her feel lonely. She’d had no idea how noisy a kitchen could be, how much sound could be generated by meats and vegetables and sauces. Steam whistled out of the tops of pots, knives sliced through cucumbers and onions and knocked against the cutting boards so quickly, the place had an almost continuous back beat. And in the center of it all, the head chef held the chaos together, directing the younger chefs back to their stations where piles of carrots and heads of cabbage waited as if for the arrival of a horde of rabbits.
It had been like another country to her, but she could see that Ty had been right at home. He seemed to know so much about cooking, she felt lucky to be in class beside him. In preparation for the day's visitation, they’d had the task of tidying the freezer and inventorying the frozen meats. It had been a cold and thankless morning made entertaining by Ty’s general flirtiness and his amazing knowledge of cuts. She wasn’t sure what it said about her, but she was pretty excited she’d finally learned the difference between a brisket first cut and a brisket front cut.
And when everything was ready and they stood around waiting, her stomach started to hurt. She couldn’t decide if it was because a real, honest-to-god French chef, who probably only spoke French, was coming to check their progress or because she hadn’t yet glanced down the hallway to see if Max had posted a winning photo outside his door. Since she was only auditing cooking classes, and wasn’t a culinary arts major, it had to be the bet that had her wound-up.
Deb had them prepare their best dishes, the ones they’d gotten A’s on, or in the case of one of the young slackers, a high C.
Ty impressed them all with pork medallions in a saffron sauce. Just looking at saffron made her nervous. It was nearly as expensive per pound as gold and even a thread of the spice made her feel unworthy. What could she concoct that would withstand that price tag? Ty was so far out of her league, culinarily speaking, and any other way she could categorize, that she knew better than to compete.
She’d chosen a straight-forward roasted chicken, about as expensive per pound as, well, chicken. The only deviation she’d made from every cooking show’s rosemary rubbed one was the apple juice. Her appley bird came out of the oven glazed a golden brown and smelling of fall. She named the dish Harvest Chicken, sliced off a thick piece of breast meat encircled in its crispy skin, and plated it for chef approval or abuse in a foreign language, whichever came first. To the platter she added sautéed apple slices, sharp in a whisky butter, and lined them up across from the chicken like a drunken parade of goodness.
Beside her, Ty flecked bits of finely chopped green pepper around the rim of a wide bowl then picked up a squirt bottle that held a thick red sauce. She tried not to compare her family-friendly fare to his artistry while she dished up the old-timey root vegetables she loved, the rutabaga, turnips, scrubbed and unpeeled carrots, and sweet potatoes roasted off in balsamic vinegar. She set the plate on the head table with the rest of the student’s offerings, and her humble fare looked like the least attractive virgin sacrificed to the volcano.
She returned to watch Ty dot pureed red peppers between the green bits. Art. Edible art. She had to question Deb’s decision to even let her in the same class. "That’s spectacular, Ty, really."
He wiped the edge of the bowl for imaginary drips. It was perfect.
"Chef Gaspard will go crazy."
His head snapped up.
"In a good way."
He smiled, seemed to try to relax. "I hope so. I’ve waited a long time to have this chance. A chef of her caliber…"
She felt a little thrill run through her. This wasn’t cable TV. The woman was going to stand right in front of her. "She’s really good, huh?"
"She’s a Gaspard."
She waited because she didn’t really know what that meant. It was the woman’s last name but had she written a famous cookbook? Surely Gwen would have picked it up at some point. The woman didn’t have her own show on cable, no catch phrase, no cookware with her name on the handle…
"The Gaspards are…" He seemed to consider it as he gently placed his dish in the center of the