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vrmxlho · 1 year

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"so you must be the new sous-chef..."

"yes, that's me." the kitchen was much smaller than you anticipated. there was no staff either. you knew they were on a break but you just couldn't imagine any more than 10 people using the place. you had expected the great chef sae itoshi to have a vast kitchen with thousands of assistants and cooks so he wouldn't have to lift a finger. after all the restaurant he was running was no small place. 'so, he's picky with his staff' you thought. 'that feels oddly satisfying'. the fact that he was so young and handsome made it even more satisfying. someone your age accepting was an ego boost.

but he didn't even spare a moment to look at you. turning harshly, he threw an apron in your general direction and snapped his fingers twice, indicating he wanted you to follow him.

"you'll be working with me on the final presentation of all dishes before they are served." he looked back at you this time. not really at you but to more so to show you his sour, displeased face. "i take it you've worked as sous-chef with many other chefs before."

"yes."

"yes, chef. if you don't mind." again, he turned his displeased face over his shoulder and gave you a sickly, forced smile.

"sorry, chef."

"so you're incapable of running your own kitchen."

"i just want more experience as–"

"that wasn't a question or an invitation to talk."

there was this burning coil in your stomach as you both came to a halt in front of the main island. it stood right in middle of the kitchen but far from the fridge and the service doors. there were already three plates on it, each hosting components of the the great chef's speciality.

"i'd like to test your skills for a week. if i am unsatisfied, you'll have to find some other place. does that sound fair?"

"yes, chef." it didn't sound fair at all. your contract strictly stated that you would have this role for at least a year before anyone could even think of firing you. but what could you say? you couldn't anger him before you'd even started.

so, you slowly approached the three dishes and inspected them carefully. the first had a perfectly cooked sockeye salmon, with iridescent scales you could almost see yourself on, and a buttery pink flesh that smelled of lemongrass and green apple vinegar.

the next plate had flowers. many flowers. sprigs of lavender, spotted pansies and violas, bright and bitter marigolds, and heaps of small, gentle violets. you could still smell the life in them, as if they had just been picked.

the last plate had a single comice pear and a large orange. it was almost insulting to see the mass producing fruit company sticker still on both the fruits. yet inside, you knew this was a test of creativity. not of how well you could spot expensive ingredients.

"no sauce, chef?"

to this he looked at you gravely as if he was going to slaughter and serve you as the next 'it' dish. "i can only sauce dishes after i've examined them and i have made sure they're ready to go."

"what about white wine?"

"we serve that at the table."

"but where can i find some?"

"are you planning on drinking on the job or is there some other pressing reason?"

"i want to make something."

again, he looked at you, infuriated. this time he slammed his hand on a nearby island and spat, "you can do that when you get your own kitchen. if you get your own kitchen."

"it'll only take a moment." you said directing yourself towards the fridge door that loomed behind his imposing figure. you didn't really understand yourself. all you knew was that your body wanted, no needed, to move in that direction. but before you could reach the handle to open it he pulling you back by the waist until your back hit him.

his mouth was right above your ear. and he whispered in a menacing tone that felt as if it was sucking the life out of you. "i swear i will lock you in that fridge if you dare waste a single extra second. you could have been done by now."

"how am i supposed to prove my abilities if all i'm allowed to do is plate a dish with no taste or sauce?"

you didn't know why you were still whispering. what you also didn't know was why you were still being held to his chest by your waist. 'is this something i can tell HR?' somehow you chose not to. perhaps because you wanted to stay like that. his smell was intoxicating and you had to fight the urge to take a deep breath it.

"what abilities exactly? you come into my kitchen, tell me you want to make a sauce when you've clearly been instructed to plate. you have full liberty there, yet you are not satisfied." there was something very cold and cutting about his warm breathe on your ear and you felt a chill mix into your burning stomach. he slowly pulled his hand away from you and turned you around. your back was now flush against the cool metal fridge door as he towered over you menacingly. "what can i do for you? oh great sous-chef!" he mocked.

the coil in your stomach finally snapped and couldn't tell if you wanted to beat the life out of him or cry. you took a deep breathe and walked back to the island. you pulled a knife from a rack beside you as you quartered into the pear vertically and plated it with the salmon. you gently put the flowers around the fish in the centre to fill up the entire plate, leaving space only for sauce.

you were left with the massive orange, which you peeled and ate. a snack to be enjoyed. while staring sae dead in the eye. he probably wanted you to plate it with the salmon. elementally, they went wonderfully together. but all you wanted right then and there was him pissed, and on the table ready to be gutted alive. you were going to kill this man before your contract was up. that was a vow.

