Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
He moves on.
“American,” he says each time, almost bored. He taps the odd one with the tip of the knife. “This is the outlier. The rest are domestic blends. Milk-heavy. Sugar-forward. Have you tasted them?”
I nod. Though it’s a lie.
He steps back and washes his hands. “Want me to write this down?”
“No.” My voice is thin, but it holds. “I’ve got it.”
He doesn’t press. Isn’t he the slightest bit curious as to what this “independent project” is about?
“If you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make before class. Go ahead and get your kitchen set up. The other students will start trickling in soon.”
“Of course. Thanks so much, Chef.”
He nods and heads to the door.
I’m alone with a cutting board, a paring knife, and the one truth in a line of lies.
Colombian.
The word is a door. It opens, and I remember another swinging door.
A Year Earlier…
I push through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Chef doesn’t look at me at first. He knows I’ll come. I always come. My hunger for cooking knowledge outweighs the fee he knows I’ll pay.
He flicks his gaze toward the pantry. We both know what that means. His bonus. The price. The trade.
I step into the pantry. Cool air. Flour sacks. Cinnamon bark. Glass jars of cloves. I close the door and leave it closed. He’ll come when he’s ready.
He’s ready a moment later.
Pants drop.
Cock hard and ready.
I go out of my body and see myself above, from the ceiling. The young girl sucking off the older man. It’s not me. Only my body, my mouth, my tongue.
My soul is above, untouched by what’s happening.
At least that’s what I tell myself. My body has been used and abused so much now that it really doesn’t matter.
When he’s done, he walks out. I stay a moment. Collect myself. Pretend it never happened.
When I step out, he’s measuring water. “Chocolate santafereño,” he says, almost like a challenge. “You think you know it.”
“I think I want to.”
He displays a bar of dark, dense chocolate. “It is not Swiss. It is not Belgian. It is not Hershey’s.” His mouth curls on the last word. “Colombian cacao, or you ruin it.”
He breaks a chunk from the bar and drops it into the pot. The scent unfurls. Fruit. Flowers. Earth. Smoke. Not sweet. Not tame.
Alive.
“Raw milk.” He pours from a jug. “Cinnamon that is real. Ceylon from Sri Lanka. Don’t use Cassia.” He snaps off a piece from the bark with a knife. “A whisper of salt.”
He hands me the molinillo, a special wooden whisk we use for the preparation of hot beverages. “You froth until your arm breaks.”
I rub the stick between my palms. The surface goes from brown to velvet. From flat to a thousand bubbles.
He pours a little into a chipped cup. “Drink.”
I lift it. Steam warms my face. The chocolate hits my tongue and opens. Bright first. Citrus bloom. Then the flowers. Violet? Orange blossom? I don’t have the words he has, but I have the feeling. Beneath it, earth. Not mud. Something old and clean. The milk rounds it.
“This,” he says softly, almost reverently, “is ours. Not theirs. If you use American, the acid kills the body. If you use Swiss, the fat smothers the flower. Colombian or nothing.”
“I agree,” I say, and it feels like betrayal to mean it and relief to say it. The drink sits in my chest like a small sun.
He nods once. “Again.”
I froth until my shoulders burn. I would do worse for this lesson. I have.
Later, he wipes the rim of the cup with a thumb and watches my mouth as I drink. “One day,” he says, in an almost tender way, “you will make this for someone who deserves it.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have a name for someone like that.
Present Day…
I’m back. Back in the cooking classroom with the echo of Chef Charleston’s clap as students wander in. The normal world returns.
But the stone I left unturned sits heavy in my palm.
Someone I never suspected.
Could it truly be him?
Not one of my father’s associates who I serviced.
No.
Someone else I serviced but for my own gain. My choice.
The one who corrected my whisk grip and my Spanish in the same breath. The one who would rather starve than use American chocolate in a Colombian dish.
He would know the difference blind. He would flaunt the difference. He would build a message out of it.
A signature.
Veiled in a threat.
My stomach flips. I grip the counter until my fingers ache.
Voices swell. The door opens and closes. Lavender breezes past with a “hey,” and Gina with a wink.
I nod. I can’t speak yet.
A name sparks. Not his real one. I never knew it.
Gordon Brown. The two famous chefs he never stopped talking about.
Gordon Ramsay.
Alton Brown.
Chef worshipped at their altars. He copied their rhythms. Watched the Spanish dubs of their cooking competitions like they were a message from God. He borrowed Ramsay’s rage and Brown’s science.