Chapter Eight #3
“Bastian Aquino can be . . . well . . .” Wyatt hesitated. “He can be a bit of a jerk, sometimes. Even though Terroir was supposed to be such a great place to work, I don’t miss it at all.”
“When I first came here,” Flor said, raising her voice to be heard over the Vitamix, “I work for company cleaning houses. They pay me a good wage. But the supervisor was awful. I quit, and started my own company. Less money, more happiness.” She hesitated.
“But Ryan wouldn’t let you come work for him without paying you more. ” She sounded fond but exasperated.
“Don’t worry, I’m not breaking the bank,” Wyatt said.
“And it’s crazy how long I suffered at Terroir, just because it was Terroir, and a thousand chefs would have committed murder for my spot.
Somehow that was supposed to make me like it more, I guess, but I didn’t.
Leaving was hard, I only wish I’d done it sooner. ”
Wyatt finished the garlic and passed it over to Flor who was still magically concocting the sofrito, mixing and matching ingredients and tasting each batch after she blended it. Once she determined a batch was perfect, she’d pour it into ice trays, and they went into the freezer.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll pop them out and stick them in freezer bags. And then they’re good as long as they last, whenever I cook.”
“I might do that with fresh herbs,” Wyatt mused. “It’s a brilliant idea.”
“Not brilliant,” she retorted. “Common sense.”
“Amazing how the two things are often the same thing,” Ryan said.
“Time for the pork,” Flor announced. The skillet she produced was massive. Wyatt probably could have sat in it and paddled it out into the Pacific Ocean. “Hijo, will you grate the yautia and the bananas for the filling?”
Ryan groaned, but didn’t hesitate to pull out the necessary bowl and grater, and begin what looked like an arduous job.
“I thought you said your titi wasn’t going to make you work,” Wyatt teased.
“I would never say that,” Ryan loyally protested when Flor shot him a look from where she was beginning to load the pork into the hot pan.
“I hope you help Wyatt too,” Flor said. “He’s not your slave.”
Ryan laughed. “No. Unfortunately.”
“I have everything under control, usually,” Wyatt inserted.
He hadn’t ever felt comfortable asking Ryan to help prepare meals because that was what Ryan was technically paying him for.
Even when Ryan hung around the kitchen, which he did most days, having a beer or a bottle of water as he watched Wyatt prepare food.
“Also he’s way out of my skill level,” Ryan said. “He’s playing dumb now, making sure not to overpromise and underdeliver, but he’s got serious talent.”
“Maybe he could teach you to take care of yourself better,” Flor said, her voice going steely. “You eat out too much.”
Teaching Ryan how to cook sounded like heaven and hell, all wrapped up in one delicious package. But Wyatt couldn’t tell Ryan’s aunt that he wasn’t sure how much more time he could spend with him before giving in and dragging them both back to the bedroom.
Frankly, they might not even make it that far. The living room had a really nice soft carpet that had been figuring in Wyatt’s imagination a lot lately.
“I do fine,” Ryan argued. “You worry too much.”
But Wyatt chimed in before Flor could. “That’s her job,” he said. “Just like yours is to hit a baseball really, really far.”
“I do more than that,” Ryan said. “I also run around in a circle and catch balls sometimes.” The slanted, teasing look he shot Wyatt was almost more than he could bear. His fingers clenched around the edge of the counter.
Flor must have been at least partially aware of the undercurrents running through the kitchen because she waved Wyatt over and proceeded to distract him by giving him a long list of ingredients to be added to the browning pork. He was a food nerd, so it was an effective move.
“I’ll send you the recipe later,” Flor said when Wyatt was trying to remember everything they’d added.
“We want it to be nice and cooked down. So we’ll let it simmer a little, while Ryan finishes up the masa.
Do you need the achiote oil yet?” She directed the question to Ryan, not even glancing his direction as she turned the pork mixture with a wooden spoon.
“Soon,” Ryan said.
“When he was little he’d always beg to have pasteles,” Flor confided in Wyatt. “But I told him he’d have to make the masa, and that usually cured his craving.”
“It’s a thankless job,” Ryan pointed out loudly.
“But you’ve got a nice pair of muscles to get it done fast,” Flor said.
And Wyatt couldn’t exactly complain when he craned his neck to see Ryan straining against the old-fashioned box grater, biceps bulging. It was definitely a view worth turning around for.
The smug look Ryan shot him made it crystal clear he knew just how sizzling hot he was, and that he’d let Wyatt look and then keep looking any time he wanted.
