Yes chef, p.1
Yes, Chef, page 1
Yes, Chef
Waitlyn Andrews
Copyright © 2023 by Waitlyn Andrews
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
Dedication
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
31. Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also By
To my husband, who hates reading but actually read this book with a pen and highlighter.
Thanks babe, you're my forever favorite book boyfriend. ;)
Chapter One
Tarte Tatin: an upside-down apple tart made by caramelizing apples in butter and sugar before baking them with a pastry crust on top.
Did he say Braeburn or Gala apples? Shit. Today is the day I screw it up. Today is the day he tells me to pack my bags and go home. I can feel it. I should always write things down. Why do I not write it down?
The answer is obvious: because I’m constantly scared out of my mind while trying to look cool as a cucumber. Have I ever seen him write anything down? No. Not Once. He has perfect memory. That thick, gray-headed skull of his keeps details locked in place. Now that I think about it, I haven’t even seen him work from a recipe.
Worst-case scenario, I’ll buy both. And I’ll use my own money if I have to, damn it. I’m paid well enough to use that money to try to actually keep my job.
Sweet-sweet, or sweet-tart to make the filling? I should know this. I should know this. What good is four years of culinary school if I can’t remember what kind of apples make the best Tarte Tatin? And why couldn’t the apples just be a filling like a regular tart? No, with Tarte Tatin, the stupid things have to be fully on display, so if I get the wrong apple that means I get the wrong color, which means my mistake will not be discreet.
With a sigh, I acknowledge that at least the weather is nice today. Looking at the positives helps clear my mind enough to remember details sometimes, so here’s hoping the bright sunshine and colored leaves will help me remember what type of apples I’m supposed to pick up. Heading to the market a whole hour too early was definitely a good decision, giving me plenty of time to meander through each vendor’s daily offering. Most days I try to give myself some extra time. I know I get easily distracted by bright food and floating scents.
And I know I’ll spend about fifteen minutes just talking to Theo. His recommendation on the Gruyère de Comté won me some kudos the last time I saw him, so maybe he’ll have another soft goat cheese or Tomme de Savoie that will deflect from my inability to remember which apple I should be pairing it with. And his little paperboy hat always puts me at ease. He reminds me of what a grandpa should be: worn hands, weathered face, gruff on the outside but soft as a ripe persimmon once you get him talking.
“Bonjour Théo! Quels fromages avez-vous aujourd’hui?” I say, inquiring about today’s cheese selection. “How was that? Better inflection this time?” I ask. He’s been the only one who actually tries to help me pronounce things properly in all my time here, so he’s really the only one I feel comfortable trying an all-out, unashamed accent with.
It's the age-old question I’ve always had. What’s worse? Trying to use an accent and botching everything irrevocably, or admitting defeat and owning my American tendencies? Either way, I get identified as “an American” two seconds after I open my mouth, sadly.
“Eh,” he grunts. “Not too bad but still a bit too formal. Drop about half those syllables you Americans insist on using,” he says with half a smile. His own accent sways so thick and pure between us, it makes me smile. “What are you hunting down for the menu today?”
“Leeks, sourdough, duck, purple potatoes, rosemary, and . . . er, well, some apples,” I say.
“Some apples?” he says with his eyebrows raised, reading the hesitation in my voice.
“Well, yeah. I can’t remember what kind I was supposed to get. You wouldn’t happen to know what type of apples Chef Elliot uses for his Tarte Tatin, would you?”
“I’ll do you one better. He likes Jonagold apples, and he almost always pairs them with Pont-l'Évêque,” he says, handing me a wheel of soft cheese. “This one is mild with just a touch of subtle sweetness to it.”
“You are a lifesaver!” I say, resisting the urge to hug him. Given that I haven’t seen any family in over four months, coupled with the general indifference this city is known for, I’ve come to the realization that I haven’t hugged anyone in all the time that I’ve been here. I’m normally not a physical touch kind of person, so I must be feeling particularly bad today. I expected today to be bad, but I didn’t expect to want a hug out of it.
“And I also know that if you bring him this new Fourme d'Ambert I picked up the other day, he will add it to the cheese board, and you will get yourself a hearty pat on the back.” He hands me another pound of cheesy gold.
“This is why I come to you, Theo,” I say in mock seriousness, as if we’re passing off spy secrets instead of a roll of cheese to make my extremely particular boss happy.
“I know how Elliot works. He used to come down here and make the selections himself once upon a time—before he had a couple of stars attached to his name.”
“Well, those stars are why I’m here. You have to learn from the best to be the best, right?”
“Right,” he says with a salute. He’s cheeky, this one. “Now go get those Jonagolds and get to work, Madame.”
“Before I leave, anything you’d recommend to take home for myself? I’m thinking of picking up some blackberries while I’m here because if I don’t leave this city knowing how to make a proper crepe, then this has all been for not.”
