Chapter Two
Chef Aquino showing up at Chef Charles’ office, right when Kian had been determined to talk to him about the Terroir internship, had been kismet.
Even more amazingly, Chef Aquino acted determined to win him over, revealing some important facts that did make Kian uneasy, because clearly he didn’t know that Kian had already realized how stupid he’d been.
When the internship announcement had come out, Mark had been furious, and had threatened to tell everyone that the graduating student who’d won the internship had been the only student who hadn’t applied for it.
It hadn’t been very hard to stop him. All Kian had to say was, “Do you really want to admit to everyone in the whole academy that you lost out on a prestigious position to someone who didn’t even apply for it? ”
As it turned out, Mark didn’t want to advertise that particular fact, so he kept his usually noisy trap shut, and the other students, unsurprised that the top student in the class had won the top post-graduation position, moved on.
Chef Charles had pulled him aside the day before graduation, and in his office, showed him three letters from the European restaurants he’d applied to—two in Paris and one in London.
“They’re yours, if you want them,” Chef had said, but the kindness in his voice didn’t convince Kian at all.
“If I want them?”
Chef Charles pushed them closer to Kian. “I’m sure they’re acceptances.” Kian was moderately sure, too, but instead of replying, he merely grabbed the envelopes and stuffed them into his apron pocket. He had no intention of fulfilling Chef’s curiosity. Or anyone else’s, ever again.
Didn’t Chef remember what Chef Aquino had said when he was here? Didn’t Chef remember that all his encouragement to reach for the stars, and to apply at these international bastions of gastronomy, had all been based on a lie?
Maybe not a bald-faced lie, but a lie of omission, at least. Kian had no intention of slaving away in the dish room for a year at any of those restaurants.
He didn’t intend to scrape plates until the head chef miraculously remembered his existence.
His intention was to glean as much training and information as he could, and then move on, doing the same, until he was ready for his first executive chef position.
In his notebook scrawled list of goals, he’d set the age at twenty-seven, but secretly, he felt he could accomplish everything even faster.
It was very simple: Chef Aquino wanted to teach, and Kian wanted to learn.
Then there was the attraction that Kian felt.
But since he was utterly convinced it had to be one-sided, there was no point in even worrying about it.
It wouldn’t interfere because the concept of Chef Aquino being interested in him was like the moon deciding to come down to the earth one starry night.
It just wasn’t going to happen, and Kian told himself that was good, because it made something that could be very complicated, not very after all.
He’d open the envelopes later, when he was alone, Kian thought absently, and then promptly forgot about them completely because when he checked his email later that night, there was an email with his contract from Chef Aquino himself.
He’d start the day after graduation, and Kian could practically hear the sweet-sour tone of his voice as he read the email.
“If that’s too soon, that’s too bad,” the email read.
“And if you wanted to indulge in the sort of bacchanalian exploits that most students wish to after a graduation ceremony, that’s also too bad. ”
Kian didn’t know what bacchanalian meant, but he did know that he wasn’t interested in it. What he was interested in was working. Specifically for Chef Aquino.
He showed up at the Terroir side door, as directed, fifteen minutes early—he’d read Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain, of course, and while there was a lot of crap that he couldn’t imagine being applicable to a three-Michelin-starred restaurant like Terroir, he’d taken to heart the emphasis Tony placed on not just being on time, but early.
If Anthony Bourdain, the rock star rebel of the culinary world, could do it while he was on all the drugs he could get his hands on, then Kian could do it while he was clean and sober and well-rested.
A man wearing a bandana covered in chili peppers answered his hesitant knock. His face was bitter somehow, like Kian had just caught him sucking a slice of lemon, and he didn’t say anything, just stared right at Kian.
“Well?” he finally said impatiently. “Was there something you wanted? To stare?”
“I’m Kian Reynolds. I’m here to work for Chef Aquino.”
Kian felt, as the chili-bedecked man in front of him examined him from head to toe, carefully, like he was a dirt-crusted organic carrot or a particularly thorny hunk of ginger. “You’re the Bastard’s new intern?”
