Chef Cutegirl: A Sweet Lesbian Romance

by Nicolette Dane

  “No,” she said emphatically, giving me a light kick. “If I win Hot Chef and get the money and get the fame that comes with it, I want to do some sort of farmhouse traditional.”

  “Really? Huh,” I mused, thinking about it. “Like rustic American?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Like tripe and sweetbreads, you know? Hearty stews and light saison beers you can just slam down as you eat a heaping plate of root mash.” Raina released her rolling giggle, an affect that I was coming to absolutely love.

  “You’re the funny one,” I said. “That seems like so much the opposite of what you do now.”

  “It just reminds me of my childhood,” she said sheepishly.

  “How so?”

  “Um, well,” she began. “I actually grew up in Woodstock, upstate, not down in the City.”

  “Ah, but you say you’re from New York?” I asked.

  “Yeah, you know, it’s just easily identifiable,” she said, waving her hand lackadaisically.

  “And Woodstock isn’t?” I chortled.

  “People just think of the music festival Woodstock,” she said, “They don’t really know the area.”

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  “My father was a chef, I mean, is,” she said, quickly correcting herself. “He has a restaurant. The farmhouse style, that’s from him, but his is more French… like what you do. I love him and his food.”

  “You are, like, the master of just letting out your little facts slowly,” I said. “Would I know who your dad is?”

  “I don’t know,” said Raina, making like she was going to slide down under the booth to hide from me. I don’t know if she was just embarrassed by her culinary lineage or thought that people might judge her one way or another for it. Or maybe she just didn’t like bragging about herself, which was hard to believe because chefs really like to brag and boast about how awesome they are.

  “C’mon,” I said. “You can tell me.”

  “Jacques Perrault,” she said sweetly.

  “Good God, Raina,” I said, putting my head in my hands, nodding back and forth. “Jacques Perrault is your father? You’re Raina Perrault?”

  “I’m a little embarrassed,” she said lightly. “Like, people won’t be able to see my own accomplishments when they find out who my father is. They’ll think I’m only at Latch, that I’ve only gotten to where I am, because of him. Which, I guess, is sorta true.”

  If you’re unfamiliar with Jacques Perrault, which I’m sure you’re not, he is a pretty well-known and highly acclaimed chef who just so happened to have his own television show before celebrity chefs were a thing. We’re talking 80s and 90s, a French cooking show on public broadcasting, in which he taught you… rather, he taught me how to make all the French staples in my own home. He was a happy and jovial man, always in good spirits and excited to teach, and a far cry from what the celebrity chef landscape looks like today which is more like having your head chef bark at you in a hot kitchen. Jacques Perrault was like having your red-cheeked grandfather hold your hand as you whipped whole milk into your aligot mashed potatoes.

  “Dude, you have no reason to be embarrassed,” I said. “That’s just so incredible. I’m in awe.”

  “But you understand how I feel, right?” she spoke weakly, almost sadly. “I just can’t have people belittling what I’ve done, you know?”

  “I know,” I said, offering her a warm smile. After a moment, Raina smiled back at me and I felt that connection happening again. Something drawing us closer. Some sort of weird energy, a magnetism. This girl was something special.

  “Do you want to head back the loft?” she asked cautiously, looking down into her drink. “I don’t think I want any more booze and we’ve got another day of shooting tomorrow.”

  I had almost completely forgotten about the competition. Being there with Raina, getting to know her, feeling like I was falling something hard for her, it totally distracted me from the entire premise of our relationship. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Damn it, Emily, you’re getting silly for this girl.

  *

  When Raina and I got back to the loft, we found the bulk of the other chefs sitting around bullshitting, a couple of them in the kitchen cooking up snacks for the group, most of them with a beer or a glass of wine in their hand as they chatted. The two of us cracked open the door and it was as if the entire collection of them turned their heads simultaneously and stared us down. For a moment I was frightened, like we had done something wrong or we had been the subject of conversation the entire time we’d been gone, but the air in the room returned when Maggie spoke up.

