Appetizer Read online

  Appetizer

  Kitchen Heat I

  Blane Thomas

  Copyright © 2019 by Blane Thomas

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 1

  “The cute barista winked when she handed you the coffee,” Anya insisted, lifting the cup to Corey’s face. “See, there’s even a heart above your name right here!”

  “Maybe she’s one of those people who likes to dot her ‘i’ and ‘j’ with hearts instead,” Corey replied distractedly.

  His eyes were rapidly scanning through the words written on his resume, looking for any typos. A small error, even grammatical, could have him kicked out to the curb. The Trainyard only took in perfectionists, and they would settle for nothing less.

  “Corey, your name doesn’t have any of those letters! C-O-R-E-Y!” Anya laughed out. “Trust me, she likes you, like a lot!”

  “Well, good for her then. Let her be in that fantasy, girl,” the brown-haired man replied.

  He looked at the top right corner of his resume. A youthful picture of him with the tiniest smattering of facial hair stared back, in the most sheepish smiles. It looked as though he was trying hard not to poop his pants and someone told him to smile at the same time. A quick eye glanced through the list of his achievements. That can’t be it, he thought. Perhaps he should have taken Anya’s advice and included his experience when he was a bus boy at the Olive Garden back home. Sure, it was five years ago, but it matters, right?

  “Oh, my god.” Anya kept stealing glances back to the cashier counter. “The barista keeps looking at our direction. I swear, she has the biggest crush on you.”

  Corey looked up at his best friend in a mock glare.

  “If only she knew,” Anya smiled wistfully, “… that you don’t bat for her team.”

  He rolled his eyes, already regretting asking Anya to accompany him minutes before the biggest interview of his life. She laughed and patted him on the knee.

  “Cheer up, rat-face.” She addressed him by a childhood nickname. She knew how much it irked him, smiling wider when he winced. “I’m trying to take your mind of this interview. You could at least be a little bit thankful.”

  “It isn’t working,” Corey sighed. He scratched his chin, occasionally pinching it. The pain was momentary and did nothing to slow the minute needle of the clock from going to 12. He only had fifteen minutes to get up, walk down the street, cross it, and enter the Trainyard for his 10 a.m. interview.

  It was only across the street, but at that moment, the black-walled restaurant felt both near and extremely far. His heart began to pick up a steady rhythm and a sweat moustache formed a slightly salty film above his pink lips.

  “God, Corey, stop tapping your feet. And you’re doing that thing where you lick your lips when you are nervous!” Anya chided. “Relax, will you? Do what I did before my interview.”

  “Anya, you snorted a thin line of cocaine ten minutes before your interview,” Corey reminded her.

  “And did it work?” She leaned back confidently and folded her hands.

  She has a point, Corey thought. She secured the job twenty minutes into the interview, working as a real estate agent for an extremely famous firm. Though, she was already goddamn effervescent and bubbly without cocaine; and all the drug did was enhance her charm to the moon.

  “Look, sweetie, you’ll do fine,” she crooned softly. “You’ve spent 3 years in culinary school, your experience is adequate, and most importantly, you are willing to work for a pittance! They will love you immediately!”

  “This is a Michelin Star restaurant, Anya,” Corey said exasperatedly. “It isn’t Grandma’s Pancake House!”

  “Hey, don’t you dare diss Grandma’s Pancake House! That’s good shit!” Anya let out a sharp cackle. It frightened a few customers in the café to hear the shrill laughter come out from a thin, elegantly dressed, pixie-haired woman.

  Even Corey felt a grin creep out of the corners of his lips. It was fifteen minutes before his interview with the proprietor of Trainyard. Getting up, he kissed Anya on the cheeks who wished him one final good luck. A bag pulled his shoulder down, containing his knives which he had sharpen to dazzling precision the night before. A dark blue folder with his resume was tucked under another arm.

  “You’ll nail this, rat-face.” She blew him another kiss. “And look, if this doesn’t work, I know a few older men in my office who would love to be your sugar daddy!”

  “Oh, fuck off.” Corey smiled, shaking his head.

  As he stepped out the café, he took in the warmth of the mid-morning sun, a quarter of its body peeking through a skyscraper to his left. The cold air of the city already had people dressed up in thick wool coats and scarves. Most walked with their hands nestled within the confines of their pockets. Today was the first day of fall that the sun had decided to show up. Taking this a good omen, Corey walked along the pavement.

  Occasionally, his eyes would dart across the street to where Trainyard stood. From the outside, the restaurant had its wall painted in an intense obsidian glow. A simple sign was splayed in mahogany brown on the restaurant’s forehead, bearing its name. A large glass the size of two refrigerators made its torso, allowing passers-by to take a quick glance into its content. But from where Corey stood, he could only see a dim glow of the tables and chairs.

  They had not opened for the day.

  Most fine dining restaurant did not begin serving till it was close to lunch hours. Two hours preceding lunch would usually be used for prep time or any meeting the owner would like to have with their chefs.

  Trainyard was one such fine dining place. For as long as Corey remembered, he had never seen a line in front of the restaurant. To wait outside to be served was something reserved for plebeians; and no commoner of middle-class could afford to dine there. It was one of those open secrets of Chicago, catered to the elites – or those who would like to experience an almost elitist life, even if it was just for two hours or so.

  He reached the zebra-crossing. The only thing separating him from Trainyard was now a river of tar, a throng of cars, and a wave of pedestrians crossing on both directions. The green ‘WALK’ sign flashed obnoxiously without him anticipating it. For a moment, he stood there, stunned. The cars on either side to him had stopped. The sea was parted.

