Fifty Recipes For Disaster - Book 1 (Fifty Recipes For Disaster New Adult Romance Series, #1) Read online

"Yes, Chef," I respond without looking up.

  He leaves my station, and I decide I need a fresh element for my plate. A glance at the clock tells me I need to get my lamb on the grill, and I do it quickly. Chef Harrison stands watch over the fire to ensure we don't sabotage each other, so I leave the lamb and head back to the walk-in. I consider doing a Mexican street corn with Indian spices, but decide that would be too much corn on one plate. Instead, I grab fresh spinach, tomatoes, and tomatillos. I return to my station and chop the produce. I toss half of the tomatoes and tomatillos into a food processor and add chili and spices. With a quick whirl, my dipping sauce is ready. I can smell my lamb, and I rush to the grill to turn it. The meat is seared perfectly, and I'm happy with the progression of my dish.

  I return to my station just as Paul approaches again. "Your knife skills are excellent, Chef," he says with a wink.

  My stomach flutters, and all I can do is nod. This is all part of the game. He's just trying to throw you off balance. Concentrate on the work.

  I whisk up a quick vinaigrette with ginger, garlic, and a touch of black cumin. I retrieve my lamb from the grill, spread it evenly across the corn mixture, and then roll the tamales. Once I place them in the steamer, I return to the walk-in and grab a couple of kefir limes. I grate the zest into my vinaigrette, then slice them and add the juice. The salad is finished and the tamales are steaming, so I finally steal a moment to take in my surroundings.

  Robbs is bent over his cutting board, painstakingly rolling out fresh tortillas. Jenny is standing over the grill, and Paul is next to her. They each let out a laugh, and I'm startled by how jealous I feel that Paul finds Jenny so damn amusing. He's your boss, I remind myself. Or at least, he will be, if everything goes right. And the only way to make that happen is to keep my head in the game.

  "Fifteen minutes, ladies," Robbs calls out. "I hope you're ready for disappointment."

  I turn toward Robbs' station and see he is sweating. I don't know if it's because of the heat in the kitchen or the stress of the competition, but I'm happy to see he's losing his composure a bit. I return to the pantry and select my plates. I grab kidney-shaped bowls for my salad to ensure the vinaigrette doesn't soak into the rest of my food. I return to the kitchen and gently poke one of the tamales. It feels firm, so I use tongs to retrieve them from the steamer basket.

  I pause for a moment, trying to decide how I want to present my food. Traditionally, tamales are served in their husks, but that creates quite a mess for the diner, and if there's one thing I hate, it is trash on a plate. I decide to de-husk them, and do so carefully before transferring them to a platter. Paul approaches once more as I make my way to the grill.

  "No husks?" he asks. "That's an interesting choice."

  "Yes, Chef," I reply nervously. Damn it. I knew I should have left them on. To think, I'm going to be done in by fucking corn husks.

  There's nothing I can do about it now, so I continue my dish as planned. I gently place the tamales onto the grill, careful to keep the corn casing intact. I cook them just long enough to get beautiful grill marks on each side, and then quickly return to my station. With four minutes left, I want my plates to be perfect. I transfer the dipping sauce into a squirt bottle and squeeze intricate starburst patterns onto the left side of each of my plates. I place the tamales on top of the sauce, careful to leave at least half of them on the dry portion of the plate. I portion the salad into the bowls, and then set them on the right side of the plates. A few moments after I finish drizzling the vinaigrette over the salad, Paul announces that our time is up.

  "Leave your plates at your stations. We're returning to the table at the back of the main dining room," he instructs us. We follow him into the dining room and take our seats. Chef Harrison joins us, and a few moments later, Sydney and James, two of the lunch waiters, appear with our dishes.

  "Chefs, before we sample the plates, I'd like you each to briefly describe your dishes," Paul instructs.

  I'm not at all surprised when Robbs opens his mouth first. "I've prepared cumin-spiced chicken raviolis with a Parmesan butternut squash sauce," he announces. There's so much pride in his voice that one might believe he raised the chicken himself. But his plate is beautiful, and I despise him for it.

  Jenny clears her throat. "My dish is a Korean short-rib taco, with a cabbage jicama slaw," she says quietly.

  "And you made the tortillas yourself?" Paul asks.

  "Of course." She blushes.

