Cocky Chef

by JD Hawkins

  Cocky Chef

  JD Hawkins

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. Cole

  2. Willow

  3. Cole

  4. Willow

  5. Cole

  6. Willow

  7. Cole

  8. Willow

  9. Cole

  10. Willow

  11. Cole

  12. Willow

  13. Cole

  14. Willow

  15. Cole

  16. Willow

  17. Cole

  18. Willow

  19. Cole

  20. Willow

  21. Cole

  22. Willow

  Unprofessional

  Also by JD Hawkins

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by JD Hawkins

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  This book is dedicated to Chris Cornell, who passed away while I was writing this book and who's music has been the soundtrack of my life. Rest in peace.

  "The minute you start compromising for the sake of massaging somebody's ego, that's it, game over."

  Gordon Ramsay

  1

  Cole

  Hunger can drive a man crazy. That emptiness inside that twists and stabs until the only thing you can focus on is filling it. Power, money, women...food.

  Some men have appetites that can never be appeased—hungers so big, so powerful, that they can never stop. Men like me.

  "We're here, Mr. Chambers."

  I look up from the invoices and work orders in my lap and see the driver glance at me in the rearview mirror. I nod to him as the Maybach pulls up in front of the restaurant.

  Usually I’d drive myself—God knows I own enough cars to run a grand prix—but today’s been a busy one, and I’ve spent every moment I could poring over paperwork for the new spot in Vegas.

  “Thanks, Derek,” I say as he opens the door and I step out into the canopy lights of Knife: the hottest restaurant in L.A. I hand him a hundred bucks. “I’ll get a cab back.”

  He smiles in gratitude, spins back into the car, and drives away, leaving me to stand for a moment in front of the place. It still looks beautiful after all these years. A grand entrance; glass so fine you’d swear there was nothing there, framed by woodgrain hand-picked from Portland logs. A deep red canopy modelled after Prohibition-era movie theaters looms over the doors. Above that, the word ‘Knife’ in understated steel lettering. Through the glass on either side of the entrance, glowing in the gold of candlelight against the exposed brickwork, I can see the diners sitting at their tables.

  The music of their chatter, laughter, and clinking cutlery is faint, as faint as the aroma of garlic and white wine sauce on mussels, the sweetness of a newly caramelized soufflé. Sensations that compel you like a woman’s flickering eyelashes, urging you to draw closer, close enough to devour what you’ve set your sights on.

  The place is clean, elegant, modern. And on a night like this—even after a day like today—when the Pacific breeze moving through L.A. jostles the palm fronds like they’re conjuring a dream, it’s almost magical.

  What you don’t see are the blood, sweat and tears embedded in those bricks. The struggle and hardships that glued them together. The betrayals and broken friendships, the burning drive and resilient determination that laid its foundations. Only I can see those.

  I walk up and enter, greeted by the maître d’ standing behind his podium.

  “Evening, Mr. Chambers,” he says.

  “Evening, Charlie.”

  He’s worked here for six years, and is still the best in the business. The joke goes that Charlie is so good at making people wait that it’s only a matter of time before the DMV hires him. The job is in his blood. So much so that he still won’t call me Cole no matter how many times I’ve told him to.

  “What’ll it be, sir?”

  “Well, I’ve just spent a whole day dealing with the morons in Vegas, I haven’t eaten since this morning, and I’d like to get home in time to see the Clippers highlights. As long as it comes with a side of the most alcoholic wine we have, I don’t care.”

  Charlie smiles wryly.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Most restaurant staff would start sweating at the idea of picking something off the menu themselves, but like I said, Charlie’s of a different breed. His party trick is knowing what people are gonna order while they’re still standing in line.

  I’ve just told him that I’m tired and pushed for time, which means I won’t bother with an appetizer. The most alcoholic wine we have is a Zinfandel red, which is recommended for the beef dishes. And besides, it’s a Tuesday in May, so we’ve just had a fresh delivery of ribeye cuts.

  “Will table four suit, sir?”

  I nod appreciatively and move inside. It’s a relatively quiet night, which means most tables are full but there’s no line outside. Instinct immediately draws my eye to the three attractive women at a table across the room. Specifically the demure blonde facing me in a green dress so thin you could blow it off. She catches me looking and immediately reaches for her wine glass to hide the upturn in her lips.

  Seconds after I take my seat, the wine is brought and poured at my table. I lean toward the waiter and point subtly in the direction of the blonde.

  “What are they drinking over there, Ryan?”

  He glances over nonchalantly, then back at me.

  “The house rosé, sir.”

  “Send them another bottle of it, on me. Tell them—but look at the blonde when you do so—that it’s for dressing so elegantly this evening.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The waiter leaves and I wait for the blonde to glance over at me again before raising the glass in her direction. She smiles more broadly now, then whispers to her friends, who all look over. Just a quick glance before they turn back to themselves, leaning in to giggle amongst each other like conspirators.

