Chapter 7 #2
"Oh!" I jump, my hand flying to my chest, my heart slamming against my ribs. Alex is standing at the center island with flour on his forearms and various pantry ingredients scattered around him like he's been working for a while.
He jumps too, whipping around to face me, his eyes wide. "You scared the hell out of me."
"You scared me," I say, trying to catch my breath, my hand still pressed to my chest where my heart is racing.
"I was literally out there convinced I was going to get abducted by aliens in the vineyard, and then I walk in and there's a figure in the kitchen at midnight. I nearly had a heart attack."
His shoulders shake with laughter. "I thought the exact same thing on the walk over. Something about the rows at night just makes me think of cornfields. I felt like I was in Signs."
I stare at him in disbelief. "That is literally exactly what popped into my head!"
"Well, it's a famous movie, and great minds think alike," he says, grinning. "And hey, at least if the aliens come for us, we'll both be here to get probed together."
"Oh, wonderful. Very comforting." I can't help but smile back at him.
He laughs, shaking his head. "So what are you doing out here past midnight?"
"Couldn't sleep," I confirm, walking farther into the kitchen and plopping onto one of the counter stools across from him, tucking my pancake-pajama-clad legs up under me.
"I started thinking about whether I actually strained the fig compote or just thought about straining it, and once that thought got in my head it was over. "
He smiles. "I've done that a million times. And you did strain it, by the way. I saw it in the walk-in when I was grabbing butter earlier. Labeled and dated and everything."
I exhale, my shoulders dropping.
"Okay. Crisis averted. What about you?" I say, sniffing the air theatrically, which makes him smile wider. "What are you doing in here?"
"Baking with those figs from this morning," he says, leaning back against the counter behind him. "I figured the kitchen would be empty at this time of night." He looks pointedly at me, amused. "I'm just about to pull it out of the oven actually."
I sniff again, more aggressively this time, leaning forward and trying to place the scent. It smells so familiar, buttery and jammy and sweet with a hint of something floral underneath, but I can't quite place it. "What is it?"
He grins, that cocky expression I'm starting to recognize and find simultaneously irritating and charming. "It's a surprise, Princess. You'll have to wait."
I groan dramatically, slumping on the stool. "Ugh, I hate surprises."
"What, patience isn't your strong suit?"
"No. Definitely not."
We sit in comfortable quiet for a moment, the kitchen warm and humming softly around us with the sounds of the walk-in compressor and the oven fan. I'm perched on the stool at the island while he moves around the kitchen, wiping down surfaces and putting things away.
The walk-in compressor clicks on. Outside the windows, the vineyard is a dark mass against the starlit sky.
It feels intimate in here, like we're the only two people awake for miles, and the nerves that have been threatening to drown me all week apparently decide to mutiny, because my mouth opens before my brain can stop it.
"I'm anxious about tomorrow," I say quietly.
He glances over at me, his expression softening. "Well, you'd be a bit robotic if you weren't. It's opening night of a high-profile pop-up. Being nervous is normal."
I nod. "Yeah, I guess so. I'm really proud of what I've made.
All the dishes are what I envisioned. I just…
The critics, and my dad flying in, and making sure everything is exactly right because with this kind of cooking and this kind of crowd, the Michelin world and the tweezer plating, it's all so fucking stressful sometimes.
Three seconds here, two millimeters there. You know?"
I take a breath, startled at how much I just said out loud.
Alex just nods, putting the flour back in the pantry. "Okay, well first of all, your menu is incredible. Like, genuinely one of the best I've seen in years. And I've never met someone more organized or prepared than you, so I know you're going to crush it tomorrow. You're ready for this."
He says it so simply, so steadily, that I almost can't help but believe it. Or maybe I just want to so badly that I'll take reassurance from anyone offering, even a man my father sent to evaluate me.
I nod. "You know, sometimes I feel like I forget to even enjoy it. Cooking. I used to love it so much. It can be creative and imaginative, and when I was younger, when I would cook, everything else would disappear. All the noise, all the pressure. It was just me and the food. I miss that…” I pause, realizing I'm rambling.
