Hungry Heart: The Chefs in Love Series

CHAPTER ONE

I need that steak plate 911, Demerez!

London Demerez took a deep breath and pulled bright asparagus spears off the grill, arranging them in a precise picket fence next to a fat, dripping, rib-eye steak. Without looking at her hands, she reached into a small crock of black sea salt and sprinkled it on the steak, and handed the plate over for garnish while already reaching for the next plate. Kip, the head chef, continued yelling at the kitchen staff.

I’ve got three servers in the weeds and you all better work a hell of a lot faster to get them caught up. Otherwise, every single one of you will be flipping burgers tomorrow. Mario, drop two pastas now. A burger place won’t even take you. Sasha, why do you dump sauce like a goddamn kindergartener? Clean up your plates!

Bite me, muttered Sasha, the line cook working next to her. London didn’t raise her eyes, but pressed her lips into a frown in response. Sasha fought back when she was yelled at, and complained about patriarchal systems. But London still liked her. Fresh out of culinary school, first time on the line—she was just not used to the intensity inside this level of kitchen. Even if she didn’t last here, in this restaurant, London knew that someday, Sasha would run a happy, family-style boho joint. And someday, she’d be glad for this intense training. They all would.

Another line chef dropped his pan on the ground and swore loudly, losing the fish he’d been sautéing and invoking a curse-filled tirade from the head chef. London kept her head down. Less haste, more speed, she told herself, repeating her favorite mantra. She willed her body to move faster. She didn’t have to look; her hands automatically pulled ingredients from where she’d set them up precisely to her liking. London arrived early every single day to prep her station correctly. Each ingredient in its proper spot, each knife within exact arm length from her body. She moved with a fluid muscle memory: slipping into bowls, chopping fresh herbs, plating precisely, drizzling slips of buttery reductions. This was her home. She could move faster than anyone here, with more concentration, with more precision in every movement. She handed the finished product over the line to the expeditor, who never once returned a plate to her for correction. She knew her stuff.

The orders were coming in a bit more slowly now. The pastry team was sending out the first round of desserts for the night, and she could see her best friend Jim, head pastry chef, calm amidst the chaos on that side of the kitchen. He didn’t look up at her, and she smiled to herself.

She picked up a whole basil leaf and rubbed it between her fingers, breathing in the minty earthiness. Basil, she thought, ought to be tossed generously and with abandon on a pile of olive-oil-slicked pasta. She hated what they did here in Kip’s kitchen: shredding it into needle-fine shavings and placing it in a delicate tangle on top of teensy rabbit loins. Not that she would have complained to the head chef. London breathed in again, and imagined the basil, whole-leafed, under ripe, juicy figs, topped with an aged ricotta cheese. Her mouth watered at the thought of the contrast of the sweet fruit and vegetal herb. A toasted bruschetta to hold it all, or even just a simple seeded cracker. Eaten outdoors with friends, with a cold glass of rosé, and the rough-hewn plank table. Somehow, the table felt important.

Stupid bitch, Sasha said next to her. London was jolted out of her reverie and looked up to see what Sasha was talking about. The new saucier was talking to Kip.

Whoa. You OK? London asked. The relative lull gave them only minutes to clean and restock their stations. She could acknowledge Sasha only briefly.

That one. Sasha jerked her head toward the new saucier—London couldn’t remember her name; something exotic and sexy.

Tsviya Ascher. SVEEE-yaaaa. Sasha rolled her eyes. Sounds like a mosquito bite.

What’s wrong with her?

Look at her. Who shows up to a working kitchen looking like that?

Tsviya wore the same clothes as everyone else in the kitchen—chef’s whites on top, black pants on bottom. Though she was definitely more put together than the rest of them. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a precise, sleek bun. Her makeup—subtle, yet dramatic—was somehow still in place. London wondered if the she felt the heat of the last four hours at all. Tsviya’s eyes shone as she talked to Kip, and her complexion looked fresh and dewy, as if she’d just stepped out of the shower. Her jacket looked cut precisely to her killer figure. London mopped her forehead with the back of her arm and noticed the dirty sweat stain on her sleeve after she did so. Her own hair fuzzed out in wispy ringlets, clinging to her neck and face.

I’m sure we looked like that when we first arrived, she said, trying to sound hopeful.

Sasha snorted. I’ve never looked like that in my life, not even at the prom.

London laughed.

Laugh it up all you want, but that one is no joke. She’s after your job.

Oh, who cares? So is everyone.

Yeah, but that one is going to get it with something besides cooking skills.

London watched more closely. Kip had abandoned his station to keep his eyes fixed on Tsviya as she described something clearly riveting.

