Eric placed a hand on my shoulder. “Our stars, they align. Leave Cendrillon to work for me. And then we’ll take things from there.”
“You have to be joking,” I scoffed, pushing his hand off me.
“I’m not,” said Eric. “Every time I look into those gorgeous green eyes of yours, I get lost. Do me a favor, think about all the good times we had.”
Good times? Was he nuts? He’d had them with other women.
“Oh my God, what the hell have you been smoking?” I choked back my laughter and yanked out my necklace from underneath my coat. Attached to the chain was an engagement ring, complete with a sparkling five-carat canary diamond the color of glistening butter. “You do realize Walter and I are engaged.”
“Rings are worn on fingers.”
“Not one as big as this. Don’t want to lose it in the soup,” I said, tucking my necklace back into my jacket. I let out an annoyed huff. “You seem to have a new flavor of the month every week.”
“They mean nothing to me,” he said. “Brain-dead food groupies. Starved for attention.”
Eric crossed his arms over his chest, the black ink of his tribal tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves. “What kind of relationship do you have with a stale, boring attorney, anyway? You never see him. You’re always here in the kitchen with me.” He tugged my braid. “We were so good together, Sophie. And now we can be even better. A real team. Don’t forget I was the one who took the risk and convinced O’Shea to hire you after your stage.”
“I proved my worth during my internship. And he hired me, not you,” I said.
“Sure, Sophie,” he said. “Whatever you want to think.”
For a moment, he almost had me, the way he locked onto my eyes. Still, we were over. I was never going to go through that pain again—no matter the temptation of his perfect smile.
Lanky with a goatee and tribal tattoo arm sleeves, Eric broke the mold when it came to sexy chefs. His eyes were dark, the color of dried cloves—dark brown and hard—his eyelashes were long, and his body was buff. In the beginning, when I was young, dumb, and full of hope, his charm and charisma had drawn me to him, right into his bed. I’d loved watching him rule the kitchen, clipboard in hand, acting with finesse even when under pressure.
But, unfortunately, up-and-coming chefs in New York City were like rock stars, and our personal relationship had flamed out. After Cendrillon received its first star, Eric was written up in the Times and Post almost as often as O’Shea was, and he attracted food groupies looking for fresh meat. When O’Shea traveled—opening new restaurants or appearing on cooking shows—Eric’s status of chef de cuisine became equally important and he ran everything. After the second star came a year later, his ego exploded like an overcooked soufflé. Women went nuts for Eric. One evening, I overheard one say to her friend, “I’d have sex with that sexy chef in front of my husband.” Cendrillon meant “Cinderella” in French, and Eric’s foot fit right into the proverbial glass slipper. Such a shame serial cheating also came in his size.
Although Eric’s many, and I mean many, betrayals hurt me to the core, my culinary aspirations were more important to me than the state of my heart. Only one percent of restaurants had women navigating the helm of a Michelin-starred establishment and it was my lifelong dream to become one of them. With Eric leaving Cendrillon to strike out on his own, I stood a chance to take over his position of chef de cuisine, build up my name in the culinary world, and eventually create my own empire just like the female chefs I’d idolized over the years.
“I’ve worked here for five years. And I believe I’ve held my own,” I said with a beleaguered sigh. “Look, Eric, we work well together in the kitchen. But we never, ever worked well as a couple. Speaking of work—I’m trying to get things done.”
After Eric placed his hand over his heart and pouted with mock hurt, he dipped a spoon into the soup I was preparing: roasted potimarron—a chestnut-flavored squash—velouté, one of the restaurant’s signature fall dishes served with orange-and-ginger-infused lobster. He spit out his mouthful, wiped his lips with a kitchen towel, and said, “The base is absolute shit. Did you even season it?”
“Of course,” I said, taken aback. “I followed Chef’s recipe to the letter, like I always do.”
He shoved the spoon toward my mouth. “Taste it,” he said and I did, mostly because I didn’t have a choice.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Just the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Fine? Are you questioning me? I’m still the chef de cuisine here, not you,” he said, pointing his finger in front of my face. “We don’t do fine here. We serve the best, and your velouté is completely bland. Did your taste buds take off on a vacation?”
Although I didn’t trust Eric as a man, I did trust his palate. I smacked my lips together and grabbed a clean spoon. “I guess you’re right,” I said, adding more cinnamon, cumin, and paprika into the base. After a quick stir, I held out a healthy-sized mouthful of the velouté. “Better?”
He tasted the velouté. The way he licked his lips made me cringe.
“Thatta girl, Sophie. It’s perfection,” said Eric. “Finish up the velouté and get on tonight’s entrée for the tasting.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Eric nodded perfunctorily and stormed toward Alex, the sous chef. They whispered in the corner by the walk-in, up to their usual colluding. Probably talking smack about me but I didn’t care. Soon, Eric would be out of my life, out of this kitchen, and my lifelong dream would be within reach.
Miguel’s eyebrows shot up. “Your history with him has been dead for years. Why doesn’t he pick up the hint? What’s his problem?”
“He’s an egomaniac. And there are far too many problems to list.” I forced a smile. “Let’s focus on tonight. Can you grab a few more lobsters from the tank while I head into dry storage?”
2
never trust a skinny chef
Cendrillon specialized in seafood, so we had four fish stations: one for poaching, one for roasting, one for sautéing, and one for sauce. I was the chef de partie for the latter two, which also included making our restaurant’s signature soups.
O’Shea planned his menu seasonally—depending on what was available at market. It was fall, my favorite time of the year, bursting with all the savory ingredients I craved like a culinary hedonist, the ingredients that turned my light on. All those varieties of beautiful squashes and root vegetables—the explosion of colors, the ochre yellows, lush greens, vivid reds, and a kaleidoscope of oranges—were just a few of the ingredients that fueled my cooking fantasies. In the summer, on those hot cooking days and nights in New York with rivulets of thick sweat coating my forehead, I’d fantasize about what we’d create in the fall, closing my eyes and cooking in my head.