It wasn’t easy, but Kian kept the same pleasant expression plastered to his face. He knew everything always showed, and he’d been so determined that this wouldn’t happen today that he’d spent a lot of the night before practicing neutral expressions in his bathroom mirror.
But the man in front of him must be a lot more observant than Kian was capable of fooling because he laughed, suddenly and unexpectedly. It was a good laugh, a friendly laugh, even though it was tinged at the edges with the same bitterness that existed in the corners of his expression.
“Haven’t you ever heard him called the Bastard before?” he asked curiously.
“No,” Kian said stiffly, “and that’s really inappropriate, considering he’s the executive chef and your boss.”
The man leaned closer. “Let me let you in on a little secret before you walk in here. If you don’t find a way to keep a sense of humor about what an absolute asshole Bastian Aquino is, then you’re going to lose your soul.”
This seemed unnecessarily dramatic for a man who wore chili peppers on his head.
“Can you just please take me to Chef Aquino?” Kian begged. He knew the weird man in front of him had blown through all his carefully neutral expressions already and he didn’t have any extra in reserve.
He gave Kian another one of those penetrating looks, before suddenly nodding sharply. “Yeah, sure.”
Opening the door wider, he let Kian walk in, and as he stepped over the threshold, he had one of those full-body realizations that nothing was ever going to be the same again.
He was a chef now and he was working for Bastian Aquino at Terroir.
This was only the beginning and it was already awesome.
He could go anywhere from here; only the sky was the limit.
The door opened into an employee locker room, narrow metal lockers lining the space. “Yours is somewhere,” the man offhandedly tossed out. “Your whites will be in it. What did you say your name was again?”
“Kian,” he said, glancing up and down the row for his name written on the piece of blue tape haphazardly stuck to each metal door.
“Oh, you’re over here,” he said, pointing to one, near the end. “I’m Xander, by the way. Xander Bridges. I’m the saucier, and I work the line during service.”
“Oh,” Kian said, feeling very impressed. He’d heard great things about Terroir’s sauces, in particular, and this was the man who created them. Maybe it was okay that he liked to say rude things about Chef Aquino and wear weird headwraps, if he was that talented.
“I’ll take you to Aquino now,” Xander said. “Come with me.”
They walked through the kitchen, which was so vast, it was hard for Kian to conceptualize.
The “line” itself was wide and while not exactly spacious, had clearly been designed to maximize a chef’s natural movements as he prepared dishes.
The range was enormous, with at least twenty burners, several which were already occupied by huge pots, bubbling away even though it was not even eight in the morning.
“I also do the soup, sometimes,” Xander said, the pride in his voice betraying how prestigious being asked to make the daily soup was. “Which is why I’m here so early.”
They passed though the line, which was still quiet.
There were several long stainless steel prep tables, right next to a whole line of commercial-grade walk-in fridges.
“Veggies,” Xander said, pointing to a door.
“Dairy. Meat. Seafood. There’s another larger one, on the other end of the building, for wine. ”
Chef Aquino’s office was easily identifiable.
It was glass-walled, and even though there were oatmeal-colored shades, they were all drawn up, leaving Chef to survey his entire domain at any time.
Kian had a feeling he rarely drew the shades.
There was a single desk, metal and glass, with a keyboard and an oversize computer monitor.
Xander rapped briefly on the glass next to the open door and Chef Aquino looked up, every one of his dark hairs in place, his immaculate white chef’s jacket already buttoned up to the throat.
He looked pristine and perfect, and when his dark-eyed gaze hit Kian, it felt like the first time all over again.
Like an electric current crossed with a wooden beam hitting him straight in the temple.
But a good sort of pain, the kind of pain you craved all the time.
“Chef,” Xander said, somehow finding his respect, which Kian had a feeling was buried fairly deep, “this is Kian. He said he’s starting today.”
Kian had had three weeks to contemplate them meeting again, and what his first day might be like. He’d imagined Chef Aquino shaking his hand, leading him on a thorough tour; still contained but going out of his way to show Kian the way the Terroir kitchens worked, exactly.
What Kian got was that single quick, penetrating glance and then a brusque reply, after Chef had already returned his attention to the paper he was scribbling on. “Get him changed and then take him to the dish room.”