Chapter One #2
“Chef Aquino,” Kian said stiffly, dumping the contents of the pot into the garbage at the end of his station.
“He’s not some dudebro you’re casual acquaintances with.
He’s a . . . he’s a . . . a . . .” Kian struggled to put his feelings about Chef Aquino into words—especially words that Mark couldn’t exploit later.
“He’s dreamy? He’s hot? You want to worship the ground he walks on?”
“This isn’t Grey’s Anatomy in the kitchen,” Kian retorted, trying to hide that he’d had all those thoughts. “He’s not Chef McDreamy.”
“He could be,” Mark speculated as Kian walked over to the pantry and picked out more ingredients for his reduction. Mushrooms, shallots, garlic, thyme—he dumped them all in his bin. “You want him to be, and you didn’t even want to work for him.”
It was annoying his face was so goddamned transparent. Chef Aquino had probably realized it as well, but then people probably obsessed about him all the time, so it wasn’t like Kian was alone in feeling that way.
“I still can’t believe you were the only one in our class who didn’t apply for the Terroir internship,” Mark continued, even though Kian was careful to give no sign that he was even still listening. His knife flashed over the mushrooms, decimating their flesh into tiny, even pieces.
“You’re an ass,” Marta added in, from her own station across the kitchen. “You act like you weren’t panting just the same as Kian when Aquino walked in. He’s got a way about him.”
The understatement of the century, Kian thought. He slid his mushrooms into the pot, drizzled in a little olive oil and started chopping his shallot into miniscule pieces.
The challenge of today’s class had been to create a reduction that tasted “meaty,” except without any meat used. Every ingredient had to be vegetarian.
After the shallot, Kian went back to the pantry and grabbed a few carrots. He diced those finely and added them to the pot.
His burned reduction had been good, but expected. And something that had always set him apart from his other classmates was his willingness to use his instincts to create something unique.
Smoked paprika was his next unusual ingredient and as he returned from the pantry, Mark’s eyes were unsurprisingly on both him and the glass jar in his hand.
“You didn’t use that last time,” Mark said.
“Maybe I decided that my reduction wasn’t very good and needed to be improved.
” It was usually better not to engage Mark, but he’d been shaken by Chef Aquino and needed to get his bearings back.
Even though he was undeniably thinking about the reduction challenge, because he still needed a good grade in this class before graduation, half if not more of his brain was still contemplating the Terroir internship.
Should he convince his instructors to throw his name into the ring at this late date? Could he? He could ask, of course, but he had a feeling that after he’d been so adamant about going to Europe, nobody was going to understand.
What could he say? Now that I’ve met Chef Aquino, I don’t think I can let him get away?
Marta walked over to Kian’s station. “He was something else, wasn’t he?” she asked, leaning down and resting an elbow on the stainless steel countertop.
“Mark?” Kian didn’t even look up.
Marta laughed. “Silly, you know I’m talking about Aquino. You guys had a moment there. I was afraid you were going to burst into flames for a second.”
It happened; you just couldn’t see it.
“He’s just another chef,” Kian said, and Marta shot him an indignant look. Well, Kian thought, if Marta’s caught too, at least I’m not alone.
“And Terroir is just another restaurant?” she asked pointedly.
But they both knew he was wrong. Bastian Aquino wasn’t just another chef and Terroir definitely wasn’t just another restaurant.
Marta left, back to her station to watch her reduction.
Kian stirred the vegetables in his pot and shook in another bit of smoked paprika.
Then pepper. Then the thyme. Then, feeling like he had to be adventurous or fail—like Chef Aquino was somehow still watching him, testing him—Kian went back to the pantry and returned with a jar of turmeric.
Mark was watching him intently but hadn’t moved to copy him yet. Which was either a very good sign or a very bad one. Kian wasn’t sure yet.
He added the turmeric and continued to stir. Twenty minutes in, he added red wine, let it reduce, and then added stock, using the edge of a wooden spoon to test the flavor as it developed.
It needed something else though, a missing flavor that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something that would add depth and interest. A zing.
After a moment of consideration, he went back to the pantry—Mark gaping at him, Marta observing him with only a little less interest—and came back with a hunk of bittersweet, dark chocolate, cumin, and Mexican oregano.