  Maybe they recognize me from the TV show I had a couple of years ago, where I taught a bunch of ex-convicts and young offenders how to cook professionally. It was a fun time, but I quit the show when I realized the production company kept trying to stir up drama between the cast members. In reality, most of them took to the kitchen like ducks to water, and the heat of it left none of them with enough energy to cause trouble. So the producers thought it would spice the show up a little to instigate some fights, get the cooks wound up. Well, I don’t like drama—especially in my kitchens. So I quit. Swapped the chef whites for fine suits, started combing my hair in the mornings, and decided to get back to the business side of things since Knife seemed to be running well on its own with limited supervision from me. That’s when I started my plans to open up another restaurant, this time in Vegas.

  The wine arrives and I enjoy the show, the women still all shocked mouths and slight blushes. The waiter points back at me and I raise an eyebrow, keeping my eyes on the blonde as I bring the glass to my lips, savoring the sweet taste of the wine and the elegant curve of her cleavage at the same time. She’s smiling now, bashfully hiding behind that hair and stealing glances at me. Her slender fingers delicately holding the fork that plays around her plate. Gentle and careful. I won’t say getting this woman into bed tonight will be easy, but the truth is, it’s not gonna be hard. And after the week I’ve had, I could use the distraction.

  “Your steak, Cole.”

  I tu
rn away from the blonde to see Ryan, the waiter, place the large plate in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I say, a little growl edging into my voice as I look down at the marbled meat. It’s all juicy softness, outlined by the prickles of peppercorns and grill lines, the red wine sauce glistening so that it seems almost alive. The blonde’s gonna have to wait a little.

  I slice a piece—pleased to find the knives have been sharpened as I like them—and reveal the center; red as lust. I spear it, take a piece of the crisp potato like an afterthought, and put it in my mouth.

  It takes about a second for my brain to get the messages my tongue is sending it, but when I realize it I slam the cutlery back on the plate loud enough to make the diners around me turn in my direction. Ryan rushes over, his Ken-doll eyebrows shooting upward as he sees my tightened jawline, my fixed expression.

  “Something wrong?” he says tentatively.

  “Who’s working the vegetables tonight?”

  “Um…Willow.”

  “Willow?”

  “Yeah…the new chef. We hired her last week, remember? While you were in Vegas.”

  I frown. “Bring her out here.”

  Ryan hesitates for a split second, forcing me to look at him and erase any doubt that I’m being 100% serious. Then, he bolts. After tapping my fingers on the fine tablecloth for a few moments, Ryan returns, the chef in question following close behind him.

  She walks elegantly, proud. Shoulders back and chin high. The chef whites and baggy black slacks hiding her body, dark blonde hair twisted up and buried under a hairnet, but the long neck and delicate features of her face all the more striking for the outfit’s plainness. Doe-brown eyes set in an oval shape, lips that pout like they’re mid-kiss, and a slightly upturned nose so demurely imperfect that only an artist could have made it.

  “Is there a problem?” she asks, glancing from me to Ryan and back again. Her hand is on her hip, exhibiting a flash of attitude.

  I take a second, frowning at her. She clearly has no idea who I am…

  “You cooked these potatoes?”

  “Yes…” she says, frowning back. “And?”

  “Can you tell me which herbs go into them?”

  “Uh…sure,” she says, shooting a confused look at Ryan. “There’s a little sage, some thyme—”

  “Thyme.”

  There’s a slight tilt of her head when I interrupt. Enough to show me that she knows where I’m going with this, but the fierce defensiveness doesn’t leave her expression, or her voice.

  “Yeah. Thyme.”

  “The menu says thyme,” I announce, then point contemptuously at the potatoes on my plate. “But this? This is lemon thyme.”

  She sighs quickly, a slight admission, but there’s not an ounce of regret about it.

  “We’re out of regular thyme, sir.”

  I can tell she’s trying to appease me, using her soothing ‘customer service’ voice. Unfortunately for her, it won’t work on me. Because I’m the boss, and this is my recipe.

  Ryan leans toward Willow and murmurs, “It’s probably at Leo’s station, he always forgets to put stuff back when he’s done.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Willow answers under her breath, then looks back at me as if expecting it to satisfy. “Honestly, I think the lemon thyme makes the dish work better anyway.”

  The smile that cracks on my face, an incredulous chuckle, is involuntary. Even if this girl doesn’t know who I am, that’s a ballsy thing for a cook to tell a customer.

  “Do you, now?” My voice is like ice.

  “I do,” she says firmly. “The citrus clears the palate a little better. Since the steak sauce has a strong aftertaste it brings out the flavor a little more with each bite. Especially when it’s served that rare.”

  “Willow,” Ryan cajoles quickly, “I can handle this now, maybe you should—”

  “You don’t just throw whatever you think works into a recipe,” I say, my smile gone now. “If I want a mystery plate I’ll go to the jambalaya place down the street. This is a three-star restaurant. If I order something I expect it to be exactly the same as it is on the menu.” She’s gritting her teeth now, her fake smile gone tight. I don’t let up. “If you were out of mussels would you give me pistachio nuts and tell me they’re the same because they come in a shell?”

  “Wow,” Willow says, folding her arms and shaking her head detachedly. “You really are a special kind of asshole.”

  Ryan’s face goes white. “Um, Willow—”

  “I’m an asshole?” I interrupt.

