Page 11 of Unexpected Pickle

HEX ON FIRE, LITERALLY

I t’s taking a lot of constraint not to wring the neck of a certain Chef Moreau.

He’s tailing Jeannie like he’s in heat, and I don’t like it.

He won the breakfast competition, making some fancy egg soufflé thing that everybody said wasn’t possible in thirty minutes.

But he got applause. They clapped for his ugly poof pillow.

The nutritionist was not particularly impressed by my burned risotto on a bed of uncut leeks, but I ran out of time to do anything but dump the lumpy rice on top of the stems.

I didn’t eat it. The lady chef who has been showing us around had the restaurant workers bring me an omelet, which I demolished in under a minute. I looked up to see the chefs watching me with amusement. I felt like Fred Flintstone at the Met Gala.

Of course, I should have known about gas stoves. I mean, I’ve heard of them. I’ve seen people light them with matches on old TV shows. But I thought we were in a modern era, that using gas was like putting a stew pot over the fire.

Anyway, I get it now.

And who knew you could make cheese from nuts?

I zone out during the nutritionist lecture. She’s not telling me anything I don’t do every day. Protein. Fiber. Simple carbohydrates. That’s the language of my life.

We return to the kitchen for fresh hell at lunch. I stick to Jeannie like glue. She’s my salvation. But Moreau is more careful this time, so the three of us end up on the same row.

We’re given the task of creating a high-protein meal with fewer than five carbs. I could do that in my sleep. Well, choose it, anyway.

A woman pushing a cart approaches with fresh chicken, fish, red meat, and a slew of vegetables. There’s also pasta and potatoes, which I assume is a trick question, because you can’t even look at those without going over five carbs.

“Is there a grill available?” I ask. “The minute you cook any of this, you’re adding fat with the oil.”

The woman lifts her eyebrows. “We do. I’ll take you to it.”

This means leaving Jeannie. “Never mind. Do you have avocado oil?”

She nods. “I’ll fetch it.”

I turn to see Moreau watching me. “Why avocado? The low smoke point?”

I shrug. “Keeps inflammation down. Helpful after you’ve been pummeled.”

He nods. “You do know a thing or two.”

Moreau and Jeannie select their meat and vegetables. Moreau takes a potato, and I snicker. Dumbass.

But I realize the price of being near Jeannie means having this blowhard watch me cook. When the woman returns with avocado oil, I say, “You know, maybe I will go to that grill.”

Grilling, I understand. There’s a flame, a proper one, unlike the blue burners on these stoves.

There’s food. You keep turning it so it doesn’t burn and leave it on until it’s cooked.

I’ll do that. Show up these chumps. I bet a bunch of them fell for the pasta and potato bit.

Chefs don’t want simple. They want to show off.

“Follow me.” The woman pushes the cart to the back wall, and I trundle along behind.

Whoa.

Iron bars cover a long open pit. It’s beautiful.

“What meat do you want?” she asks.

I point to an enormous ribeye.

She moves it to a metal plate and hands it to me. “Anything else?”

“The asparagus. And where’s the salt and pepper?”

She opens a door in the wall to the right of the grill to reveal a row of chunky metal shakers. “There you go.”

“Thanks.”

She hesitates, her eyes on me. And I know that look. She wants to help. To hang around.

It’s how I feel around Jeannie.

Then suddenly, Jeannie’s there. She holds her chicken breast and a skewer of chunky onion and peppers on a plate. “I thought you had a good idea,” she says. “But if I was interrupting.”

“No, no,” I tell her. “I’m happy you’re here.”

“Thank you,” she says to the assistant, dismissing her.

Was that a flash of something? Possessiveness? Jealousy?

A man can hope.

“You ditched your Frenchman,” I say.

“He was hovering.” She adjusts the flames. “And spying.”

“But he’s the golden boy.”

She reaches past me for the metal shakers. “He might be insecure beneath all that blustering.”

As she uses each seasoning, I copy what she does with my steak. It doesn’t matter if it’s wrong. It will be good.

“That’s a nice piece of meat,” she says.

