char closed his eyes as he chewed, letting all the flavors meld across his tongue.

He hadn’t enjoyed the previous evening’s mac and cheese nearly as much, which was strange because he actually usually liked that dish better. The knot under his breastbone had unraveled at the sight of Fen, which made the pungent sage far more enjoyable in comparison to last night’s sharp bite of cheddar. Of course, at some point Char would have to decide what to do about his feelings and whether Fen actually returned them. That thought almost soured his taste buds, but the raspberry coulis in the cake was already sour, so Char didn’t notice too much.

“One of these days I’m going to figure it out,” Naomi said, sighing heavily. The front of her apron was soaked, little bubbles still popping in the seams, from her stint at dishwashing.

“Figure what out?” Karl asked, his cheeks puffed out with biscuit, spraying crumbs.

“Hey!” Steve growled, raising a hand to shield his food. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, kid!”

“How Char goes from raw carrots and hard-ass potatoes to this,” Naomi replied, waving her hand over the remnants of pot pie on her plate and blithely ignoring Karl and Steve beginning to squabble. “If I was this good at cooking, my husband would be working in the military, and I’d be home with our kids. Luckily, he’s got a decent hand at keeping everyone fed and happy, because I sure don’t.” She sighed again.

“I don’t mind teaching you, although the best teacher is actually the doing, so everyone who’s been helping with cleaning and preparing the food is learning how to do it for themselves someday.”

Naomi laughed. “I volunteer for dish duty for a reason. You don’t want me anywhere near anything potentially edible until it’s on my own plate and halfway into my mouth. I promise you.”

“Which is why our Commander Fen went to his dad, the king, and practically begged for the money to reopen this kitchen,” Arnold added. He tapped his nose. “Or so the rumors say, at least. I don’t think any of the staff at the communal kitchen know what they’re doing either, let alone any of us. I think we were all desperate for a good meal, commander included.”

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