"this will have to do." he seemed to have given up at this petty war you had started. you didn't want him to back down, but what were you to do? you couldn't keep provoking him, that would get you no recommendation letters for future jobs. "we'll continue with this tomorrow."

and continue you did. it was as if that night's rest had spawned an even greater hate for you within him. all day you were running around the kitchen getting dishes ready for him to inspect and taste.

"this could use some sauce."

"you said not to use any or else it would overpower the taste of the quail. chef."

"did i? are you sure? why would i say something so ridiculous and untrue? quail is already much richer than any other poultry. i doubt a simple sauce would overpower this." again, he gave you that sickly, dead smile that made you squirm.

'then i suppose the other sae must have told me to leave the sauce out.' you thought. but you couldn't bring yourself to say it.

you too made the most repulsive face you could, before quietly saying, "my apologies, chef."

it didn't end on a simple sauce though. you were never the lucky type. and so, the harassment continued with everything you did.

"this sorbet is too icy. i could cut myself on the ice crystals."

so you changed it. you melted the base, added sugar and lanique and refroze it before serving, yet, it was still not enough.

"too much alcohol, this isn't supposed to be a digestif."

and you remade it completely. it was perfect, even he would agreed. yet he said nothing to compliment your work.

"i hope you don't need to make things three times before they're edible..."

would anyone really mind if you threw a knife at him then and there? you surely wouldn't. besides, with all the knives around an "accident" is bound to happen right? 'stay calm. just cope for another 12 months and you're good.' it was hard to convince yourself you were fine but you just had to.

"now blindfold yourself for the next task."

"why exactly?" you asked uncertainly. there was no way you were going to obstruct one of your senses in his presence.

"do as you're told."

"where am i supposed to find a blindfold? i'll just close my eyes. or turn around–"

he took a step closer to you. his face was mere inches from yours and you feared he could feel the heat rising to your face radiate off your skin.

he looked even better up close. you could see the pigments in his iris, the dialated pupils as if he was enjoying himself, his gracious eyelashes that curled perfectly the almost there freckles, his rosy nose, and his lips. his lips. his lips? how would you describe his lips? well, his lips looked kissable. that was really it. and you wanted to kiss them. you would've too if you didn't know any better.

you felt his hand slip close to the pocket near your stomach where he pulled out a silk blindfold. you could feel that same burning coil in your stomach and you suddenly felt nauseous. your heart was palpitating erraticaly as you wished to step away from him. but you couldn't. you were frozen.

"you're able to put a blindfold on right." he sighed as if just being in your presence was sickening.

"yes, chef."

it's a strange feeling, being robbed of your sight. 'i guess it's to heighten my sense of taste.' how foolish of you. he wasn't even thinking at that moment. he found himself wondering how soft those lips could feel. perhaps they would melt in his mouth just as your indian fig sorbet had done. what would your lips taste like? if he was going to kiss you he might as well feed you some mint.

"tell me what you taste."

you feel a cool metal spoon approach your mouth and you open it just a bit before you tasted the contents.

"honey."

"what, honey?"

"lavander. it's salty. and greengage prune. half-ripe."

"good. now try this."

this time the spoon faltered a little and a bit of whatever was in it was smeared on the corner of your lips. before you could quickly wipe it, you felt his fingers gently swipe over the area. the burning, nauseating coil in the pit of your stomach was cutting. it felt like a searing pan constantly hitting you or a knife pulling your skin off. your heart rate was increasinging steadily and you were reminisced to a time were you were free of such a fragile heart, a time before sae.

"confit peppers. and a seaweed sauce? or is it just very salty–"

"can i kiss you? please."

"why are you so polite suddenly?"

"please."

you didn't speak. you just parted your mouth slightly, eagerly, restlessly. the next thing you feel is a pair of lips on yours, soft and tender. he kissed you slowly and languidly, as if he were filled with a deep longing that he’d never experienced before.

when the kiss does come to an end, and you're left standing there, breathless and wanting more. the air is thicker, heavier even. the moment lingers as you hear the thundering of your hearts, and your panting breaths.

"mint? chef?"

for @earthtooz, ik you don't even like him but you're the only reason i finished this

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