by M. J. O'Shea
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Mj
About M.J. O’Shea
MJ O’Shea has never met a music festival, paintbrush, or flower crown she can stay away from. She loves rainstorms and a perfect cup of tea, beach days, music, bright colors, and more than anything a cozy evening with a really great book.
She is from the Pacific Northwest. While she still lives there and loves it, MJ has the heart of a wanderer. So she puts all her dreams of far off places and extraordinary people in her books.
Except for every once in a while when she does what all travelers have to do on occasion … comes home.
Sneak Peek of Chef in the Wild
The kitchen had always been like a ballet to him, a culmination of perfectly timed movement – intricate steps, the sizzle of butter hitting the pan, rhythmic chop-chop-chop of trained knives, and bodies weaving in and out in some unspoken choreography – a complex dance to create an end-product that was so much more than the sum of its skilled parts.
Of course, there was also the potential for collision and disaster just like any well-timed dance that had somehow found itself offbeat.
Disaster was for other chefs, though, lesser kitchens. Disaster was a foreign word. He wouldn’t have it any other way…
“Chef. Chef. The rack of lamb is prepped. Do you want me to finish the risotto?”
“Hmm? Oh. Yes. Finish the risotto.”
Executive Chef and notorious pain in the ass — he was a little bit proud of that second part — Baldwin Powell shook himself out of a rare spaced out moment and surveyed his kingdom. His sous chef, Bobby, gave him a quick head tilt and then went back to his work.
They were a tight little ship at Ravenna — the kitchen didn’t have room for a whole battalion of staff members lined up like crisp white-coated soldiers, each with one task to perform at perfection level over and over while he waited at the pass for final inspection like some king surveying his kingdom. Most of the cooks filled many duties, including him. It was exhausting, but in a good way. A productive way. At least most days.
He wondered what it would be like at the new property. It didn’t have a name yet, but the rumors were flying thick – two stories in Midtown, huge waiting list, kitchen the size of Ravenna’s entire interior, celebrity guests, and Food Network appearances. He was pretty much a shoe in for executive chef. Baldwin smiled to himself. It was about time. He’d spent a lifetime working toward it, it seemed.
He’d miss Ravenna, though. The miniature gleaming cavern of steel and brick and subway tile tucked into a little corner in SoHo had been his home for nearly ten years. There was a sort of magic in its walls — even if the magic moments were fewer and further between than they used to be when he was a wide-eyed baby chef with his first big gig.
Baldwin always figured the real stuff wasn’t in the magic anyway. It was making his kitchen work when everything seemed to be falling apart, it was salvaging the half-burnt filet mignon for another dish or covering for a still-drunk – and obviously fired – prep cook. It was coming in to perform for his crowd when he’d rather be at home with a glass of Beaujolais and a re-run of Sherlock.
Maybe the magic was unreliable. But he still felt its vestiges in the familiar smells of garlic and browned butter and the sound of knives shredding herbs to piles of vivid fragrant green.
They made magic at Ravenna. He’d make it at the new restaurant too. Baldwin just needed his damn boss to give him the good news and quit keeping him in suspense.
Baldwin was in the middle of reducing his delicate house-made tarragon vinegar for Ravenna’s signature béarnaise when their owner Tony walked in with… what the hell?
He was with Casey.
Jake Casey. Baldwin’s hackles rose. Casey and Baldwin were the Brady and Manning of the New York food scene, Hector and Achilles, Burr and Hamilton. A rivalry for the ages. He’d built his hatred for Jake Casey — Jake assface Casey, executive chef at Del Vecchio — to Titanic proportions. Baldwin thought it was fully justified. Casey was a sneering, smirking pain in Baldwin’s butt and he’d been kissing Tony’s rich, perma-tanned posterior for as long as Baldwin could remember. To what end, Baldwin could only guess. None of his guesses made him sleep easier at night.
Get out of my kitchen.
