Linsey Under Sabre's Guard

Chapter 1

Linsey

The steaks I ordered came this afternoon, and they look premium quality. I lay all twelve ribeyes out on butcher paper and give them the once over with my critical chef’s eye. The marbling is perfect.

These are going to be a hit with my cooking class tonight.

Gearing up to teach a group of twelve how to cook the perfect steak is more exciting than daunting for me.

Every station is set with a cutting board, a towel, a sheet pan, a portable electric burner, and a salt cellar. Twelve stations for twelve students.

This is the first time my class actually sold out.

My employers at The Gilded Fig allow me to teach classes in the restaurant’s test kitchen on the one night a week they’re closed.

Teaching aspiring cooks in this small town is the best side gig I’ve ever had.

I still can’t believe that a dozen people paid eighty bucks each to sip house wine and learn to make a mouthwatering steak.

Choosing to become a chef when I rebooted my life ten years ago was definitely the right choice.

I worked my way up, and thanks to me, the restaurant I worked at in LA ended up being awarded a Michelin star.

That was probably the proudest moment of my life—well, apart from when my son was born.

So why did I leave? Maybe I needed the challenge of something new.

I’d proven to everyone who doubted me that I could do it.

And I did it alone, without my family for support.

That does sting a little, but Noah and I don’t need anyone else, we’re a team.

A year ago we moved to Las Salinas, a small town in Salinas County.

It’s the kind of place where everyone knows everyone else.

It suits us. I got a job as head chef at The Gilded Fig, this time I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone.

We haven’t gotten a Michelin star yet, and I’m not actively working towards that.

I just want to make good, tasty food. The prestige followed me here, so the restaurant is regularly booked up with customers.

All in all, life is good. Six months ago I started advertising on my social media pages and got some sign-ups for a series of cooking classes I wanted to run. Now I’m booked solid for the next three weeks and have folks asking to be added to my wait list. This is like a dream come true for me.

The doors begin swinging open at seven and my students start trickling in.

The first is a married couple I recognize from my pasta class.

They bicker relentlessly but when it comes to cooking together, they operate like a unit.

Two women arrive wearing matching shirts that have the restaurant’s logo on the front.

Fans of the business who have been shopping on the merch website, no doubt.

A younger man with a fresh haircut strolls in, winking at one of the women who came in together.

A big biker walks in. He’s got to be over six feet, with broad shoulders, and he’s totally ripped.

He doesn’t look the type to come to a cooking class, but I glance down to see a knife roll in his hand like he means business.

He’s wearing dark jeans, boots, and a leather cut with patches on it over a short sleeved t-shirt that shows off the tattoos crawling up both arms. His dark hair has been flattened and finger-raked, probably after removing his helmet.

He has a short beard, trimmed close to his face.

Everyone is frozen in place and staring at him. I quickly glance away and say, “I need everyone to apron up.”

This man doesn’t hover in the doorway. He scans the space and then crosses to the open station second from the front and sets down his knife roll.

Everyone is still discreetly eyeing him as they put their aprons on and wash their hands.

He sets the folded apron I provided aside and opens his roll, revealing he’s brought his own chef’s whites and apron as well.

Passing by, I notice that his knives are high quality.

“You brought your own?” I ask, nodding at the roll as he finishes buttoning up his chef’s jacket and ties his apron around his waist.

He glances at me. His eyes are clear blue, and he has little lines along the sides, the kind you get from laughing a lot. A grin spreads across his handsome face.

“I like to use my own knives. I’ve sharpened them how I like.”

My brows fly up because that’s an odd thing to say. “They’re sharpened how you like them?” I echo back.

“Yeah, the edge geometry matters.”

“Chef’s knives are almost always honed to a flat V-edge or a convex edge.”

The grin widens. There’s a small scar through one eyebrow, and it moves when he does that. “Yeah, I get that. I just do things a little differently.”

“May I?” I ask, gesturing at the roll.

“We’re on your turf, so it’s your call, ma’am,” he murmurs politely.

