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He fist-bumps me. I let out an awkward laugh. “Thanks, Jacob.”
When I finish preparing the sauces, the chef whose name I forgot calls my name.
“Can you put together the special we’re working on? Steak sandwich and frites with béarnaise dipping sauce. Chef Saloma and I would like to taste it.”
I tell him of course and start cooking. As I sear the steak, I think of the steak and frites sandwich recipe I posted on my Instagram a few weeks ago. I think about what a hit that reel was when I posted it, how it got the most views of all my videos that week. I think about that giddy smile Tori gave me when I cooked it for her when I went over to her place later that day.
I think of how her eyes rolled to the back of her head when she took that first bite.
“I don’t even like steak all that much,” she said around a mouthful. “But your steak? Divine! I could eat this every day.”
I think about how, when she finished eating, she slinked her arms around my neck and flashed that sexy, satisfied smile she always gives me every time she eats something I cooked her. I think of the slow, teasing way she kissed me. I think about how while we were kissing I picked her up and set her on the counter, slowly peeled her clothes off, and made love to her right there.
That ache in my chest is back. It feels more like a stab though.
I think about how I’ll never get to kiss her, hold her, touch her, wake up next to her, cook for her ever again.
A lump lodges in my throat. My eyes start to burn.
I clear my throat and blink a few times until I’m sure I won’t break.
I finish cooking the steak. While the meat rests, I get to work toasting the bread and frying up some shoe-string fries. When I finish plating it, I walk it over to the other end of the kitchen, where the duo of chefs are standing and waiting to taste it. They stay quiet when I set it in front of them. They frown at the dish, clearly examining the presentation.
“Looks a little sloppy,” Chef Saloma says.
Her curt tone catches me off guard. It shouldn’t though. That’s how she speaks to everyone, not just me.
“Oh. Uh, sorry.”
“You need to be more diligent about tidying up the plate,” the chef whose name I can’t remember says. He sighs before muttering about the importance of always running a clean cloth around the rim of the plate.
“Sorry—I mean, yes, chef.” I still need to get used to saying that.
Chef Saloma cuts the sandwich in half, grabs her portion, dips it in the tiny ramekin of béarnaise, and takes a bite. Her neutral expression doesn’t budge as she chews. Same with chef what’s-his-name.
She frowns. “Could use more acid.”
Chef what’s-his-name nods. “Yeah. That would balance out the richness. Maybe a chimichurri sauce would be better.”
Chef Saloma nods. I stand there, unsure of what to do or say.
“Steak’s cooked well though,” she says. He nods.
“Uh, thanks. I mean, thank you, chefs.”
“Eighty-six the béarnaise for this dish,” Chef Saloma says. She sets the rest of the sandwich on the plate. “We’ll figure out the sauce situation later on.”
“Yes, chef. Thank you.”
I stand there awkwardly for a second as they both look at me. I realize that’s my cue to leave.
I grab the plate and walk back to the stove. I take a bite of the sandwich on its own. The flavors burst in my mouth. Perfectly seasoned steak, the crispy fries, the fresh herbs, the thick bread.
It’s really freaking tasty.
I dip it in the béarnaise sauce and take another bite. Yeah, it’s rich, but it’s really, really freaking tasty.
I shake my head at myself. Maybe I just don’t have a fine dining palate.