He wished he could say it out loud.
Baldwin wasn’t sure, but it felt like Casey smirked at him when they passed. Shit. Of course, he smirked. When was that smarmy bastard not smirking? He didn’t stop to trade his usual veiled barbs, just followed Tony into his office, which was right next to Baldwin’s, and let the door fall closed behind him.
“What the hell was that clown doing here? Doesn’t he have his own restaurant to run?” Bobby asked, no, growled under his breath.
Baldwin’s sous chef looked just as belligerent as he felt. His entire kitchen felt the same way towards Casey and Del Vecchio. A few of them had suggested some rather… immature acts of retribution over the years. Sometimes he wished he’d gone along with them rather than stopping the pranks in their tracks. It still felt like a slap in the face to have Tony parade the douche in front of him.
Baldwin shrugged. He tried to look unconcerned. He was very much concerned.
“I don’t know.” He rolled his eyes in the general direction of Tony’s office and then went back to his béarnaise. The last thing he needed to do was get his team all antsy.
“Salmon and roasted veg done, chef. Ready for sauce.”
“Good.” He spooned the sauce over the perfectly cooked salmon, did a light balsamic drizzle around the edge of the dish, wiped and checked it over one last time. Done.
“Pick up, table nine.”
Baldwin turned, then, and watched the dance continue. Everything was fine in the kitchen. Perfect, actually, just like he liked it. He just had to ignore the lurking presence behind his boss’s door.
“How was work today, babe?”
Baldwin still hadn’t shaken the uneasy feeling by the time he got back from the restaurant. It was late and he was tired, but his boyfriend Trey had on slacks and a slick button down. Not the kind of clothes that led to lounging on the couch and passing out in bed. Those were cocktail clothes. Baldwin sighed. Trey never seemed to understand that the last thing he wanted to do some nights after being in a restaurant all day was go to another one – or at least one of Trey’s favorite bars to talk with Trey’s favorite people about shit that Baldwin didn’t understand or have the energy to care about.
“It was long. Jake Casey was in visiting Tony.”
Trey squinted. He looked like he’d expected a generic ‘good’ so he could move on to whatever he was planning to say. Baldwin wasn’t in the mood to ignore his day just to keep up the smooth façade their whole relationship seemed to glide over.
“Who’s that again?”
Of course, he didn’t remember. Typical. Baldwin wondered sometimes if it was really that bad to be single. Pain when it came to restaurant openings and obligatory appearances where Trey could function as a sort of shield to keep the most ardent clamorers away. Easier most of the rest of the time.
“Remember … Del Vecchio?”
“Nice ass, bitchy attitude?” Trey asked.
At least he’d gotten it right after the second reminder. Baldwin was probably just tired, but he was annoyed that Trey didn’t know it right away. After two years of what was mostly social and polite dating but dating all the same, Baldwin knew the name, birthdate, vocal range, and blood type of each and every one of Trey’s stage rivals. He’d probably be drawn and quartered if he forgot.
“Yeah. that’s it.”
“Well hopeful
ly it was a one-time thing.” Trey shrugged it off. “Are you going to get in the shower? We have to leave soon.”
“Where are we going?” Baldwin tried not to sound like he was sighing.
“Petey don’t be mopey.” Trey cupped his cheek. He supposed it was a sweet gesture. It didn’t feel like one after the day he’d had.
“Don’t call me Petey.” Baldwin rolled his eyes.
“But it’s your name.”
“Peter is. Unfortunately.” And the kids back home in Vermont had called him Pete or Petey since day one. But nothing about Petey Powell said ‘big shot chef’ so he’d started going by his middle name when he moved to New York and pretty much nobody in the city called him anything else. Except Trey when he was trying to be cute.
It wasn’t cute.
“Fine. Baldwin. Please get in the shower and stop moping because some other cook came by your restaurant.”
