Page 10 of Unexpected Pickle

JEANNIE HEADS OFF ANY HEX HATERS

I think about Hex as I iron my chef whites the next morning before the first day in the test kitchen.

He didn’t let go of me for the rest of the mixer, easily taking us from person to person, making introductions and keeping the flow of the conversation going.

It’s not going to matter that he can’t cook a thing. The other chefs already love him.

I wonder what it’s like to be so easygoing, to assume everyone will like and admire you.

I slide on the still-warm pants, bracing myself for the freezing walk to the main building. I won’t make the mistake of leaving my coat behind again. It snowed all night, and it’s bitterly cold.

But when I open my door to start the trek, I have to admit it looks pretty magical. Everything is sparkling and white, like the Christmas I’ve never had growing up in LA.

Mom moved to Florida after the divorce, so that didn’t help. I was an adult by then, and I suppose I could have skipped out on both of them and had a white Christmas in Maine or New Hampshire. Places where snow is a given, not an impossibility.

But I was reeling from their separation, particularly because it involved my dad’s work as a chef.

Seems Mom was done spending her evenings and weekends alone.

She wanted someone who was there for her, not leading teams of chefs at award-winning restaurants each night, never taking time off.

She’d simply been waiting to leave him until I grew up.

By then, I had already started culinary school myself. And I wondered, would I ever find someone willing to put up with my hours?

Dad told me to marry another chef. It was the only way.

Instead, I stuck to the deli, where I more or less had ordinary work days since we don’t serve dinner.

But it’s time. I have to branch out. Take risks.

Working the awards event was a rush. I want more of that.

Maybe I will meet someone this week who is the link to getting there.

Or I could find a chef relationship.

Either would be nice. And what if I found both at the same time?

Are you going to squash me like a bug?

I blow out a breath. Stop it, Jeannie.

My snot is frozen again by the time I enter the lobby. This time, the chefs are directed to a service hall that runs alongside the restaurant as the dining areas is holding a brunch.

I pinch my nose to warm it faster, walking the corridor until it opens into a narrow space behind the kitchen and offices.

A young woman in a short chef cap motions the guest chefs to the lockers. “Chef Young,” she says. “Your locker is on the end there. Number 6. I can take your coat.”

I hand her my jacket and smooth my uniform.

There is a variety among us, some in all black, others all white, some splitting the black pants and white jacket.

Hex isn’t here yet. I wonder what he will wear.

Did he have a chef uniform made for this?

I doubt he could buy off the rack with his shoulders.

Chef Moreau approaches me, all in white. His toque hat is ridiculously tall and pleated. I wonder if he’s making up for other things with his headwear.

“Cute,” he says, reaching out to tweak the beret-styled chef hat I picked up for the trip. I specifically avoided trying to act like I was something I wasn’t, and I certainly would not don the pickle-emblazoned headgear I wear at the deli.

“Thanks.”

Moreau rubs his hands together. “I’m looking forward to this. I have an interest in being a chef to the stars. Or a celebrity chef. All the good gigs are where you are, in LA.”

“There are a lot of celebrity chefs in Hollywood; it’s true.” At least I assume so. I barely keep up with the restaurants near me, other than the chefs my father sends my way.

“This way, chefs,” the young woman tells us.

I glance around, looking for Hex. He still isn’t here. Did he chicken out?

Moreau definitely wants to be near me. He sticks to my side as the group files through a narrow corridor to the main kitchen. “I looked up this Hex person,” he says. “He is quite the sports figure. Do you work with him already?”

How to answer that? “I’ve only known him a few months. His sports nutrition chef left LA recently. He wants to learn more.”

“With you?” Moreau’s eyebrow lifts. I think he’s asking if I’m sleeping with him.

I don’t answer, focusing on the new space. Rows of gleaming stainless-steel stations fill the room, each with their own burners and prep spaces.

The first row is a more traditional kitchen setup, occupied by working chefs busily preparing dishes for the brunch.

A large frittata passes by us, smelling of herbs and cheese.

More than one stomach rumbles, and laughter breaks out among the guest chefs.

The young woman stands in front of us. “I am Chef Sigal, the sous chef here at the Hotel Menagerie. I am tasked with leading your first morning. We have prepared a station for each of you with six ingredients. No two stations are alike, and you will not be able to see your items until you begin. You have thirty minutes to prepare your own breakfast. We have a nutritionist who will speak to the group once your work is complete about the macros of your dish and how the ideas and concepts of nutrition will adjust in your time here this week. Are we all assembled?”

I still don’t see Hex. As much as I’d rather not get involved with whatever is going to happen with him, I raise my hand.

“Yes, Chef Young?”

“Is everyone here? I don’t see Hex—er, Chef Hex.”

Her smile gives away that she has already met and likely become infatuated with the fighter. “Chef Hex arrived early to familiarize himself with the setup.” She glances up. “Oh, there he is.”

We all turn as Hex approaches the group.

“Good morning,” he says.

Whoa. He wears black chef pants that must have been tailored while he wore them, as they fit like a second skin. His black jacket is broad shouldered and tapers to his waist. The rolled-up sleeves reveal his thick, tattooed forearms.

A crisp white dish towel is stark against the black, and his black skullcap-style chef hat has a white pattern that undoubtedly makes him the most fashionable chef in the room.

He sees me gawking and winks at me. I turn away.

“Everyone find a station,” Chef Sigal says. “The timer begins…now.”

I hurry for a stove. I’m not surprised when Hex takes up a spot beside me. Moreau is too slow to get the one on the other side, and he grumbles as he moves to another row.

Hex seems pleased. “We got rid of the riffraff.”