"Sorry, I don't even know why I'm telling you all of this. "
He looks at me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful, like he's considering something. "I have an idea," he says slowly. "But it's going to sound strange."
"That's not reassuring at all," I say dryly, raising an eyebrow at him.
"I know." He reaches for one of the clean kitchen towels hanging from the rack.
"Here, tie this around your eyes like a blindfold.
I want you to taste a few things, but with no analysis, no technique assessment, no mental scoring or deconstruction.
Just taste and tell me what you feel. Not what you think. What you feel."
I stare at him like he's lost his mind. "You want me to be blindfolded. In a kitchen. At midnight."
He laughs, holding the towel out to me. "I know it sounds weird. But just trust me. Close your eyes, taste what I give you, and don't think about the food like a chef for once. Just let it be what it is. Let yourself experience it without trying to understand it or critique it or make it better."
I narrow my eyes at him, studying his face for any sign that this is some kind of joke. "You better not do anything weird."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He holds his hands up. "Chef's honor."
I take the towel from his outstretched hand and tie it around my eyes. The kitchen shifts entirely. Without sight, every other sense sharpens immediately. The hum of the walk-in is louder now, a low mechanical thrum. The warmth from the oven wraps around me like a blanket.
I can hear his footsteps moving away toward the produce shelves, then the soft click of the walk-in door opening and closing. The rush of cold air. His footsteps coming back.
I shift on the stool and wait, feeling both vulnerable and strangely excited, my heart beating faster than it should be. There's something about surrendering control like this, about having to trust him completely, that makes my skin feel electric, hyperaware of every sound and sensation.
"Okay." His voice is closer than I expected, right in front of me, and I can feel the warmth of him standing there. "Ready?"
"I think so."
"Open your mouth."
I do, parting my lips, and he places something on my tongue with gentle fingers. I close my mouth and bite down, and the flavor bursts across my palate like fireworks, fresh and juicy and impossibly sweet, the juice flooding my mouth and running down my throat.
"Apricot," I say, still chewing. The taste is summery and bright, like warm afternoons and golden light. "Oh wow, that's perfect. Where did you get this?"
"Stopped by that farmstand after we wrapped up today, looking for things to pair with the figs. Didn't end up using them, but they were too good to leave behind."
I savor it, letting the sweetness linger on my tongue.
"It tastes like the sun is still trapped in the fruit.
I know that makes no sense but it just..
. it tastes like summer. Like childhood summers.
Such a happy feeling, like being seven and eating fruit with juice running down your arms and not caring about anything. "
"Good," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Alright, one more."
I feel something touch my lower lip, cool and soft. I open my mouth and he places it on my tongue. It's rich and creamy and layered, a cheese I think, with honey and something nutty underneath, the flavors unfolding slowly as I chew.
"Oh my God," I breathe. "This is incredible. What is this?"
"Aged Humboldt Fog with buckwheat honey and a sliver of toasted hazelnut," he says. "Now. What do you feel when you taste it?"
I pause, still blindfolded, chewing slowly and letting the flavors settle.
"Strangely melancholic," I say finally, the word surprising me as it comes out.
"But happy too, like a bittersweet memory.
Like a memory that makes you ache a little because it was so good and so pure and you can't get it back, can't recapture that exact feeling.
It reminds me of this cheese course we did in cooking school, my first year in Paris.
I remember sitting there in that classroom thinking that this is what I want to do for the rest of my life. "
I sink into the memory, and the tightness in my chest that's been there all day loosens for the first time.
"Okay, hold on. One more." His footsteps move away and I hear the oven door open, the scrape of metal on metal, something sliding onto a board. A knife cutting through pastry, the sound of it crackling. Him blowing gently on something to cool it. His footsteps coming back, closer now.
"Okay," he says, and his voice is very close. I can feel the warmth of him standing right in front of me. "This was a little hot, so be careful."
He places it in my mouth, and the taste hits me immediately, so familiar it makes my throat tight. Roasted figs, caramelized and jammy, nestled in buttery pastry with honey and the faintest whisper of lavender. Like the galette my grandmother used to make. The one I told him about this morning.