Cook. Seriously. Baldwin shook his head. For someone who very publicly hung his hat on Baldwin’s reputation as a well-known chef, Trey didn’t have much respect for the profession. Not tonight.
“I’m not really in the mood to go out.”
“Because I called you Petey?”
“No Trey. Because I had a long day and I’m probably going to have another long day tomorrow and I don’t feel like going anywhere else when my feet hurt and I’ve been working for ten hours.”
“Just a little while okay, then we’ll come home.”
“Fine.” He knew he wasn’t going to win, so he figured he might as well just give in rather than tire himself out arguing his case.
Baldwin took the shortest most cursory shower he could manage, then he dressed in a V-neck sweater and a pair of slacks. He was so beyond not in the mood for drinks with Trey’s theater friends, but he’d have to act like he was or he’d get hell for it later.
Fantastic.
Just as expected, they stayed out far later than he hoped, and it took a prodigious amount of effort for Baldwin to drag himself into the restaurant the next day. His kitchen staff was already there prepping. So was Tony which was … unusual to say the least. Tony never missed his morning workout at Soul Cycle and the obligatory soy latte and green juice that followed – like any of those things would quell the inevitable sagging skin and temples that turned silver if he was late for his monthly colorist session.
His presence made Baldwin incredibly uneasy. More so when Tony waved Baldwin into his office.
“How are you today?” Tony asked. He gestured for Baldwin to sit.
“I’m fine?” He didn’t mean for it to sound like a question. Baldwin knew better than to sound anything less than absolutely sure of himself in Tony’s presence. Tony was like a predator, that way. Sniffed out weakness and sank his sharp teeth into it.
“Good, good.”
Baldwin noticed Tony sweating, just a bit around his silvering hairline. He wondered if the slight quiver in Tony’s jaw was just his imagination.
“Tony, what’s up? I have two pigs to break down.”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your future at Ravenna.”
Is this where he offers me the new restaurant? Baldwin hadn’t been expecting the news until after the holidays at the earliest, but he wasn’t going to complain about the pick me up.
“I’m definitely amenable to that discussion,” Baldwin said.
“I just…” Tony hesitated and then pursed his lips. “I don’t think you’re a good fit for Ravenna’s vision anymore, kid. You’ve changed.”
Baldwin had been about to thank Tony for the generous offer when…wait. What?
“I’m not a good fit for Ravenna? I am Ravenna.”
He was numb for long, stretching seconds, but then the shock dissolved, and bile rose in his throat. Baldwin felt it then, all the clichés – the pounding pulse, blood rushing to his face, dark spots in his vision. All of it. Rage. That’s what real rage felt like.
“No, I’m Ravenna. You’re a tired cook who’s lost his mojo. I think you need to take a break. Find your passion again. Your voice.” Tony’s own voice was hoarse, and if Baldwin was reading it right, a little bit afraid. He knew he was pulling a dick move. He just didn’t care enough to not do it.
Baldwin took a few long, slow breaths to try and quell the rising tide of fury before he dared answer. “Let me clarify this. Are you firing me?”
Nobody fired him. They wouldn’t survive a day without him.
“I haven’t seen any excitement out of you for months. More than a year if you ask me,” Tony said. “It’s affecting your work.”
“Are you firing me and calling my food boring? Tired?”
Baldwin wanted to choke him. Squeeze the life out of him with his bare hands. He wasn’t prone to violent impulses but there was always room for an exception.
“I suppose I am.” Tony shrugged like he hadn’t just delivered the biggest insult Baldwin could imagine.
The bile was hard to swallow down.
Baldwin stood. His chair made a horrible echoing screech on the impeccably stained concrete floor of Tony’s bland-chic office. He wanted to throw the chair. Maybe take out the James Beard award that he’d won for Ravenna while he was at it. Rip the Michelin star plaque, his Michelin star plaque, off the wall and Frisbee flip that shit right at Tony’s dumb leathery orange face. Instead he nodded with his hands clenched into fists. He didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do. How he could possibly retain his dignity.