  “There you guys are,” she said. “We’ve been worried about you.”

  “Sorry,” I said, closing the door behind me as Raina slipped past. “Raina and I ended up at one of my favorite bars in the city and you know how that can go!”

  “You ladies going to have a beer with us?” said Richard from the kitchen. From the looks of the board underneath his hand, he was making chorizo stuffed mushrooms.

  “Sure!” I said with a shrug. I wanted to fit in with the group, not eager to paint myself as some sort of secretive outsider. That could lead to trouble later on in the competition.

  “I think I’m going to turn in,” mewed Raina. “I haven’t been able to get this much sleep in a long time!” A couple of the chefs laughed.

  “Right?!” said Tina, an elegant looking black girl with a crazy shaved undercut hair style. “Like, even if I get to bed at midnight tonight, that’s still way early.”

  “I’m not changing my sleeping schedule just for this show,” said Jason. “It took me years for it to feel regular and I’m sticking to it.”

  As the chefs continued talking about the good and bad of an off-hours sleeping schedule, Raina turned to me, smiled, and spoke up in a whisper.

  “Thanks for taking me around, Emily,” she said. “I’ll see you in the room, okay?” With that, she lightly pawed at my side, turned her lips up in an enticing expression, and then wandered off down the hallway toward the bedrooms.

  I took a deep breath, still feeling Raina’s hand on me, my heart galloping from the whole situation. Raina made me think back to this cute girl I had met in culinary school. Dahlia was her name. She was this sweet, bubbly little blonde girl, barely five foot tall, with black glasses and a wry smile. The two of us often cooked next to one another, joked around, had a good time making fun of some of the other students mistakes. Yeah, I know that’s not nice, but it’s kinda fun to be snarky when nobody else can hear you. You know you do it. Anyway, Dahlia and I got along so well that I started to develop a crush on her. This was back before I was as open as I was now, still unsure about my footing in the world, but I sucked it up and made a pass at Dahlia.

  It turned out she wasn’t a lesbian. I mean, I knew she wasn’t, deep down I knew, but I thought maybe I had a chance. I kind of made a fool of myself. Dahlia and I laughed it off, of course, but it changed things. We weren’t as close in class as we had been. It tore a rift between us. But there was something about Raina’s sweetness, her innocence, that reminded me of the things I found so attractive in Dahlia. I think it was that meek exterior with an enormous beautiful light inside that was breaking through the cracks in her outer armor. Once I got going with Dahlia, I could really get her laughing. And the same could be said with Raina. I really loved that. It made me happy to hear Raina laugh.

  Her charming little rolling giggle. Once she got going, it was fun to see how much you could coax out of her.

  “Here you go,” said Richard as he handed me an opened beer bottle. “Cheers!” He clanked his own bottle against mine.

  “Thanks!” I said. I liked Richard. Pretty cool dude. He had sort of that gnarly surfer guy demeanor all couched in some strange porto-hipster vibe. I mean, shaved head and a big beard? Lanky with skinny jeans?

  “Come check out these mushroom caps,” said Richard, motioning me along with his head as he stepped back into the kitchen, which was really just
an adjacent addition to the living room. It was all open, all airy.

  “All right,” I said, taking a sip of the beer.

  “Chorizo, crispy pork belly, cilantro,” he said, motioning down to his tray of uncooked mushrooms. “And, my secret ingredient, just a few little kernels of pink Himalayan rock salt.” Richard then sprinkled the pink salt atop his caps, lifted the tray up, and shoved it all into the oven behind us.

  “Not bad,” I said. Another sip of beer down the hatch.

  “Thanks,” he said, wiping his hands off on a towel. Although the rest of the crew was in the attached room, happily arguing, all trying to “out-chef” one another, it was like Richard and I were in our own scene, cordoned off from the rest.

  “So what’s your story?” he asked, now reaching out for his own beer and leaning up against the counter. “Seems like we’re some of the, you know, top dogs around here.” I couldn’t help but laugh a bit.