  "I made my pasta from scratch," Robbs interrupts eagerly.

  "Yes, I know," Paul responds patiently. "There's no premade pasta dough in the kitchen, but there are plenty of corn tortillas." He turns to me. "Kiara, tell us about your dish."

  "I made green curry tamales," I say quickly, "with fresh salsa and an Indian-spiced salad."

  Robbs snorts at the mention of my salad, and I know he feels that I took the easy way out.

  "All right everyone, let's dig in," Paul directs.

  We silently sample each of the dishes in turn. Robbs' sauce is well developed, but his pasta is undercooked. I know after one bite that his dish won't be featured on the weekend menu. Jenny's dish, however, is delicious, and mine turned out exactly as I'd hoped. Paul and Harrison seem to agree with me. They finish the tacos and tamales but leave Robbs' pasta practically untouched.

  "Robbs, now that you've tasted all of the dishes, I'd like for you to tell me where you went wrong," says Paul.

  "The pasta could use a few more minutes in the water," Robbs answers coldly. "But I believe the sauce and the chicken were well seasoned."

  "They were well seasoned," Paul agrees. "But that doesn't matter. If one thing is wrong on the plate, the entire plate is ruined. You walked in today overconfident, and that led to being careless with your dish. I suggest you don't make that same mistake next week."

  "Yes, Chef," Robbs replies bitterly.

  Paul turns to Jenny and me. "Ladies, both of your dishes were exceptional, and I'd be happy to serve either of them to our customers. But this is a competition, and a winner must be chosen. Harrison and I are going to speak in the kitchen for a moment, and then I'll return with our decision."

  Paul and Harrison rise from the table and disappear into the kitchen. Robbs, Jenny, and I exchange glances but before we can comment on the challenge, Megan appears at the table with a pitcher of cola and three glasses.

  "I know it gets hot in the kitchen," she says cheerfully. "I thought you might be thirsty. How did it go?"

  "One of the girls won," Robbs answers harshly. "Paul and Harrison are in the kitchen deciding which one has the best rack... I mean dish."

  He's crossed the line. "Are you suggesting our breasts had something to do with our abilities to fully cook our food?" I sneer.

  Jenny lets out an involuntary chuckle. "This whole time I thought my skills came from hard work and studying. If I'd known my boobs were doing all of the work, I could have saved a fortune in tuition."

  "I know, right?" I agree. "Poor Robbs doesn't stand a chance against our wonder-breasts."

  Megan, Jenny, and I giggle while Robbs fumes in his seat. He opens his mouth to retort, but the kitchen doors swing open again and Paul returns to our table.

  "Ladies, this was much closer than we'd expected. You both prepared delicious food, so since this was a grilling challenge, we based our decision on who we felt best utilized the cooking method," he announces.

  Excitement fills my body. I used the grill twice, so I feel certain that I won the challenge.

  "Kiara," Paul continues, "your tamales were delicious, and Harrison and I both enjoyed the fact that you pulled the husks before serving. Leaving them for the diner to remove leads to greasy hands and unnecessary trash on the plate, and it was better to avoid both situations. However, we felt Jenny's barbecued short-ribs best represented the grill. The smokiness of your lamb was overshadowed by the curry, whereas Jenny's sauce served to enhance that smokiness."

  Jenny beams, and I offer her a weak smile. />
  "Congratulations, Chef Foster," Paul says warmly. "As your dish will be featured on this weekend's menu, I need you to walk Chef Harrison through it. He will ensure all of the ingredients are stocked, and you will be assisting him for the next three days."

  "Of course, Chef," Jenny answers. "Thank you so much."

  Paul nods at her, and she rushes off to the kitchen to find Chef Harrison. "Robbs, as your dish was the least successful, I'd like for you to return to the kitchen and prepare a plate of fresh fettuccini. No sauce is necessary, but I need to be sure you can correctly execute homemade pasta. Once I'm satisfied with your results, you will be handling the prep work for tonight's dishes."

  "Yes, Chef," Robbs replies with defeat. He, too, returns to the kitchen, leaving Paul and I alone at the table. I sit quietly, expecting to receive my assignment for the day. Instead, Paul reaches across the table and rests his hand on my forearm.

  "Kiara, I want to emphasize that your dish was fantastic," he says warmly, his clear blue eyes steady on my face.