I’m sure he wouldn’t have hired her if she didn’t have the skills.

I never said she didn’t have the skills. She’s straight out of Topol Restaurant, in Israel. She’s already been profiled in the magazines as an up-and-comer.

London’s eyebrows rose. She’d missed this bit of gossip, somehow. Seemed like something she’d have been aware of in the past.

The ticket machine started screeching again; the tables turned over and the new customers were expecting appetizers. London surveyed her spotless workstation, tiny as it was, and took some deep breaths to prepare herself for the next onslaught. The second round tended to be a bit more intense than the first; she knew that keeping her mind clear would keep her on top of the service. She couldn’t help herself—she glanced over at the new girl. To her surprise, Tsviya was staring right back at her, with cool, appraising eyes. Her face betrayed no surprise to be caught watching London; in fact, she seemed to welcome a standoff.

London didn’t like assuming the worst about a colleague, but there was definitely something about this one that unsettled her. Tsviya had an undefined appeal about her, barely covering a naked hunger in her face.

London’s mother, she knew, would be horrified that London noticed Tsviya’s good looks and actually felt threatened by them. You got here on your skill, she’d say, and you’ll rise as far as you want to on that skill.

London tried to shake Tsviya out of her head, but was surprised to see the tickets in front of her piling faster than she anticipated. She went lighter on her feet and tried to move faster. She glanced over at Tsviya, who was almost still, head down, focused on her own work. London felt electric and frayed. Her thoughts were spinning, and she couldn’t get her rhythm back. The tickets piled up now, and her plates were going out with uncharacteristic sloppiness. She gave an apologetic glance to the expo, who looked at her with surprise. London simply did not fall apart at work.

Get it together, Demerez! Kip shouted, not even looking at her. London’s right elbow moved so fast as she chopped she thought the friction of her jacket might start a fire.

You’re a bunch of overpaid amateurs, this time he shouted to the room in general. The only person doing grown-up work here tonight is Ascher. When she takes over this kitchen, she’s going to fire every one of you because she’s smarter than me.

Sasha inhaled sharply and muttered, Told you, to London. London couldn’t afford to consider the remark; still she stole a glance over at Tsviya, who had the decency not to look smug. She remained preternaturally still at her station, working with laser-like intensity and precision.

Slash! Her knife was so sharp that she hardly felt it slice straight through her palm. It was as if she’d taken a wrong turn into oncoming traffic. She knew immediately she’d made a false move; her muscle memory told her that her hands went in the wrong direction. Even before the blood showed up, she knew this would be hard to recover from.

Shit, she muttered, grabbing a towel and pressing it to her hand. Her knife landed on the cutting board, a smear of blood across the blade glistening in the harsh kitchen light. Sasha glanced down at the knife and opened her mouth to call out to Kip.

No, London whispered. Shut up. I can handle this.

Sasha closed her mouth for a moment, but then her eyes widened when she saw the blood seeping through the towel London was pressing to the wound. London couldn’t bear to look at it yet, so she pressed another towel over it and pulled out a long strip of plastic wrap. She wrapped it around her left hand, trying to press the towels into place, hoping to stanch the bleeding.

Sasha spoke quietly. You have to get that looked at. It’s a bad one, London.

I’m OK, London mumbled, though her voice was weaker than she expected, and the room suddenly felt oppressively warm and swirling. Her coat had never felt so itchy.

Chef! Sasha shouted. London’s cut! Need help over here.

London gripped the edge of her workstation with her right hand, her left limp on the counter, willing herself not to fall over. Most other chefs would be immediately jeered for slashing themselves; it was a rookie mistake that betrayed a lack of concentration. Or worse, an amateur showing off. She was mildly gratified to note that the room went mostly silent; the other chefs glanced at her with concern. Kip set his pan aside and came over to London. He pulled up her hand and frowned.

Ascher, over here. Sasha, take sauce. Mario, get on line and get a prep cook over on fish, Kip commanded, dropping London’s hand.

Chef, give me a minute. I can do this, London pleaded.

Demerez, out of here! Ascher, can you catch up? Or do I get you some help over here?

I got this, Chef. Tsviya moved smoothly between London and the counter, picking up the bloody knife and dumping it in the sink behind her without looking back, wiping down the station and pulling out ingredients, all in one smooth, unruffled movement.

Chef, just—

"Demerez, out!" Chef shouted, and turned back to his own station.

London backed away, aware of her shaking body as she passed the other chefs, already back at work but giving her sympathetic glances as she walked toward the break room.