  “Well, maybe you and Raina,” I said. “I mean, you were one of their favorites for both the Speed Chop and the Cutthroat.”

  “Sure, but Raina won both,” he said. “And hey, you were a favorite on the Speed Chop too. That’s what I’m saying. I like the way you cook. I think we’re gonna give the others a run for their money.”

  “Man, I just don’t know,” I said. “It’s still so early. I’m impressed by everyone here.”

  “True, true,” he said, stretching out and scratching his belly. If I didn’t know anybody better, I’d think that Richard was hitting on me. Strange because I was under the impression that I just oozed lesbian. “Did you and Raina visit your restaurant today?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s not terribly far from here by train.”

  “French, right?”

  “Yep,” I said. “French bistro. I make a killer French onion soup. Don’t be surprised if you see it come out in the competition.”

  “That’s cool,” he said. “I’m head chef at fish joint in LA,” said Richard, peering over his shoulder to the rest of the chefs. “I do this insane poached sea bass in a miso, coconut, and lemongrass broth. Little bit of toasted almond. Man!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. He was definitely excited about food.

  “What’s the scene like out in LA?”

  “Gnarly,” he said. “It’s such a melting pot, you know? We’ve got the best food trucks in the country, some of the best fine dining, amazing Mexican, it’s really just the place for food. I love it there.”

  “I’ve never been out west,” I mused. “I’d love to check out the food scene in San Francisco as well.”

  “Yeah, you gotta,” he said. Richard fussed with his beer bottle now, picking at the label. “So what’s the deal with Raina?” he asked, deftly changing the subject. “I mean, not that you really know all that much about her. It’s just that, you know, you’re roommates, you’re hanging out and stuff.”

  “What do you mean?” I said. I suddenly felt like the spotlight was on me, like someone was keen on the little romantic plan I was storming up in my head over Raina.

  “No, nothing,” said Richard. “I just mean, like, she’s good, right? She seems kinda like a pushover, but obviously the girl can cook. What’s her story?”

  “Um, I don’t know,” I said, trying to deflect. I knew that Raina was embarrassed by her history or, rather, shy about talking about it. I didn’t want to prompt anything that might make her trust feel betrayed. “She’s sous chef at Latch in New York.”

  “Yeah, I know that,” said Richard. “Anything else, you know, that could give insight to her style or anything?”

  “Trying to size up your competition?” I said with a coy grin, squinting my eyes slightly, giving him a knowing expression.

  “Maybe,” he laughed.

  “Why don’t you ask her?” I said. “And why are you afraid of her, anyway? She’s a sous chef. You’re a head chef, Richard. You’ve got an insane poached sea bass.” I stuck my beer bottle in my mouth and took a swig.

  “I get it, girl,” he said. “Tight lipped.”

  “Yep,” I admitted. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Well, I was just thinking you might want to form a little unofficial team,” said Richard. “You know, getting each others’ backs.”

  I held my bottle up to him to initiate a clanking of glasses which Richard recognized right away, knocking his bottle into mine. We both took a sip.

  “I like the way you think,” I said. “But let’s table the discussion for now and see what happens tomorrow in the kitchen. Cool?”

  “Cool,” he said, his lip curling up just on one side.

  “I’m gonna mosey,” I said, tipping my beer slightly in his direction. “Check out the balcony.”

  “All right,” he said as I turned to walk away from him. “Will you try one of my caps when they come out?” Richard said eagerly.

  “Definitely,” I said with a smile.

  I couldn’t help it, but I kind of loved that Richard was both semi-flirting with me and leaning on me for game allegiance. It was then that I could see this competition getting trickier. You really needed to figure out the other chefs, see where they stood, suss out their weaknesses. That’s what Richard was doing. He knew Raina was good, and while every chef there thought they could take themselves to the end, you still had to get through a bunch of other amazing chefs to get to the finale. And the more you knew about them, the more conniving you could be.