This polite biker who likes to sharpen his knives a certain way has a working knife kit.

There’s a chef’s knife with the handle worn smooth in all the right places.

A proper boning knife that looks like it’s seen hard use.

And a paring knife with a chip near the heel that somebody has ground out properly instead of just throwing it away.

Among other assorted knives, he’s got a fillet knife.

It’s a good quality one, with the kind of flexible blade you only own if you’re serious about breaking down fish.

Every edge is clean. Every blade is dry. These knives are loved the way tools are loved. They’ve been sharpened, used, maintained, and used again.

“These have seen some work,” I say.

He doesn’t say anything because by this time the others have just been standing there watching me give him individualized attention this whole time.

That’s when I notice that his chef’s jacket has a patch bearing the name Sabre. That can’t be a coincidence, right? Disengaging, I give him an approving nod, walk back to the front of the room and get started with my class. I pour wine into each glass while I talk.

“On the cutting board, each of you has a prime ribeye.”

One of the students, the young man with the haircut, pokes at his steak and interrupts. “Have these been sitting out for thirty minutes? You want to cook it at room temperature, rather than straight from the walk-in.”

Part of me wants to snark at him and ask who’s running the class.

But instead I explain. “That’s often what is recommended.

However, in practice the temperature of the meat has little effect on the cooking.

What matters more is that the steak is patted dry and is seasoned well.

I did take these out of the walk-in half an hour ago when I set up the stations, but if you’re doing this at home, don’t feel it’s an essential step. ”

There are a few nods at this bit of information, and he doesn’t question me further. I continue to give them an overview of what we’ll be doing today. “Tonight you’re going to trim that ribeye, sear it properly, and build a pan sauce that will make you the envy of all your friends.”

I pause in case anyone has anything to add.

When no one speaks I continue, “Here’s the thing nobody wants to hear.

Some chef’s knives can cost a small fortune.

But a good chef’s knife doesn’t have to cost more than your first car.

Expensive knives won’t make you a better cook.

What makes you a better cook is a decent quality knife and for you to exercise respect, control, and technique, in that order.

You can do beautiful work with a forty-dollar knife that you keep clean and sharp. ”

I demonstrate the trim, showing them where the cap wants to separate, how the fat gently indicates where to separate if you pay attention.

I also show them how a sharp knife glides where a dull one tears.

The room gives a collective sigh when my sharpened blade slips through the meat cleanly.

I can feel how invested they are in learning good cooking techniques.

When I glance up, Sabre isn’t looking at the meat.

He’s watching my hands, paying attention to my grip, the angle of the blade, and the way I anchor with my guide hand.

He watches the way professional cooks watch, like he plans to imitate my cutting techniques.

I’m used to students watching what I’m doing but this feels different.

This man is serious about cooking and taking mental notes.

The hands-on portion is where the students show where they are, skill-wise.

I circulate around the table, observing, and giving pointers.

This is a good group. They’re all intently following directions.

The couple is working as a team, like they always do.

The young guy is slow, methodical, and doing fine.

An older woman has a death grip on her handle. I stop and gently show her a better grip. “You don’t have to force it. Let the blade glide along the cut you want to make.” She relaxes her grip and smiles as trimming becomes easier for her.

When I get to Sabre, he’s neatly trimming the last of his ribeye, with his trimmings sitting in one neat pile and his silver skin in another.

His cuts are clean, with even pressure and no sawing.

He already has the cap separated, and he’s portioning the eye into steaks that are nearly perfectly even.

As I’m looking at him, his gravelly voice draws me back to cooking.

“What do you think, Chef? Do I have talent or not?”

“You’re good. Have you done this before?” I ask. Suddenly, a thought pops into my head. “Are you a professional chef?”

“No,” he says flatly. “I work for a security firm.” He squares up a portion and sets it on a sheet pan.

“I like to cook is all. I fish a lot and help feed a clubhouse full of brothers who often mistake hunger for starving to death. So, I had two choices, learn to break things down quick or learn to like all their complainin’. ”

“That explains the fillet knife,” I say with a chuckle.