She collapsed into a chair and tried to calm her breath. Her thoughts were incoherent, and she stared at her ridiculous, plastic-wrapped hand resting on the table. It seemed to pulse with heat in front of her. She started to pull off the wraps, and the towels, wishing she could ask someone to help her out, but knowing that asking anyone to abandon their station would be catastrophic to the night’s service. She paled when the last towel came off. The gash was straight across her palm from the bottom of her thumb to the outer edge of her pinky. The skin yawned open like a thick, bloody mouth. Instinctively she closed her palm into a fist, crying out in pain, so as not to see the gash. She put her head down on the cold table and pressed her eyes shut, forcing herself not to cry, trying to think of what to do next.

She felt hands on her shoulders and heard a calm voice in her ear.

Here, Jim said, his voice as warm as a wood fire, put this on your hand and hold still. He brought a baggie filled with crushed ice, wrapped it in a clean towel, and placed it gently into her palm, using his big hands to close her fingers around it.

Thanks, she said, clenching her teeth at the hot pain of the ice, trying to control her shaking limbs.

Should I call 911?

No, I don’t think so, she replied, putting her head back on the table.

OK, that buys us a little bit of time. Drink this. She looked up and he poured her a generous shot of something clear and icy. I’ll get the dessert service covered, and I’ll run you to the ER. Cool?

She smiled weakly at him and nodded. He put his hands on her shoulders again and kissed the top of her head.

Hang in there. I’ll be back in a few minutes.

She watched him walk back to his station, confident and calm. She knew he’d pull people from anywhere—regardless of training, he could teach anyone to do a job and trust them to do it right.

London looked at the drink he’d poured her. Only an inch of liquid in the bottom of a water glass. It didn’t look like much. She breathed in the heady smell of wild plums as she raised the glass to her mouth. Sweet and evocative, it tasted of dappled sunshine and sweet grass. She took a large gulp and felt it burn down her throat. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes and let the liquor course through her; the heat pulsed down her chest and mirrored the throbbing in her palm.

You okay?

London opened her eyes to find Sasha standing in front of her, wiping her hands on her towel, and glancing nervously behind her.

Fine, London said, willing her voice to remain steady.

Need anything? Sasha said, though she was already taking a step back to her station. London could hear Kip roaring at the kitchen.

Everyone knows he’s an asshole. Straight up. He shouldn’t treat anyone like that, Sasha growled, turning on her heel. Least of all you.

London shrugged and hoped the look on her face was one of detachment. It’s his kitchen to run, she said, but Sasha was already on her way out.

She took another sip, smaller this time, of the brandy Jim had poured for her. She tried to breathe in the scent and take her mind off the throbbing in her palm. Jim had found tiny green plums at a local farm last summer and shared them with her. They’d been hard to eat—big stones inside fairly tiny fruit. But the flesh was intense and heady, incomparably sweet. Dry farmed, Jim had explained to her, meaning less water, so the fruit grew smaller and sweeter. London didn’t care about the farming techniques; she simply marveled in the depth of flavor. After they’d eaten their fill, Jim used the rest to make this brandy. She tasted floral perfume of the plums, and just enough of the sweetness not to be cloying. The alcohol warmed and soothed her frayed mind, rounding the rough edges away.

She tried to remember what he was doing with the brandy tonight—it was hard to keep up with Jim. Maybe drizzling it over roasted berries? Or serving it in bowls, with tiny balls of rich vanilla gelato bobbing on top? His creativity took him all over the map. He was the only person in the kitchen, except Kip, who had free creative rein with his food, and it showed. Many of the restaurant’s customers came only for Jim’s dessert creations. Everything Jim served managed to feel somehow wildly exotic and yet familiar at the same time, as if you heard a memory told by someone you didn’t know.

She drained her glass and opened her eyes. Kip walked into the break room and surveyed her.

How is it?

Fine, she said curtly.

I’ll get the valet to call you a cab, he said, darting his blue eyes over her hand and then back up to her face. His expression looked carved from stone.

No worries. Jim’s going to take me.

He nodded, a small, crisp jerk of his chin downward, and then moved on.

Good. I’ll get your shift covered for a few days.

That’s really not necessary, she began.

You’ll be useless. Get that hand healed and we’ll figure something out next week. Ascher can cover for you until then.

He turned and walked back into the kitchen, issuing orders to every person he passed.

CHAPTER TWO

London woke with a start to the sound of her phone, pinging that she had a text. She looked around her darkened room and couldn’t place anything—bookshelves? Clothes on the floor? Who does the chair belong to? Slowly, it all came back into focus—her room, her clothes, her chair. She put her head back into her pillow and pulled her phone up to her face.

Are you okay? the text from Jim read.

Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? she mumbled to herself. She started to type the reply back to him but was startled to feel pain in her left hand. Then it all came back to her.