  “Yeah. So you don’t like the lemon thyme—does that mean you have to bring me out here to ream me out and try to embarrass me in front of the other diners?”

  “Willow, stop—” Ryan reaches for her arm but she brushes him off.

  I’m out of my chair and staring her down now, drawing myself up to my full height of six foot two. “It’s not a matter of whether I ‘like’ lemon thyme or not, it’s a matter of you doing your job properly.”

  “And what’s your job? You some kind of big shot actor? With your attitude and your fancy suit and your massive…jawline? What do you do that makes you so big-headed you think you can just come in here and speak to me like that?”

  “Willow!” Ryan says, with just enough force this time to draw her attention. He points at me and looks at her. “That’s Cole Chambers. He owns this restaurant.”

  2

  Willow

  So this is it. This is how you fuck up your dream job. By serving the wrong ingredient to your boss, one of the best chefs on the west coast, an infamous perfectionist, before calling him an asshole to his face.

  And now his narrow blue eyes are fixed on me like searchlights. That broad, handsome face that I suddenly, and all too late, recognize with full clarity. I’ve seen that face too many times to count, pointing at me from the covers of cookbooks or celebrity gossip magazines, or twisted with hellish anger as he chewed out chef trainees on TV—and now that same face is staring at me with judgmental amusement. I feel even more ridiculous and exposed for not realizing it was him, but that tailored suit and combed hair makes him look more like a laid back movie star than the sinewy-armed force of nature that spins and shouts around the kitchen on TV or escorts the hottest models and actresses all over L.A. on dates.

  My heart sinks, my blood runs cold, and the realization that there’s no turning back now stretches the moment out to an eternity. Cole looks at me blankly, making it clear that it’s my move, so I do what I always do when the chips are down and I’ve made an idiot of myself: I turn my chin up, put my shoulders back, and stop giving a fuck.

  “Well,” I say, pulling off my hairnet and letting my chin-length bob fall down around my face. “At least I can say I met the ‘great’ Cole Chambers.”

  Before either Cole or Ryan can say anything else, I spin on my heel and march back toward the kitchen, already unbuttoning my chef whites. Striding through the plumes of steam, confused looks tossed at me by my fellow ex-colleagues, I grab my bag and take the rear exit like the building’s on fire.

  For a moment, as I’m closing my car door and then reversing out into the street, I wonder if I’m being rash, running out like this. Then I remember the stories of how uncompromising Cole is, his insufferable attitude on TV, how many sacrifices and how few concessions he makes in search of great food. They say he fired somebody once for over-salting a whitefish filet, that he kicked out a customer who asked that his bouillabaisse come with the mussels de-shelled. There’s even a story that he ran seven miles in the rain so that he wouldn’t have to serve the wrong kind of apples in a tarte tatin.

  I didn’t believe those stories, to be honest, but seeing him face-to-face, those keen eyes that sear through you like a cleaver, that hard, commanding face, those broad shoulders—it’s clear Cole is a guy who knows what he wants, and doesn’t settle for an inch less.

  Besides, I’ve tasted failure too often now to mistake it.

  Imagine the mos
t exquisite, vibrant restaurant you can. Upscale, unique fittings built of reclaimed barnwoods, colorful works by local artists across the walls, gold embossed menus, a kitchen at the back just open enough to allow the rich aromas of seared meat and sautéed onions to fill the space. A restaurant that assaults your every sense with delights—touch, sight, smell. A rotating menu of seasonal ingredients and the freshest cuts. Hearty, savory soups where a handful of perfectly paired flavors fight for prominence in your mouth, peppercorn steaks that explode on your tongue, mint lamb chops so tender and aromatic you feel like you’re dreaming them.

  Now imagine that restaurant’s elegant, frontier cabin design, sitting in the middle of nowhere at the end of a long, winding dirt road in Idaho. Just off a main road that has four drive-in fast food joints. Invisible for miles, so that even the locals wouldn’t find it unless they plugged the exact address into their GPS. Think about who would be naïve enough to put that restaurant there.

  Well…me.

  To be fair, it was the only location I could afford after spending so much on the restaurant itself. I figured people would pilgrimage there once word of how awesome the place was got out. But even the food critics couldn’t be bothered to come out and see it. We had a few loyal customers, since most people needed to visit only once before they became regulars, and my sister Ellie and her husband made sure to stop by at least twice a week with their friends and colleagues, but it still wasn’t enough to keep the business going. It didn’t help that I kept the food cheap, stubbornly trying to prove the point that good food didn’t have to be exclusively expensive, that for the price of a processed burger meal you could eat something twice as fresh, twice as healthy, and ten times tastier. Principles that strong can be hard to carry, though.

  By the end of the second month there was so much food left over each day that even the staff didn’t want to take any more home. By the fourth I had to decide whether to pay the suppliers or the waiters. When the head and the sous chef told me they’d work for free if I told them I believed I could turn it around, I knew I couldn’t lie to them. We shut the place down the next day, and I felt like a part of me had been cut away, leaving behind just another woman in her mid-twenties with no job, bad credit, and the nagging thought that I might not be cut out for this business.