He didn’t know if the sudden heat in the kitchen was from the hot stove or the tiny sluggish fan pumping warm air lazily around the small room, or Ryan sweating over the grater—but Wyatt knew his polo was sticking to him in damp patches, and there was sweat beading along his hairline.
But from the way Ryan kept gazing at him, all smolder and no stop sign, it was clear he didn’t mind. Maybe he even liked it.
If they’d been alone, maybe Wyatt would’ve stripped his shirt off and even though his abs weren’t quite the caliber of Ryan’s, let him look his fill anyway.
Except there was a reason they’d stayed mostly fully clothed around each other. They were dry matches desperate to burn, and all they craved was a single flame to set them alight.
But he couldn’t set them on fire, because it might burn too hot, and then they’d both be caught in the backdraft.
“Earth to Wyatt,” Flor interrupted his increasingly distracted thinking.
“Sorry,” Wyatt said, turning his attention back to Flor. “I got distracted.”
Her smirk told him that she knew exactly why he’d been so out of it, but she didn’t say anymore about it, for which he thanked all the kitchen gods.
“Are you ready to finish the filling?” Flor asked and Wyatt nodded.
Flor moved it off the heat, and they each gave it a taste. Wyatt was impressed by the complexity of the flavor, even though she’d added a fraction of the ingredients they’d used at Terroir and some of the other restaurants he’d worked at.
“Do you think it needs more oregano?” Flor asked him, and the sly light in her eyes informed him this was a test. He’d always been an achiever, and he was desperate to pass.
“He doesn’t know if it needs more oregano,” Ryan inserted, but Wyatt ignored him, and closed his eyes, rolling the flavor across his tongue, tasting each separate ingredient. Savoring each component, and how they became more than the sum of their parts.
“No,” Wyatt finally answered. “But it does need more pepper. And a dash of red pepper, if you have it.”
“Cayenne,” Flor confirmed, and in her hand was the jar of bright red powder. “Agreed.”
“You’re pretty good,” Flor said, after both peppers had been added, and the filling was off the stove, cooling. “Not many people could have figured out what was missing without knowing what it was supposed to taste like.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Some people have a nose for smells. Some people are good at figuring out flavors. I happen to have a combination of both. I can usually tell what’s in any particular dish by smell. Definitely by taste. Makes it pretty easy to tell what’s missing.”
“Seriously?” Ryan asked. “You can really do that?”
“It came in very handy, especially at Terroir. If you think your aunt is terrifying, Bastian Aquino’s tests were legendary.”
“And you always passed,” Ryan stated, with a quick grin. “I bet you did.”
“He stumped me once or twice.” A lie. Bastian Aquino had never stumped him, even though he’d worked hard at it.
He’d called Wyatt a freak, even in his hearing, and even implied once or twice when he was particularly nasty that all Wyatt’s skill revolved around something he’d been born with, not developed.
But Ryan was glowing, he was basking in it, and Wyatt already knew what lay that direction: disaster. They couldn’t go down that road again, and then end it before it ever began. If that happened, he’d end up halfway to heartbroken, and then he’d have to quit.
Wyatt needed this job. He also needed Ryan, but he was figuring out how to justify only tiny nibbles. Hanging out, being buddies, that was enough to keep his hunger at bay.
If he had another real taste . . . all bets were off.
“Finally ready for the oil,” Ryan said. He was sweating too, his forehead damp. Wyatt wanted to press his lips against his skin, taste the salt and the unique taste that was Ryan.
Thank god Titi Flor was right there. She was an excellent dissuading tactic.
Wyatt watched as Ryan finished the masa, mixing in the achiote oil for color, flavor, and to bring the grated fruit together to form a thick dough.
“Finally time to stuff the leaves,” Flor announced. She set up three stations and for the next half an hour, they worked like crazy, layering in masa and pork filling, and then bundling it together in the banana leaf, a perfect packet of tastiness.
“How do we cook these?” Wyatt asked Flor.
“Boil for an hour or so,” she said. “Salted water. They also freeze beautifully, which I’ll be doing with about half these.”
“Really?” Ryan pouted. “I promise to take those off your hands.”
“Even you do not need a hundred pasteles,” Flor said sternly. “Besides, you have a very competent chef in your employ who will make them any time you ask.”
“You really think so?” Ryan asked, shooting Wyatt a speculative look from under his thick, dark lashes. Wyatt felt pinned. Exposed.
“I’m not sure they would ever measure up to your titi’s,” Wyatt said quickly.
“Maybe I want to see what you can do with them,” Ryan insisted.