  "Thank you, Chef," I reply with a blush.

  "Please, Kiara, we're not in the kitchen. Call me Paul."

  "Thank you, Paul," I correct myself nervously.

  "I watched you carefully during the competition. You have excellent instincts and incredible skill. I think you're going to do very well here." He pauses. "Your tamales made me wish that we could award two winners, but, unfortunately, that's not the case. As your runner-up prize, I'd like to offer you the opportunity to choose the chef you'll be assisting over the weekend. Harrison is already taken, of course, but you can pick among the rest. The list includes me, as I practically live in the kitchen during the weekends," he finished with a suggestive smile.

  With his thumb, he traces small circles on my arm and shivers of excitement rush through my body. I pull my arm away before my emotions get the best of me.

  "Thank you so much for the opportunity, Paul," I begin. "I look forward to working with you directly, but I think it would be best if I assist Claire this weekend."

  "That's an interesting choice," Paul answers with surprise. "May I ask why?"

  "Desserts are my weakest area," I explain. "I'd like to watch Claire... learn her tricks and secrets. I feel that's where I need the most help."

  "It's admirable that you're aware of your weaknesses. It's even more admirable that you're willing to admit them," says Paul, smiling. "One of your competitors would do well to follow that example."

  "Oh, but Robbs doesn't have any weaknesses," I say jokingly. "He was just thrown off because he wasn't able to visit the chicken farm before his main ingredient was slaughtered."

  Paul laughs. "You're probably right. The 'full experience' is what the farm-to-table hipsters preach about, isn't it? I admit I was hesitant to even include Escoffier in the initial stages of the competition. Like you and Jenny, I was classically trained. But Patrick convinced me to give each of the area's culinary schools a fair chance, and he was impressed by Robbs' initial dish. We'll just wait and see if he can keep up with you girls."

  "We're going to give him a run for his money," I assure Paul.

  "Yes, I expect you will," he replies with a sly grin. He stands up. "Claire doesn't come in for another couple of hours. You're going to have a long weekend. Because of the demanding brunch menu, Claire stays late on Fridays and Saturdays and comes back at six a.m. on Saturdays and Sundays. Take the rest of today off and practice basic dough recipes and pastry skills. You should also brush up on your pastry bag skills. Claire is sweet, but she doesn't have a lot of patience for teaching."

  "Thank you Che—Paul." I stop myself from addressing him formally. "I'll see you tomorrow. If you haven't had a decent plate of pasta by then, I'll be happy to make you one," I add jokingly.

  "Thanks, Kiara," he says. "I may hold you to that."

  Paul disappears into the kitchen, and I decide to use the restroom before heading home. I am disappointed I lost the competition, but it's overshadowed by the exhilaration I feel after my talk with Paul. There is no longer any doubt in my mind that he is interested in me, and the thought of spending time with him outside of the restaurant is both thrilling and terrifying. I check my makeup in the mirror before locking myself into a stall. My nerves over today's challenge made it hard for me to sleep last night, and I'm looking forward to getting home and crawling back into my bed. I'm just about to exit the stall when I hear the restroom door open and two female voices fill the room. I can't tell who the voices belong to, and I don't want to interrupt their conversation. I decide to remain in the stall until they leave.

  "Can I borrow that lip gloss?" the first voice asks.

  "Sure, just let me dig it out of my bag," the second voice answers.

  "So should we start placing bets on which one of the new girls he's going to fuck first?"

  "Charlotte, you're terrible," the second voice scolds. "If anything, we should warn both of them. I'm sick and tired of watching him fuck and dump every woman who walks through the doors."

  "His shit didn't work on either of us," Charlotte reminds her friend. "If either of those girls is stupid enough to fuck him, then they deserve what they get."

  I feel guilty about eavesdropping, but the women's conversation intrigues me. I wonder who they're talking about, and Charlotte's next statement confirms my worst fears.

  "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if one of those girls tries to fuck her way into the apprentice position. You know that's how Claire got the pâtissier position. Patrick told me that several more qualified people applied for the job. But Claire spent one night with Paul, and then the next day she was hired."

