A Taste of You: Chef's Table, #1

A Taste of You

By

Irene Preston

A Taste of You

By: Irene Preston

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www.IrenePreston.com

2nd Edition

A Taste Of You was originally published in 2015 by Fated Desires Publishing. No content has been added or substantial changes made from the original.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

© 2015 Sharon Stoker Laurent

ISBN: 978-0-9968099-2-4

Cover Art by Syneca

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Dedication

To The Darlings, for the cheese, the encouragement, and listening to me whine. To Rebecca, without whom I never would have met Carlo and Garrett. To Pixie and Viv, my emergency response team. And to Bones, for putting up with it all.

Chapter One

Giancarlo eyed the plate of antipasti sitting on his desk, then the jacket on the hanger next to the office door. Although his personal shopper assured him the trim style suited him, it didn’t allow for any extra pounds. Guests at the restaurant Ransom expected perfection. In Carlo’s mind, this included the appearance of its co-owner and manager, not just the food and service.

He glanced back at the innocuous looking plate of food, wondering if he could tip it into the trash without anyone noticing. He had skipped shift meal in favor of running through his last-minute checklist again, and, when he finally made it back to the office, the platter had been waiting for him. Most days it would have been welcome, but today he was hyper-aware of the extra couple pounds he had added in the last few months and the new suit. Today wasn’t just another day.

None of that stopped his mouth from watering at the thought of the food, though. Almost all the ingredients came from Ransom’s kitchen, but none of the bite-sized temptations on his desk were from the restaurant’s menu: salmon on toast points with crème fraîche and capers, a ramekin of his favorite almond-stuffed olives, sweet peppers with Hector’s special marinade, insalada caprese on skewers, and the pièce de résistance—a tiny, elegant cream puff.

Every item had been prepared to Ransom’s exacting standards. But, unlike anything a guest would ever see, the plating was designed for snacking while he worked, not astounding the eye with artistic presentation. Nothing had been chosen to take him on a complex culinary journey where each dish built on the flavor profile of the last. Instead, each item had one thing in common. The plate on his desk represented a sampler of his favorite snacks.

His staff was pampering him.

He gave in and popped a piece of prosciutto-wrapped melon into his mouth. As soon as he swallowed it, his stomach growled. Okay. He was hungry. Plus, he shouldn’t risk offending Hector by trashing his marinated peppers.

Before he knew it, only the cream puff remained. He wasn’t really hungry any more, and it definitely wasn’t on the diet. He also couldn’t skip it. He didn’t want to skip it.

The cream puff would never be on Ransom’s dessert menu. No matter how well executed, there was no way to turn the delicate bite of pastry into something arty enough to suit Ransom’s image. Grace, Ransom’s pastry chef, made them only on special occasions. She constantly experimented with new flavor combinations, and he would be expected to comment on her latest effort. A treat and a game all rolled into one.

He picked up the little ball and inhaled, looking for the first clue. The fresh tang of citrus hit him first, followed by a more subtle hint of aromatic spice. Not ginger or nutmeg, something with a slight floral bouquet. Cardamom. Definitely. Now the citrus—not orange or lemon. Lime? The filling had a beautiful blush tint, but that didn’t mean anything. Grace had been known to cheat and color it.

Time for a taste, and he would get only one chance. The whole pastry barely made a bite. He let the delicate morsel dissolve slowly on his tongue, enjoying the cool cream and trying to nail down that elusive citrus flavor. He had a good palate, but, among the crew at Ransom, that was like saying he could breathe air. Garrett won this game every time, but Carlo was going to have to guess.

Garrett.

He tried to ignore the way the name slid into conscious thought despite his efforts to banish it.

Chef Garrett Ransom would be back in the house tonight after months of filming his hit reality show, Ransom Me, in California. The show pitted culinary students against each other in a tough cooking competition mentored and judged by Garrett. At the end of the season, the winner received tuition for his or her final year of culinary school and a spot in a top restaurant upon graduation. Ransom Me had made Garrett a household name.

On Garrett’s first night back, VIPs would pack the restaurant. His fans always seemed to know the exact date the chef would be back, even before Carlo did.

Of course, Ransom dealt with VIPs every night. The butterflies in his stomach, the triple list checking, and the constant edgy anticipation all had to do with Garrett coming home.

Enough loitering in the office. The pastry had been a good distraction, but now Carlo needed to concentrate on getting ready for the first seating. He should be out front.

He got up and put on the jacket, then took a moment to check his appearance in the mirror installed for exactly that purpose. The jacket felt snug but not enough to mar the clean lines. Hair styled, tie neatly knotted. He was ready.

He picked up the empty plate to drop off in the dish room and headed for the front of the house. He almost ran right into Grace when he stepped out of the office.

You ate. Good.

Grace, who looked nothing like her name, was easily the largest person on the staff. Over six feet tall, with warm milk-chocolate skin, a robustly generous figure, and hair that looked like she cut it with a weed-whacker, she looked more like a linebacker than the top pastry chef in the city. Carlo wondered if she had been stationed back here to make sure the plate came out empty.

She nodded at the dish. What did you think?

Cardamom and lime make a beautiful combination. He made it a statement. No points if she found out he had guessed.

Hmmmmm. When her eyes sparkled like that, you didn’t notice the weed-whacked hair. You think I should have gone with a different lime?

Madonn’. No, the, uh, key lime was perfect.

She flashed a triumphant grin. Gotcha, boss. Blood lime. Had to make promises I have no intention of keeping to get them, too.