  This was all going to be an awesomely fun challenge.

  *

  As I slowly opened the door to my bedroom, the dim light of the bedside lamp was the first thing I noticed. Then I saw Raina, laid out on her stomach atop her own bed, propped up by her elbows, wearing just a t-shirt and panties, reading through a spiral notebook with a pen in her hand. She had her feet up in the air, kicking them back and forth absentmindedly. At first she didn’t notice that I’d come in, but once I gently shut the door with a light clicking nose, she looked my way.

  “Hi,” she said, offering me a welcoming smile.

  “Evening,” I said as I wandered further into the room. I found it tough to keep my eyes off of Raina’s little rump, obscured only by the tensile material of her panties. They were navy blue today. “What are you looking at?” I asked as I approached her bed.

  “This?” she said, looking down to her notebook. “This is my secret recipe notebook. I’m plotting for all the different possibilities that the show might throw at us.”

  “Are you serious?” I said, tilting my head to get a better look. “You’re, like, mapping all the things out. Is that a venn diagram?”

  “Yeah,” said Raina, moving out of the way slightly to show me. “I just sort of pick an ingredient and figure out the other ingredients that might easily pair with it.” She flipped through her notebook to show me a mess of pages filled with scribbles and charts. “Before I came, I researched on the internet and found all the different challenges that have ever been on Hot Chef, what kind of dish won, and what lost.”

  “Wow,” I mused, starring down at her notebook. “You’ve got the Holy Grail on your hands.” Raina chuckled.

  “I suppose,” she said. “It’s just how I work.”

  “I’m not buying the whole ‘dare’ thing anymore,” I said, sitting down on Raina’s bed now, my backside positioned near her backside. I looked over at her butt again and felt my breath quicken. “I think you’re a serious competitor who wants this badly.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “I mean, the dare did happen with Henry. And Hugo was definitely on board,” Raina recalled, reminiscing back to how this all began for her. “But I’m a hard worker and I do want this.”

  “I’m glad you’re opening up to me,” I said. “It makes me feel closer to you.” Unable to stop myself, I moved a hand to the small of her back and softly rubbed her back and forth through her t-shirt.

  “Just keep it between us, okay?” Raina implored. “I like to appear unassuming.”

  “I don’t know,” I sa
id. “I think the other chefs know what you’re up to.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Raina. With that, she slowly twisted herself around so that she lay on the bed on her back, smiling up to me, my hand now lightly resting on her tummy. Looking down at her tight t-shirt, I could tell she was braless underneath, her nipples delicately apparent as they pointed out from her small chest. Raina offered a diffident stretch, as though she were a cat, her slender legs kicking just the smallest bit.

  Was she coming on to me? I think she was coming on to me.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to continue our conversation but my mind only able to process the lust that was mounting inside of it. “I was just talking to Richard and he was trying to get information about you.”

  “Mmm,” Raina hummed, her eyes tenderly closing, a smile on her lips. She was melting underneath my hand, enjoying the touch of my palm on her belly. “Good,” she said finally. Raina then collected her notebook, closed it, and tossed it off the bed. It hit the floor with a light smacking sound.

  “I had a really fun time with you today,” I admitted softly. Sometimes I felt I could be abrasive in tone and I purposely tried to diminish my usual timbre in favor of something more gentle.

  “Me too,” admitted Raina, popping her eyes open and looking into mine. We held our gaze together for an expectant moment.

  “Do you think…” I began, trying to be careful with my words, playing the double entendre. “Do you think you and I could go… all the way?” Raina grinned and made a sweet purring sound.

  “I think it’s possible,” she said. I didn’t know if she thought we were talking about the competition or, well, something more. But I didn’t care. I loved the game. I loved the anticipation. This kind of flirting foreplay always drove me wild. “We just have to play it smart,” she whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We just have to keep our lips sealed,” said Raina, offering me a sensual look as her body writhed into the sheets.

  “Maybe we should keep our lips pressed together,” I said. “So neither of us can talk.”