“Thanks.” I’ll just pretend she’s talking about me.

She grabs a pair of tongs from a tray and moves her chicken to the grill with a sputter of flames as juices drip down.

I take another pair and move my steak.

I’m about to put my asparagus beside it, but she holds out a hand. “Your steak will take a lot longer than the vegetables. Give it a few minutes.”

We stand in front of the grill, the clattering of pans and dishes filtering in from behind us.

“I’m surprised French boy didn’t follow you,” I say.

She turns her head slowly. “Why would he do that?”

“He’s got a thing for you.”

She spins to the rows, even though we can’t see the one we were on. “You think so?”

Damn. She seems excited.

“You didn’t know?”

She shakes her head. “How did you?”

I shrug. “He approached you first at the mixer. He’s always right beside you first thing. He jockeys to be near you when we move. And when he won the breakfast competition thing, the first person he looked to for validation?—”

“Was me.” She seems shocked.

“I think your chicken is getting done. It’s turned white on the bottom.”

She glances down, then seems to jolt out of her thoughts and quickly flips the chicken.

“I don’t blame you,” I say. “He’s probably a real catch—you know, in Paris or whatever.”

This gets her attention. “Are you jealous?”

“Nah. Nah. It’s all good. The Canadian chicks are good.” I can’t seem to stop the flow of blather coming out of me.

“Canadian…chicks?” She won’t look at me as she adds her skewers to the fire.

“Yeah. They are all, you know, funny and cute and…” What the hell am I saying?

“Okay, Hex. Glad you’ve found some company.” She adjusts her veggies. “You’ll probably want to flip your steak unless you want it well done.”

Damn it. I wasn’t watching. I turn it over. It’s fine. I don’t care how it’s cooked. “Should I do my asparagus?”

“Sure.” She adjusts her chicken on the grill. “I left my sauce at the station. Watch mine for a sec?”

“Okay.”

She’s going to talk to Moreau. I just know it. They’ll arrange to meet later. Hang out in his cabin.

My whole body flashes with anger. I’m not letting her go. I move my meat on the grill again and again, unable to leave it alone.

She’s gone too long. She didn’t just get the sauce. She’s having a love connection with the French guy. I just know it.

I need this food to cook, and fast. I have to get back there and fix my screwup.

I crank the knobs until all the flames are blue, licking at the bottom of the metal grill.

That’s it. Now we’re cooking.

I flip my meat again. Juice sluices from it, making the fire roar up.

That’s the ticket. Another minute and I can get back to Jeannie and stop whatever’s happening.

I can’t just hand her over to Moreau. And I’ll confess straight up that I was talking out of my ass about Canadian chicks.

The smell of char makes me wrinkle my nose. I wave away the smoke.

My asparagus. It’s burning. Like, on fire.

Crap. What do I do?

There’s no water around here. The sinks are way down the wall.

“Help,” I say. “Water?”

The flames rush down the stems like a firecracker. The end of Jeannie’s skewer is too close.

“No!” I say, knocking it sideways so it won’t get burned.

But this makes it slide between the slats of the grill, dipping into the flames.

And the end catches in a whoosh .

“No, no, no!” I try to knock it again, but it’s hot. Where’s a pot holder?

I remember Jeannie used her dish towel. I grab it from my waist and try to snatch up the skewer, but I’m clumsy with all that cloth. The skewer tilts and all the veggies and onion slide off the end into the flames.

Then my towel catches fire!

I frantically pull it from my apron and toss it onto the grill.

WHOOSH. The flames go even higher.

The smoke gets thicker.

Then an alarm goes off.

The smoke alarm.

Mayhem ensures.

Four people in chef hats converge on the grill.

The burners are turned off. The food is moved away. Someone uses tongs to remove the crispy veggies and my towel.

Jeannie moves through them. “Hex? What is going on?”

Moreau is right behind her, shaking his head.

It’s already happened. They talked. I did this by pointing out his interest.

I take several steps back. I shouldn’t be here. Jeannie is making a love connection with a Frenchman. She’s finding her footing here.

And I’m in the way.

I pull off my skull cap and take off for the door.