Ah, that’s where the color came from. I thought you cheated. Well, it took my mind off….things. You save one?

Yeah, yeah. I saved one for Chef. I’ll fill it when he gets here. She sighed when Carlo glanced behind her at the clock on the wall. Make another round if you have to, but we’re ready.

Jacket tonight, Grace.

Awww, boss, no one sees me. Then, when he didn’t answer, Fine, fine. Go on with you. I’ll have it on before service.

He didn’t intrude behind the line, where the chefs were finishing their final prep, but watched from the service side. After a few minutes, Hector ambled over.

Best line crew we’ve ever had. Most of them have worked with him before, and the ones who haven’t are steady.

Carlo wanted to say a dozen things to that, but none of them would change anything. He would just be harassing Hector. At this point, smooth tempers took precedence. He contented himself with, I’m sure they’ll be fine, before moving on.

His critical eye hit every surface as he strolled through Ransom’s empty dining room. Polished wood floors and darker, lacquered wood tabletops glowed under soft, recessed lighting. No stuffy starched white tablecloths at Ransom. Garrett had the kind of aversion to white tablecloths that most people reserved for scrubbing toilets or cleaning out grease traps.

He ran his finger along a piece of trim, checking for dust as he made his way toward the bar. He resisted looking at his watch, a gift from Garrett, who tended to be extravagant at Christmas. Garret’s words drifted into memory.

You should have a watch that’s as anal about keeping time as you are, Carlo. I know a watch is a boring present. You can take it back if you don’t like it.

Boring. As if everyone wore watches that cost more than the average car. But he hadn’t taken it back, had barely taken it off his wrist. He knew he was compulsive about time, but he didn’t consult his watch now, despite the almost painful urge to do so.

He knew the time. Prep was done, the shift meal over, and, in just a few minutes, the first guests would walk through the doors. He’d done the calculations in his head a million times. Start with the time Garrett’s flight landed, add in collecting luggage, getting a car back into the city, a stop at home to drop off luggage and freshen up. No matter how much he padded the times, the conclusion was obvious.

Garrett was late.

Of course, Garrett was compulsively late. But first day back? Usually he couldn’t wait to get back into the kitchen. Ransom was home, after all. The restaurant was their baby, and Garrett and Carlo lavished as much attention on it as if it were an actual child.

Usually Carlo would pick up Garrett at the airport and they would come straight here. Garrett would talk non-stop, upset everyone’s routine by taking back over the kitchen and trying to change half the menu on the fly, reduce at least one of the junior chefs to tears, and generally make a nuisance of himself. Ransom, which Carlo had spent months grooming to run more efficiently than the precision timepiece on his wrist, would be thrown into pandemonium.

No doubt about it, Garrett coming home was a pain in the butt on multiple levels.

Carlo finished his inspection of the dining room and made his way to the bar, where Andi waited for him. Ransom’s maître d' had her tablet out to check off her own pre-opening list. Andi ran through any outliers with Giancarlo nightly as a formality. She could handle everything on her own, but tonight their routine soothed him.

He listened with one ear while she went down the list. As expected, nothing needed his personal attention. He nodded in all the right places, approved her decisions, and tried not to fret as the hands of the clock over the bar inched onward.

He was Garrett’s emergency contact. So Garrett was okay, right? He had to be okay.

He was just late. And he hadn’t bothered to notify anyone of his new schedule because he was Garrett.

Carlo should have insisted on picking him up. Then their routine wouldn’t be off like this.

He started at Andi’s hand on his arm.

Giancarlo? Shit.

Sorry. He managed a smile. You were saying?

We’re ready. Relax. Everything is in better shape than he left it.

Of course.

Of course. So calm. Smooth. Professional. No trace of Brooklyn. You could take the boy out of Brooklyn. Maybe you couldn’t take Brooklyn out of the boy, but you could certainly iron out the accent.

Of course. Andi didn’t buy it, but they didn’t have the type of relationship where he spilled his guts to an employee right before a busy shift. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly before she dropped her hand away from his arm.

Hector has everything under control in the kitchen?

Of course. She echoed his words solemnly, but he caught the glint in her eye. She knew he had already been through the kitchen twice in the past hour, not counting the last stroll-by, which had surely tried even Hector’s vaunted patience.

He huffed out a laugh, and Andi smiled back. Some of the tension edged out of his body. Garrett would be here when he got here. Andi opened her mouth to say something else, probably poke him more about his nerves, but then she stopped as her eyes focused behind him.

A zing of electricity snaked up his spine, and he knew, before Andi lifted her chin in a little heads-up warning, before he turned around, before Andi pasted on the special smile she saved just for these situations. He knew because energy hummed through the air, and suddenly Ransom came alive in a way he could never achieve on his own.

Garrett was home.

Giancarlo felt faint, realized he had stopped breathing, and took a deliberate breath before he turned around. Steady. Not too rushed. Not too eager. He was still miffed. Garrett was late, damn him. And not even a text or a phone call.

All the beauty of Ransom faded around him as his vision tunneled down to Garrett. The California sun had kissed his hair a lighter shade of blond and brushed a hint of golden color into his skin so that he glowed, a bronze angel, as he stood in the soft lights of the restaurant.

Screw "not too eager." His legs must have moved, but Giancarlo couldn’t have said how he got from Point A to Point B. He knew only that Garrett was home, and they were together again. They were doing their usual greeting, a mash-up of a bro-hug and a more European double-cheek