Page 100 of Ashes of Sin and Stardust

Turning to face the rest of the people in the room, and speaking as calmly and clearly as possible, I said, “We have thirty minutes to fix this. Thirty minutes, or we might as well just shut down for the night. Now everyone shut up and do as I say.”

It ended up takingan hour before everything got back on track. The manager and the owner were both on dish duty, and the cook with the burnt hand was moved to quality check and coordinating. I took over her station and the empty station beside her, and had one of the other girls who knew the plating well helping me stay organized. Things weren’t perfect, but they worked, and the customers got their food. Eventually things evened out, the chaos lessened, and we were back on track.

I probably would have gotten written up that night if it hadn’t been for Oliver Dupont. He complimented his meal and asked to speak to the chef who prepared it, and my manager sent me out, warning me not to mention any of the chaos that had turned the restaurant into a zoo earlier in the evening.

Oliver was a short man, a little squat, with clear blue eyes. He had long curly hair to his shoulders, brown but graying. He sat with one leg crossed over the other sipping his wine, staring at the empty plate where only a small puddle of juices from his meal remained.

“You are the man who prepared my meal,” he asked with the hint of an accent.

“Yes sir.”

“You are not dressed like a chef,” he gestured to my stained jeans and black t-shirt, my filthy apron stained with grease.

“I’m a dishwasher, sir.”

“A dishwasher made my dinner?”

“I’ve been watching the chefs, and I learned the recipes and the process, sir.”

“Sit, please.” He nodded to the empty chair across from him. I sat, and he poured me a small glass of wine from the bottle on the table. It was one of the more expensive bottles, a rare Italian red that we imported from a small family vineyard the owners knew personally.

“Where did you learn to cook,” he asked.

I told him the name of the training program, but he shook his head. “I know that program, they don’t teach you to cook like that. Where did you learn to cook?”

“My mother,” I said. “She loved to cook, cooked her whole life. Always involved me. Then I worked at my dad’s bar for a while.”

“What happened an hour after I arrived? The whole restaurant changed. The people beside me sent their food back twice but mine was perfect.”

I didn’t answer at first.

“Don’t fear for your job, they’d be a fool to fire you.”

“I took over the kitchen,” I said simply. “I used to run my dad’s bar and restaurant. I was the only one in the kitchen most nights.”

Oliver Dupont stared at me silently for a few minutes sipping his wine. Then he said, “Go back into the kitchen. Make me a chicken breast, an omelet, and something else you’re quite good at. You have thirty minutes.”

I rose, swallowed the rest of the wine, and returned to the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, Oliver Dupont had in front of him a perfect omelet, a juicy grilled chicken breast with a balsamic reduction and grilled vegetables, and a mushroom steak. He took a single bite of each dish, glared at the mushroom longer than I expected him to, and extracted a business card from his jacket pocket. Handing it to me, he told me to call him in the morning and left.

My call with Dupontwas not what I expected. He told me all the ways I needed to improve every single meal I made him. I listened and took his correction, despite feeling like I was being verbally assaulted. But when he finished, he asked if I was interested in more formal education. I said yes, and he asked how soon I could quit my jobs. I told him I could quit immediately, and he asked me to pack my things and meet him at an address.

The address turned out to be a private airport. Several hours later, we were over the ocean on our way back to his culinary school in France.

I spent the next five years working, learning, and training under a variety of different experts. I spent some time in France with Oliver, then traveled around Europe as he saw fit. When I finally returned to DC, he put me to work in a restaurant owned by a friend of his, and I began climbing my way up the ladder, cooking every night and finally feeling like I had a handle on my life.

But there was still that X-factor that I knew I was missing. During my time training and cooking overseas, I spent a few nights here and there with a pretty girl or two, but I had never found the same spark or dark craving I’d experienced with Savannah Thornburg. Nothing excited me, and many times, the girls left unhappy, and I was unsatisfied.

I did my best to find that missing thing I was looking for without outright asking my date if I could slap them around and be mean to them.I didn’t want to be the kind of person I saw in my favorite porn videos. I didn’t want to get off on abuse... but I needed something that I couldn’t put my finger on.

One evening I was working an extra shift, filling in at the bar instead of in the kitchen. A young guy about my age sat at the edge of the bar, slicing off pieces of his meal and feeding it to his date. She was a cute curvy blonde girl with big eyes and a subdued expression. When I got a closer look, I saw she was wearing a thin chain around her neck, and a second chain clipped to it threaded into her shirt. The man seemed to be holding the other end around his wrist. It was subtle enough that I wouldn’t have noticed it had I not been looking for it.

He had her on aleash.

That’s it. That’s what I want. Where do I find one of those?

I set the drinks they’d ordered in front of them, and the little blonde girl looked at me with thanks in her eyes.

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