I lift the white towel to reveal my ingredients. Three brown eggs. Shallots. Smoked salmon. A potato. Feta. Butter. Easy peasy. I pull a skillet down from the rack above.

I glance over at Hex. He’s peering beneath his cloth in confusion.

I’m going to have to help him. I can feel it.

“What did you get?” I ask.

“I don’t know what this is.” He holds up a small black ball. “It looks like poop.”

I have to hold back my laughter. “That’s a truffle.”

“Like the chocolate candies?”

“It’s a type of fungus, sort of like a mushroom.”

He sniffs it, then pulls his face away. “I’m pretty sure it’s poop.”

I step closer and sniff it. “This is nice. Truffles are quite expensive and are considered a way to elevate a meal.”

“Oh.” He sets it down. “And this?” He holds up a fistful of green.

“Those are leeks.”

“Is it a giant onion?”

“Sort of. It’s very mild.”

He glances over at my stash. “How come I didn’t get any eggs?”

I step closer. “It looks like you have a vegan setup. They gave you risotto as a base. You should get started on that right away. It takes a while to cook.”

He grimaces. “So weird rice and fungus and not-onion.”

“You got cashews to make a cheese.”

“You can make cheese from nuts?” He scratches his forehead.

“With a blender.” I glance around. “There is probably a processor somewhere.”

“I’ll just eat them.”

“Sure.”

He picks up a lemon and rolls it between his palms, looking over his spread. “So…how do you cook risotto?”

I bite my lip. I’m going to have to make a choice right now. Either I am in this to be impressive and learn, or I’m here to help Hex.

He must see the battle going on in my head, because he holds up his hands. “You know what? It’s fine. I have Google and YouTube. I will get this done.”

I look over my ingredients. Four minutes to chop. Two minutes to heat. Eight minutes to cook potatoes, if I make them ultra fine. Eggs only two minutes more on a hot pan.

I have extra time.

“I can get you started,” I tell him. “Mine is easy.”

“It doesn’t look easy,” he says. “Is that salmon? For breakfast?”

I move in front of his station. “You need to toast your risotto before you add water. Grab a skillet.”

He stares up at the assortment of pans. “This one, I guess?” He reaches for a large pot.

“Try this.” I pull down a large sauté pan. “It has more coverage on the bottom, but the sides are tall so you can add liquid.”

“Okay.”

I turn on his burner. When it flames up, Hex jumps back. “Whoa. Is that supposed to happen?”

I turn to him. “Have you ever turned on a stove before?”

“Not one with fire!”

God. He’s only used an electric. “This is a gas stove. It’s easier to control the heat.”

“Yeah, I guess I knew that. I have one of those flat things at home with a smooth surface. Not that I’ve turned it on. And my parents had one with the rings that turn red.”

I nod. “That’s not unusual. Spread some oil in the pan and let it heat. Then pour your risotto into the bottom and stir it up so it toasts.”

“Got it.”

He dumps way too much oil into the pan, but that’s fine. He’s not expecting to win on perfection.

I turn to my potato and quickly peel and cut it into thin sticks.

The smell of char reaches my nose, and I look up to see some of Hex’s risotto smoking.

“Is it supposed to do that?” he asks.

“Oh, no.” I lunge forward and use my dish towel to move the pan off the burner.

“You’re supposed to use your towel to hold the pan?” he asks.

“Yes, Hex. Professional pans don’t have cooling handles because they aren’t tough enough to withstand heavy use.”

“I’m glad you touched it first. I totally would have picked it up with my hand.”

I’m glad, too, then. I would hate to be the reason he missed a fight. I glance at the hand I nicked a few days ago. “How are you heeling from your cut?”

He angles the edge of his hand toward me. “Right as rain.”

I shake the pan, tossing the risotto rice. “I would remove the burned ones.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

I return the pan to the fire and turn the burner low. “Add about two cups of water. Then chop your leeks.” I check them to make sure they’ve been properly prepped and not filled with dirt. They have. That’s one thing, at least.

I return to my station and chop my shallots. When I spot Hex again, he’s filled a Dixie cup, probably from the water cooler, and poured it in. He grins. “I’ll go get another.”

“Hold on. You’ll need probably six of those.” I eyeball the cup. “Normally a cup is a measuring cup, not just any old cup.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll do six.” He takes off again.

I keep an eye on his risotto, occasionally shifting the pan so it doesn’t stick. The small cup of water won’t last long on its own.

But he returns, this time with a coffee mug of water plus the Dixie cup. “Thought this would be faster.” He dumps it all in.

“Wait! Let’s estimate—” But it’s in. I quickly assess the ratio of rice to water. “That’s good, I think.”

He peers in. “You sure?”

“Yes. Let it cook.”

I can’t worry about it being good. At this point, I’ll settle for Hex not burning the place down.

“You’re good people, Chef Jeannie,” he says. “But I already knew that.”

I return to my station and turn on the burner. Time for me to cook my breakfast. “Can you eat carbs?” I ask him. “With your fight coming up?”

“I don’t have anything soon,” he says. “But simple carbs are fine. It’s the processed stuff I don’t do. I figured I’d be safe with anything that happens here.”

“Okay, good.” I melt my butter and slide the potato sticks in. “You should shave very thin slices off the truffle if you’re going to use it. A little goes a long way.”

Hex lifts the truffle to his nose again and almost gags. “I think I’ll skip it today. Rice and mild onion will be plenty.”

I nod. His risotto is going fine, even if there are burned bits there. If he simply adds a few bits of leek, it’ll be an edible, if unorthodox, breakfast.

“Thanks, Jeannie,” he says.

I drop my shallots into the pan. “No problem, Hex.”

And I realize it really isn’t. Having Hex around is actually kind of…fun.