Page 11 of Just A Little Joy
Letting him lead felt strangely natural, like stepping into a role I didn’t know I’d been missing.
“Get washed up. We’ll figure out what we can do. I think we can pull a menu together, but it won’t be a full one. Not enough prep time.”
Casey bit his lip like he thought I’d yell, but given he was saving my ass, I’d be happy if a single dish came out of the kitchen.
He didn’t even see how remarkable he was, and it made me want to hold that truth up for him until he believed it.
“Casey, whatever you put out is going to be great because the alternative is nothing. So you tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it. End of story. In this kitchen, you’re the boss.”
Color touched his cheeks, but he didn’t stop moving. Soon, he had a small mountain of ingredients piled up. When I came back from the sink with washed hands, he shoved cheese blocks at me.
“Start grating. All of it.”
I’d never seen so much cheese in my life. Every time I thought I was done, he handed me another couple of blocks.
“Can’t we just buy bags of this?” I asked.
“You can,” Casey said without looking up from the green onions he was slicing, “but it doesn’t melt as well and tastes a little off. Freshly grated is better.”
As I kept grating, I had the chance to study him. His knife moved so fast I worried he’d take off a finger, but I realized I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. The man was a wizard in the kitchen. What was he doing waiting tables when he could clearly be cooking?
I caught myself imagining what he’d look like cooking in my house and shut the thought down fast.
After a while, he set aside his chopping to start a giant pot of gravy on the stove. He grumbled about the cheater start and bone broths, but even without the perfect base, whatever he was doing smelled delicious. When he decided I’d finally done enough cheese, I was directed to start washing and slicing potatoes in the fry slicer. It was repetitive work that let me watch Casey.
It was the sweetest torture imaginable. He alternated slicing onions, which made the muscles of his forearms pull and stretch. The steady thunk of the knife hitting the cutting board became the rhythm of the blood pounding through my veins. Then he’d move over to the stove, stirring the pot, every so often tasting and adjusting. Watching him at the stove gave me prime viewing, and damn if that wasn’t the prettiest sight. Casey’s bubble butt was, quite literally, the peach I wanted to eat.
“Did you mean it?”
“Uh, sorry, what? I zoned out there for a second.” At that moment, it was hard to believe I’d ever been a professional anything. “Please repeat whatever you asked.”
“I asked if you meant it when you said I was the boss in here tonight.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Good, then stop daydreaming and finish the potatoes. Myla said earlier that by eight, people start getting hungry, and I want to be able to give them something that doesn’t suck.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for the reminder to focus.”
Casey didn’t look like he was sure I meant it, but he gave a curt nod and returned to his work.
“You figure out what we’re making tonight?”
“Uh, yeah. Poutine with Beecher’s cheese since we don’t have curds. Onion rings with beer cheese and garlic aioli. We have pork butt, but it won’t last long, so we can do shredded with naan sliders.”
Every instinct I had was shifting toward him and pretending otherwise was getting harder by the minute.
“How come you’re not in the kitchen at Stone and Vine?”
“They weren’t hiring for the kitchen, and I actually don’t like being in the back of the house that much.”
“But you clearly know what you’re doing.”
“I’ve learned a few things, but I’m not a chef.”
“Did you go to school for it?”
“Nah, just picked it up. I mean, I like to cook, but I don’t like being shut away in the kitchen where I can’t see people. There’s only so much the chef or the dishwashers want to hear me talk.”