Chapter 1 #2
S igrid had not lied. At the end of the staircase, they turned into a space that was more accurately called an office.
It was once a small volcanic cavern that someone had furnished with extraordinary care.
The ceiling here vaulted to perhaps twelve feet.
The walls—still rock, still smelling of cold mineral air—had been fitted with iron sconces that held electric candles, which threw a warm, moving light across the stone and made the whole space glow amber.
A long wooden bench ran along one wall. A drinks trolley stood in the corner, laden with bottles and small glasses.
There was art on the walls—photographs, Elise realized, though for a moment she’d thought they were prints.
Black and white images of lava formations, of volcanic landscapes, of hands—close-up shots of hands working with food.
Chef Stenrik really leaned into the whole cave theme everywhere it seemed.
She was already composing the B-roll in her head.
“We ask all media guests to meet with Chef Stenrik before service begins,” Sigrid said, pouring something into a small glass—amber, fragrant—and offering it.
“He has preferences about the filming process. Some areas of the kitchen are off-limits without permission. He’s very—” A small, diplomatic pause. “Particular. ”
“I’ve worked with chefs before. They’re all particular about their kitchens,” Elise said, and accepted the glass.
Aquavit, she thought, tasting it. Caraway and something else—dill, very faint, and something almost smoky beneath it. She held it in her mouth for a moment, assessing the liquid.
“This is house-made,” she said.
Sigrid’s smile brightened, genuinely this time rather than professionally. First test passed. “Chef distills it himself. The botanicals are sourced from a farm about twenty kilometers north. No one else in Iceland makes it quite like that.”
“What’s the smoke note? Is that lava rock infusion?”
“You’d have to ask him.” The smile turned slightly mischievous. “He doesn’t always say.”
The door at the far end of the anteroom—heavier than the entrance door, iron-handled, its surface carved with what appeared to be runes—opened inward. Sigrid excused herself.
The man who filled the doorframe was not what she had expected.
She’d done her research. The Lava Sanctum’s website was minimal to the point of being anti-informative.
A photograph of the exterior door, a tasting menu that changed seasonally and was listed without prices, and a reservation form.
The chef was identified only as Stenrik.
No last name, no biography, no media appearances.
One food blogger had photographed a hand—large, tattooed, holding a plating spoon—and cropped out everything else, with the caption: He has rules. Respect the rules .
None of this had prepared her for six feet and several inches of green-skinned, tattooed troll in a dark apron, dark hair escaping from a bun at the back of his skull, a wooden spoon tucked into the apron’s front pocket, and a deep scowl.
His skin was the deep green of sea glass, or of moss after rain, like he was part of the landscape he’d built his kitchen inside.
His arms were bare to the elbow where he’d shoved up his sleeves, and they were remarkable: botanical tattoos ran from wrists to shoulders, intricate and dark — roses, herbs, what looked like angelica, all layered in a style that should have looked soft but instead looked like armor.
Scattered among the flora were burn scars, pale and silvered.
Knife nicks on the knuckles. The hands of someone who worked with heat and blades and took it as the cost of making beautiful things.
He was not handsome in any conventional way that she could have explained to someone who hadn’t seen him.
He was striking in the way that a geological formation was striking.
There was something very old and very particular about him, the dark eyes under heavy brows, the tusks that curved just slightly at the jaw, the line of his mouth which was currently set in the expression of a man doing a professional assessment.
He was, she realized a beat later, doing exactly what she was doing. Assessing.
“Ms. Moreau,” he said. His voice was low and rich, accented with something Scandinavian that sat under the English like a second flavor. “I’ve read your work.”
“I hope that’s a good thing,” she said.
“Your Lyon piece was accurate. The cellar was too small.” He said it like a fact, settled and certain. “Your Tokyo ramen episode, the third one—you missed the salt balance in the broth. You described it as ‘clean’ when it was actually under-seasoned.”
She blinked. “That episode aired two years ago.”
“I watch things more than once.” He folded his broad arms across his chest and glared at her. “I don’t know how you found my restaurant but I am not pleased to have you underfoot. ”
Underfoot? Chefs usually welcomed her, even the grumpy ones.
Her blog and video series, while smaller than others, had grown in significance and brought many places attention and growth in their business.
They may not like the probing eyes of a critic or a camera filming them, but the resulting increase in business was a worthy tradeoff.
She drew herself straight. “I assure you, Chef Stenrik, I am rarely underfoot. I know how to work in a kitchen and remain out of the way for you and your staff. As to finding you, I believe you reached out to me.”
He narrowed his gaze. “I would never seek out attention. That is not my way.”
He paused, then he threw his head back. “Mother!” He bellowed.
Elise winced as the sound echoed off the walls of the chamber. Then the mountain rumbled and she gripped the chair, glancing wildly around, half expecting the mountain to crash down around them.
“Enough!” He bellowed again. He sighed heavily and rubbed a hand over his face. “I apologize for my mother. Apparently, she has taken—an interest in my business. Completely unwelcome. But you’re here now and we’ll figure it out.”
“Not completely unexpected if you watched my show.”
“I knew you were coming but I wasn’t aware of the extent or how you found us. I apologize for the misunderstanding.” His tone implied otherwise, though it was completely polite.
She squirmed a bit in her chair. “So I suppose the offer of lodging is not true, either?”
He groaned and glared at the ceiling. “She offered that, too?”
Elise grinned. “Technically, you did, or so I thought. I had made other arrangements, but they had a pipe burst and my room was ruined. All other rooms are occupied for the duration.”
“Of course they are,” he muttered under his breath. “We have staff quarters for bad weather. Usually occupied in winter but they’re available now. You can stay there for your visit.”
Relief swamped her. “Great. How far are they?”
“Not far at all. In fact, just a few meters away.”
Crap.