“Just the thing. This Mimolette is a hard cheese, so you need to melt it a bit, but if you put a soft cheese in a crepe, it will all be mush anyway.”
“Brilliant. I’ll report back next week!” I say, waving over my shoulder with the goods in tow.
Before I can even fathom the idea of forgetting Jonagold apples, I write the name down in my notes app.
Walking up to the fruit vendor, I immediately see the apples that bear a name I will never again forget, but for good measure, I snag a couple of Gala and Braeburn options as well. Just in case. Because I’m paranoid. Because Chef Elliot is one of the greatest chefs of our generation, and the fact that I get to work under his tutelage is one of the greatest honors any chef my age could hope for. And I really, really don’t want to screw this up.
With the rest of my presumably correct list present and accounted for, I stop to get a croissant before heading in for the day. Late nights at the restaurant are finally starting to feel more and more normal, and my routine of slowly sipping espresso in the morning while eating a croissant is quickly becoming my favorite part of the day. I’ve always been a night owl anyway. I just so happened to find a career that aligns with it.
My mother always said it’d ruin my social life, but what she never seemed to grasp is that I’m not one to have a traditional social life regardless. The parameters by which I define how I’m social have always been mine and mine alone to determine. And I, for one, would rather talk to people I cook for than fend off snooty hands shoving drinks in my face all night. Thank you very much.
When I got the offer to be a sous-chef at Teaks, I nearly passed out from excitement. It’s an up-and-coming restaurant in the “trendy part of town,” to which I thought, Good lord almighty, all of Paris is a trend in and of itself. Am I cool enough for this? The whole dining experience is an experiment in top-down hosting. I’m a server, bartender, and chef all in one, so I interact with each patron from start to finish, and the patrons can see into the kitchen as we work. I love it. After four years of culinary school and two years of working in St. Helena at one of the few Michelin restaurants on the west coast, I was more than ready to spread my wings.
Life circumstances led me to want to be as far away from home as I could get. I played it cool for all of five seconds before replying to accept the offer via email and packing up my things to move across the world.
It suits me. Adventure always has; independence always has. I just forgot for a while.
By the time I get to the restaurant, I expect the hustle to have already started, but I’ve managed to be the first to the kitchen. I feel late, but when I look at the clock, I realize I’m still early. Not a rarity, as I normally am.
I quickly step into action, putting awa
“Why are there three different types of apples here?” a low but demanding voice inquires from the walk-in fridge.
Chef Elliot doesn’t yell. He’s imposing enough on his own to never need to raise his voice. But he always speaks with an edge of authority that renders him two degrees more pissed off than the average human.
“Some of them are mine, Chef.” I join him in the fridge to look at what I brought in. We normally go over everything, and even though I love going to the market, this is the part that always makes my stomach sink. The inspection. I should have hidden my extra apples.
“Why do you need two dozen apples?” he challenges. “And why are they in the restaurant fridge? They’re taking up space.”
“Sorry, I’ll move them out.” I try to reach for the apples but before I grab them, Chef Elliot cuts me off.
“What are you doing with twenty-four apples, Claire?” He’s looking over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses with nothing short of parental disapproval. Caught. Caught red-handed and there’s nothing I can do but admit my mistake.
“I couldn't remember which ones you wanted, so I bought the extras. With my own money. And I wasn’t going to waste them, I swear. There’s a really good apple butter recipe I use that both of those types of apples are good for, and it preserves them so they don’t go to waste.” I start to cringe visibly when I realize the word vomit coming out of my mouth at his undivided attention.
He looks at me with an eyebrow raised, noting my out-of-character discomfort. “Apple butter?”
“It’s a southern thing. Basically, you distill the water out and add in cinnamon, brown sugar, and a touch of vanilla. And I always add a bit of allspice because I think it rounds out the tartness,” I say, trying to summarize what I remember intuitively.
“How about this?” he says, crossing his arms. “I’ll let you leave them in the fridge if you bring a batch of this apple butter in when you’re done making it.”
“Yes, Chef. Of course,” I say, relieved. He’s gruff, and I always think he’s going to fire me, but he likes how I cook, and that’s all I could ask for.
“What type of cheese did you pick up?” he asks, looking back at the shelves in the fridge.
“Theo sent this with me, and he also said you’d probably like this Fourme d’Ambert cheese as well, so I got a wheel of it.”
“Excellent.” He examines the rest of the produce I’ve brought in for a beat. I linger for just a moment, but he stops me before I leave the fridge. “One more thing, we’re bringing in a new head chef. He’s well accomplished, but he’s an American, like you.” The way he adds the qualifier sounds as if it’s the lowest possible compliment one could give. “His name is James Sullivan.”