“I’m assuming you have someone to cover service tonight?”
“Oh, dear. You don’t need to leave tonight,” Tony said. “I thought you’d finish out the week.”
Baldwin practiced his deep breathing for another few moments so the first noise out of his mouth wouldn’t be a mangled scream. He spoke when he felt like he was able.
“Actually, I think it’s best that I do go. I’m suddenly not feeling well. Bobby can run the kitchen until you find a replacement.” Do you honestly expect me to stay and work for you, asshole? Not a chance.
He didn’t know how he managed to make it out of the restaurant, back to his loft, into his bed. It was probably shock. The next thing Baldwin knew, it was dark, and he was struggling his way out of a drugging nap. He panicked for a moment about missing service. Then he remembered and his gut plummeted to the floor.
Baldwin had barely sunk into his couch for a long night of feeling sorry for himself when he heard his front door creak open. It had to be Trey. He sorely wished he hadn’t given Trey a key. As usual with Trey, his access to Baldwin’s place was more trouble than it was worth. He was groggy from his long nap, and he just wasn’t in a place where he felt like talking out loud about his failures. He might never be.
“Hey.”
Baldwin knew as soon as he looked at Trey’s face that he’d somehow heard. Already. Seriously? Wasn’t he supposed to be in rehearsal all day? Baldwin wondered which one of the theater people who pretended to like him had texted Trey with the stellar news.
“Hi,” Trey said quietly. He looked uncomfortable.
“Can I assume you know and I don’t have to say it out loud?”
“I know.”
“Good. Well?”
Baldwin knew he’d have something to say about it. He always had something to say.
“I think it’s time for us to take a break.”
Baldwin felt a sharp wave of initial relief, but it was followed by shame. More shame on top of the crap pile of shame from the morning. It was hard not to react to that instead of the relief. It was almost funny how transparent the situation was. Or would be if Baldwin had any capacity to laugh.
“You can’t be serious.”
Baldwin stared at Trey in utter disbelief. He realized quickly that he should’ve seen it coming. Hell, he’d been a disgraced ex-chef for a total of ten hours. Apparently, that was ten hours too long for Trey. Still, that had to be some sort of land speed record in gold-digging. Ten hours. Trey hadn’t even shaken the water droplets off of
his designer pea coat.
“You haven’t been into it for months, Petey.” Of all the times to whip out fucking Petey. “I think this relationship is dragging you down.”
It was almost like Trey had taken his reasoning right out of Tony’s playbook. It’s all you, not me. You’re the one not carrying his weight…
“Since when were you so concerned about how I feel? Last time I checked that was pretty low on your list.”
That overwhelming urge to throw things came over him again. Baldwin dug his nails into the fleshy palm of his hand. All of a sudden, he had zero interest in hearing a single word about the situation.
“You know what? Just go.”
He was intensely grateful that he’d never given into any of Trey’s many attempts to bring up moving in. The few bits of Trey’s junk hanging around could easily be dealt with in a single messengered bag. It would have been a huge hassle to move him out completely.
Trey didn’t say much, just took his coat and walked out the door.
Baldwin sank onto his couch and stared at the blank, black screen of his wall mounted flat screen.
At least I know for sure why he was with me…
He’d always wondered how much Trey really wanted him and how much he wanted to say he was dating Baldwin Powell, semi-celebrity chef with all the right connections.
Apparently, an unemployed ex-semi-celeb chef with no prospects of a restaurant in the near future wasn’t quite as sexy.
Good riddance.
Murphy Haynes hated mornings. Like, a lot. At least his weren’t super early – not compared to when he was baking pastries right after culinary school. That had been two years of absolute torture getting up way before dawn every day and dragging himself into a cold kitchen where he didn’t even see the sky for hours at a time. Torture. The kind he never wanted to repeat again.