He’d realized what he was really trying to create—a reduction that was actually more like a Mexican mole.
Their instructor hadn’t said anything about the reduction needing to be traditionally French, and if he wanted to set himself apart, the only way he could do it was by making unexpected and unusual choices.
Creating food that others didn’t expect.
When Chef Charles, their instructor, came around to taste their reductions, Kian’s reduction hadn’t been on the stove for nearly as long as the others or even as long as his first one had, but he stopped completely short as he tasted it.
“No meat?” he asked with a raised eyebrow as his spoon descended towards Kian’s pot for another taste. None of the other students in their class had warranted a second taste. Again, Kian figured, that was either a very good sign or a very bad one.
Sometimes you died on the hill of your own creation, but you never reached the top unless you took a risk to get there.
“No meat,” Kian confirmed.
“It’s nearly . . . a mole,” Charles said with astonishment. “But it’s not, is it?”
That was the fine edge; they hadn’t been asked to make a mole.
They’d been asked to create a reduction.
If Charles decided that he hadn’t fulfilled the assignment, it wouldn’t matter how good it was.
He’d struggled with that, in their first month of school.
Just because something was delicious didn’t mean it met the requirements.
Creative impulses, while important, needed to be tempered by the hierarchy of the kitchen.
And he, Charles had told Kian repeatedly, was going to be at the very bottom after graduation.
Not exactly washing dishes, but definitely not experimenting with the kitchen’s recipes, either.
“It’s not a mole,” Kian said decisively.
Sometimes, he’d discovered, confidence could be everything.
That was why it stung even more that he’d been so awestruck by Chef Aquino.
Eventually he’d recovered his natural confidence, but for those first few precious moments?
He’d been lost. Figuratively. Literally. In every single way that mattered.
Mark had wandered over to see why it was taking Chef Charles so long to critique Kian’s reduction. “It smells like a mole,” he said, with a rotten egg look on his face. Like he already knew he’d been judged and found wanting.
“This is impressive work,” Chef Charles finally pronounced. “Extra points for creativity and not going in the traditional direction of your classmates. I’m impressed by your ability to impart significant flavor in such unique ways.”
“Thank you, Chef,” Kian said.
He’d already been wavering on his decision, but Chef Charles’ comments cemented his purpose.
Tomorrow morning, before class began, he was going to ask to speak to him privately—and he was going to ask about the Terroir internship.
Surely, the quality of work he was currently doing warranted a late entry into the internship sweepstakes?
It was a gamble, but the chance to work for Chef Aquino was worth any risk.
“I asked you to recommend your top three students,” Bastian Aquino said, leaning back in the chair opposite Charles’ desk. “Instead of three, I’m inundated with recommendation letters. Are you telling me that everyone in this graduating class is equally untalented?”
Charles shook his head, his full head of wavy, graying hair flopping over his eyes.
Bastian had long been of the opinion that Charles was someone who fell into the category of “those who can’t, teach.
” The hair was just another piece of evidence that he’d been right about him.
Someone that sloppy couldn’t ever belong in a truly disciplined kitchen.
“There are some very talented students,” Charles said diplomatically. Another reason Bastian had never liked him; he wasn’t really honest, he was fucking diplomatic. And he’d learned in a twenty-year culinary career that you couldn’t ever be both.
Bastian cut right through his crap to the heart of the matter. “Who is the most talented? The one you’d most imagine fitting in at Terroir?”
Charles hesitated. Bastian, not usually the most patient person in the world, wanted to reach across the desk and squeeze his solid neck until the name fell out of his mouth.
Three months ago, he’d decided he wanted an intern, so naturally had gone to the most prestigious academy of culinary arts with the intention of selecting their very best student.
It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. Charles wasn’t supposed to send him fifteen recommendation letters, all essentially the same.
There was supposed to be someone who stood out.
Someone who he instantly recognized as having the qualifications, the skill, and the talent to at least do what he told them to.
“There is one,” Charles finally said. “Unfortunately, he didn’t apply for your internship.”
Bastian stared at him. “He what?”
Charles cleared his throat. “He didn’t apply. Every single other student applied. But not this one.”