My stomach plummets at the name. Is it from nerves or excitement? James Sullivan, the James Sullivan will be working at Teaks? He’s only the youngest decorated chef of all time. Every food magazine has run an article on him at least once, so I know plenty of his backstory: he grew up in the New York restaurant culture; his parents were both well-known in the industry, so he skipped traditional school altogether, then went through the best culinary school programs in the states; finally, he worked his way up the pecking order until he became the head chef at a one-star Michelin restaurant in NYC called Mercury.
And if his résumé and background weren’t enough ammunition to be on the cover of every food magazine in circulation, he is, unbiasedly, a looker. Not my type per se, but I can’t deny that six-foot-three, clean-cut blond, swoopy hair with insanely blue eyes doesn’t amount to the classic Americana-boy-next-door dream.
But if Chef Elliot brought him here, that must mean Teaks is going after a star. And I’ll get to be on staff when it happens. I get to be on staff when it happens!
Trying to refrain from showing too much excitement, I simply nod and let him continue inspecting the contents of the fridge.
Soon enough, the rest of the staff trickles in, and Elliot makes his way back to his office. It’s a small staff made up of people who are eager to be a part of something cool in the food world. I’m the youngest on the team by a solid five years, but everyone is nice enough.
We are in the midst of getting our stations prepped when the door opens again and in walks Chef James.
From the brief glimpse I catch of him, I can, unfortunately, confirm that the magazine covers didn’t overhype him up: he is, in fact, the walking sunshine-blond American dream. But I duck my head and avert any kind of eye contact before I can get a good look. It’s rude to stare, for one, and more importantly, he’s not even my type and it’s certainly not a thought I would even entertain. Workplace romances are no longer something I’d even wish to dream about. No, sir. I just want to keep my head down and be on a team that earns a star. That’s why I moved here. That’s my goal, and nothing can sway me.
Chef Elliot sweeps to the center of the kitchen, and attention immediately snaps to him. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Chef James. I’ve brought him on as the new head chef here at Teaks. I’ll continue to prepare the menus, but I’m going to let him run the kitchen,” he says, making eye contact with everyone around the room. “Chef James has worked as head chef at Mercury, so he knows how to run a Michelin-level kitchen, and that is exactly what I intend to create here.”
Internally, I’m squealing like a little girl; externally, I’m as calm, cool and collected—at least, I think I am. I try to steal a glance at my reflection in the freshly shined stainless steel range hood above me to see if I look as composed as I hope. Adequate.
The last restaurant I worked at had already earned its star. It was only because of my family’s connections that they hired me straight out of culinary school, and while I absolutely hated the nepotism so blatantly at play, I couldn’t deny that the experience was invaluable. But, arriving after a star, I felt I’d missed out on the best era of the restaurant. The journey to receive accolades is so much more fun to me than the pressure of maintaining the standard. I picked Teaks because I knew they’d go for a star. Chef Elliot already has experience working at Michelin restaurants, so I knew it was only a matter of time before Teaks went for it. I just didn’t realize it’d be so soon! And I get to be here!
I feel a pair of eyes on me and turn to see James quickly turning his head to look back at Elliot. Irritating. It would be such a bummer if the industry’s golden boy was a sleaze. I can’t imagine he is. He looks like he’s nice and all, but the articles written on him are all so straightforward that I can’t really get a pulse on his personality. Other than the fact that he runs a tight kitchen, there’s barely any commentary on what he’s like outside of work. And beyond those magazine and newspaper appearances, he keeps to himself. There are no rumors swirling around the industry, which is generally a good thing. Kitchens talk, and I know firsthand what happens when rumors spread like wildfire. If he was a sleaze, I’d have probably heard about it by now.
I know I’m not being fair—not everyone is a sleaze—I’ve just met so few men my age in the kitchen who are genuinely good people. Surely there are nice people. Surely. I just have yet to meet them.
Chef Elliot shifts to running through tonight’s menu, snapping me out of my mental spiral. When he finishes explaining tonight’s dessert, he starts introducing everyone to James, walking him to each station to learn our names. James greets everyone with a polite, friendly smile and a small handshake but not much else. Until he gets to me.
“And, James, this is your fellow American friend, Claire,” Elliot says, gesturing to me.
“Hi, Chef,” I say, giving James a small nod, no smile, very straightforward. Nailed it.
I don’t know what I expect, but I certainly do not expect a half nod and a cold dismissal. The man barely even looks at my face as he shakes my hand for a nano-second and moves on. No smile.
Well, okay.
Did I offend him when I avoided eye contact earlier? I try to get a read on the room to see if anyone else witnessed the icy encounter, but nobody seemed to notice. Whatever. I’ll keep my head down, stick to my plan, and stay in my lane. I’ve dealt with plenty of cold shoulders—what’s one more?