  My heart sinks, and I feel like I'm going to be sick. Just a few moments ago, I was imagining myself falling in love with Paul. Now I am sure he is nothing but a player. Shake it off. This is for the best. Getting involved with him would just be a distraction, and Jenny and Robbs would resent me for it anyway. I'm going to win this apprenticeship, and I'm going to do it without taking my clothes off.

  "Maybe he'll hire that Robbs guy," says the second voice. "They could be each other's wing men."

  "Oh, Amy, be honest. You had your eyes on Robbs since he first walked through the door. You want Paul to hire him so you'll have someone to play with."

  "A girl can dream," Amy replies with a giggle. "We'd better get back out there and see if any of our tables are set."

  I hear the women leave the restroom, but I remain seated in my stall, absorbing what I just learned about Paul. I decide there are two things I need to do. First, I find a way to shoot down Paul's advances without jeopardizing my position in the competition. Second, I need to warn Jenny about his history as a player. With a new resolve, I leave the restroom and head for home.

  ***

  "It doesn't surprise me at all that Paul is a player," Jenny insists. It is Saturday, and the two of us are taking a break between the lunch and dinner rushes at the restaurant. As Paul warned, I've already had a long weekend and it's only half over. This is the first chance to tell Jenny about the conversation I overheard in the restroom.

  We sit at a small bistro table in the café down the street from Fission. We'd both agreed we needed a break from Robbs, Paul, and Fission in general.

  "It's absolutely disgusting," I tell her. "I feel so awkward working with Claire after hearing how she got her job."

  "Does it appear like she knows what she's doing? I can't imagine Paul would put a bad chef in his kitchen, even if she's good in bed."

  "She seems perfectly capable," I reply. "And her food is delicious."

  "Maybe the gossip is only half right," Jenny suggests. "Maybe she slept with him, but that may not be the reason she was hired. You know how gossip works. It's like a margarita... it should be taken with several grains of salt."

  "I don't like salt with mine," I say with an upturned nose.

  "Come to think of it, neither do I..." she says, "but the saying still applies. We just need to keep our heads down and focus on our jo
bs. No good ever comes from sleeping with coworkers anyway. That's not a lesson I need to learn twice."

  I can tell Jenny is trying hard to be my friend, but I'm still not quite ready to let my guard down. I've had too many 'friends' who were decent enough at first, but bailed as soon as I let myself be vulnerable with them. When people hear about my past, they become closed off and treat me as if I'm damaged. And as friendly as Jenny seems, at the end of the day she's still my competition. The last thing I want to do is let her know where my weaknesses are.

  "You're right," I tell her. "It shouldn't matter if Paul is a player or a saint. He's our boss, and becoming involved with him isn't an option."

  Jenny shakes her head. "Chauvinists always assume successful women slept their way to the top. The last thing either of us should do is prove them right. To be honest, I don't care if you beat me or I beat you... as long as Robbs doesn't get the apprenticeship, I'll consider it a win."

  "Agreed," I reply. We lift our coffee mugs and toast our mutual dislike of our male competitor. I take a long drink of my coffee and check the time. "The dinner rush will be starting soon. We'd better get back."

  As we exit the café, Jenny loops her arm through mine and we walk back to Fission together.

  ***

  "I can't fucking believe they picked Kiara," Robbs hisses harshly. The three competitors had just finished the second cooking challenge, and the winner was just announced.

  "You're just pissed that you lost again," Jenny insists. "Really, Robbs... you need to lighten up. Quit being such an ass during the challenges and maybe Paul won't feel the need to shoot your dishes down."

  "You tasted her sauce, Jenny. It was fucking broken! Last week my pasta was slightly underdone, and I had to make the bastard a fresh plate so he'd know I'm not incompetent. And today we both watched little Miss Cordon Bleu's sauce separate on our plates, and he made it the goddamn weekend special!"

  Jenny furrows her brow. "You do have a point. I know my seafood plate was a flop, but your duck was delicious. And Kiara's sauce did break..."

  "He's fucking her, I know he is," Robbs insists. "Or he's trying really hard to. The way he fawns over her all of the time is disgusting. 'What a lovely plate, Chef Kiara,' 'I'm so impressed by your work ethic, Chef Kiara,' 'Let me help you carry those plates, Chef Kiara.' They may as well go at it on the prep table. I'm telling you, Jenny, if she hasn't already opened her legs, she's going to. And then we'll be out on our asses."