Oh, crap, she muttered. The knife. Jim had taken her to the hospital. Stitches and a big oven mitt of a bandage across her hand. They gave her something for the pain at the hospital. How had she gotten home? Jim. Of course.

My hand hurts 

You’re due for a pain pill. Look on your bedside table.

London raised her head and looked over at the table. There was a prescription pill bottle and a small note with Jim’s handwriting on it: Next dose at 1:00 am. Take with food. Will bring you breakfast tomorrow. XOX

Despite the aching in her hand, she smiled at his kindness. The clock read 1:15. He had left a packet of graham crackers on her bedside table, along with a pitcher of water. She took a pill and munched the crackers while she texted him a reply.

You are going to be an excellent father someday. How did I get into my pajamas?

I swear I didn’t look at anything.

London laughed out loud at this one, and gulped some more water. She felt parched and headachey.

Why are you texting me at this time of night/morning?

Because I knew you were too out of it to hear about the meds, and I didn’t want you to miss a dose. Best to stay ahead of the pain.

Ah. Thank you.

You are welcome. Those pills will knock you out pretty quickly.

London considered turning the light out and going back to sleep, but she was reluctant to say goodnight to Jim.

Any sign of The Boyfriend?

London looked around the room. There was something missing. Someone, rather. At that moment, she heard a key in the door.

Just got home.

Right. See you in the morning.

London stretched and straightened the bed covers tangled around her legs. She leaned back into her pillow and watched the door. Kip walked in and looked surprised to see her.

You’re awake?

I had to take a pain pill.

How is it?

She held up her left hand in front of her, crossing guard style, and showed him the immense wrapping. It reminded her of a big spider egg sac, and the image made her shudder.

Wow, that’s really big. Did you get stitches?

London nodded, but looked up at him quizzically. Ye-es? I mean—yes. I did. Twenty, I think? Or twenty-something? I forget. I remember Jim was saying it was kind of a lot.

Jim took you.

Yes. He drove me to the hospital and then got me home.

Kip nodded. Good. Are these your pills? He picked up the prescription bottle, and she saw his eyes go over the note on her side table.

Yes. My hand hurt so I just took one.

I’m starving. Why don’t I make us something to eat?

She sighed. That would be nice. Want me to help?

His eyebrows came together briefly, and then he got her joke and smiled at her. Standing from the bed, he pulled of his chef’s whites and stood in front of her in his undershirt.

Of course not. Rest and I’ll be quick.

She leaned back and watched him move into the kitchen, pulling out a pan and gathering ingredients. He would not be quick, she knew, but she did not mind. She always loved watching him cook. She rarely got to, normally—he had so much to manage at the restaurant that standing at a stove at home and focusing on one meal didn’t happen too often. She loved looking at his back—the strong, chiseled muscles that rippled as his hands moved, the curve down his back to his slender waist. He had a tight, athletic build and moved with a military discipline.

He drizzled a green-gold olive oil into a sauté pan and minced onion, garlic, and fresh chilies into it. The sharp, heady aroma wafted into the bedroom. He pulled tiny lamb chops—as small as little lollipops—from the refrigerator. They’d been eating a lot of lamb recently, as Kip obsessively tested a new menu. London loved the slightly funky gaminess of the meat.

She wanted to talk to him, but Kip’s focus remained absolute. He kept his eyes on the food constantly, checking for hot spots in his pans, leaning far over his knives to exact the most precise cut. In fact, despite her joke about helping, they almost never cooked together. Kip simply liked to have command of a kitchen, and took no time for small talk. He had what her mother liked to call drive.

She’d cooked for him when they first started dating more than two years ago. She once invited him to her apartment and prepared an elaborate stew. She diced the beef into one-inch cubes, and then made a fresh herb mixture, which she’d then rolled into bacon strips. She then cut an X into each beef cube and stuffed a bacon/herb bundle into every cube, before browning the meat and stewing it in a spicy (and altogether too expensive) bottle of Syrah. The meal took her four hours to make. He’d been entranced, and then spent the entire meal dissecting the ingredients, talking about possible substitutions, wondering if they could make it work at the restaurant level. He took small, precise bites, and tilted his head back each time, closing his eyes and concentrating on every flavor. The entire night exhilarated her.

It didn’t hurt that he was not too hard on the eyes. She loved the way his face darkened as he concentrated on the food, and his cheekbones seemed to come into even sharper focus. He’d been hailed by every food critic in the country. The fact that he looked so good on the magazine covers did not hurt his reputation. But it was his skill in the kitchen that got the real attention. Kip was the star chef of his generation.

She opened her eyes—had she dozed? No, he was still in the kitchen. Kip still had not spoken a word. He