  “Cross it, damnit!” he willed himself.

  “Excuse me!” a sharp voice said behind him. An impatient woman was annoyed that Corey had decided to stop at the edge of the pavement. She brushed against his shoulders rudely, looking back at him as she walked into the middle of the street. A few pedestrians also fixed him weird glances for he stood t
here, too dazed to suddenly move. It was only when the ‘WALK’ sign began flashing intermittently did he step out of his reverie and began to cross, first in small steps, then accelerating into strides. The taxis and motorcycles were already revving up their engines, ready to plough through the now almost empty middle line.

  Half-panting, he reached the other side of the road. His breath was white, and his lungs constricted, partially due to nerves but also from the cold air. Glancing at his watch, he was shocked to know he still had ten minutes to spare. Only five minutes had passed since he left Anya. It felt longer.

  He stood a few steps away from Trainyard, its wooden doors closed to the world. There was no ‘Open’ or ‘Close’ sign for such dignified places. Such signs only paraded a restaurant like it was a common whore, or worse, a taxicab. The elite restaurants operated on a ‘We will serve you not because we need your patronage, but because you crave our art’ basis.

  Just as Corey was about to take a step forward, he felt a sharp thud on his left shoulder. A person had bodily crashed into him, causing Corey to lose his footing. Thankfully, his right hand was extended to catch onto the cold, wet metal of the crossing light pole. His folder dropped on the floor in a wet slap.

  “Watch it!” Corey yelled angrily at the person.

  His ‘assailant’ continued walking without stopping to look back and apologize. The only reply Corey got was an unbothered back of his head. Tall, the blonde man was wearing a brown coat and jeans. A black chef knife bag bounced rhythmically against his side as he continued walking. His windswept hair effortlessly undulated in the morning gust.

  “Asshole!” Corey seethed angrily.

  He had not realized that he had said this out loudly and bent down to pick the folder on the floor. His line of vision fell upon the pavement, and the man’s cheap looking, rubber shoes. He realized then that his assailant had stopped walking and was beginning to turn around. Corey looked up and was now staring face-to-face with his accoster.

  At a single glance, the man was not entirely good looking. His cheekbones poked out of a rather gaunt, hollow face. The length of his widow’s peak to the tip of his chin was longer than necessary. But it was the eyes. They were a pair of piercing brown eyes. They frowned ever so slightly, but formed deep ridges around its sockets, revealing the slight darkness of his eyebags.

  “What?” a cold voice slapped Corey on the face.

  “You… you crashed into me, dude!” Corey stammered.

  He was almost the same height as this man, and slightly more muscular. But, there was something about the man’s gaze that easily subjugated his entire being.

  The man continued staring at Corey for a little while more, as though sizing him up. The expression on his face was as blank as a slab of marble. There was no anger, annoyance, or even a shred of emotion in his voice. Corey tried to stare back, but he suddenly felt a burning humiliation. He was being regarded as a tiny, insignificant little pebble on the street. The man ran his hand through his hair, giving it a slight comb, turned and walked away without another word. He took a sharp left to the door of Trainyard, opened it like he owned the place, and vanished from Corey’s line of vision.

  Corey was left half crouching on the floor with the folder in his hand, burning with anger and shame. Picking what was left of his dignity, he got up. The prospect of having a raging asshole for a colleague, or even worse, a boss, made Corey positively nauseous.

  He toyed with the idea of not walking through the door but was inundated with a sudden sense of guilt. His parents had worked two jobs to put him through culinary school. He had no choice but to suck it up and keep moving. Boots dragging along the pavement, he trudged towards the silver door. Taking a deep breath, he put his hand around the doorknob and gave it a good twist.

  Upon entering, the noise of the outside world was immediately submerged. He was now in a different reality, where things did not fit the norms that was the land behind him. Where the weather outside was chilly and wet, and flooded with the honking of cars and the curses of pedestrians, a silent opulence radiated from within these four walls.

  Trainyard had thirty black wooden tables arranged in a ‘U’ around the perimeter of the restaurant. Interrupting the gaps between each table were sleek, velvety black sheets that dropped from the ceiling. It provided privacy to its patron, with a deliberate hint of coyness too. In the middle of the restaurant was a wine rack, bottles arranged vertically for its patrons to see, admire and hold. Corey took in a deep breath. A sweet lingering scent of citrus and lavender permeated the air. No artificial chemical could produce such a subtle, yet comfortingly natural scent.

  As his feet brushed silently against the carpeted floor, muffled voices could be heard from the kitchen. Soft music played from hidden speakers overhead. The dining room was devoid of any movement or life, yet it still retained a soft aura of warmth.

  “Hello?” Corey called out stupidly. “Is anyone here?”

  “Yes! Coming!” a voice came from the back.

  Immediately, a head poked from the kitchen doors. Corey sighed with relief. It was not the blonde chef, thankfully!

  The particular man regarded Corey with mild perplexity at first and then exuded a warm smile. Stepping out of the kitchen, the man revealed his just slightly shorter, stouter frame supporting a kind face. He wore the standard uniform; a white chef coat and black trousers. Wiping his hands on a hand towel, the chef took long, confident strides towards Corey.

  “Yes, who might you be?” a musical voice came out.

  “I’m Corey Litmann,” Corey introduced himself. “I am here for…”

  “Oh, you’re the intern! You want to stage, yes?” The man let out a hand that Corey firmly shook. “Firm handshake too, good…, good! You don’t get much of that these days!”

  Corey nodded enthusiastically. So far, it was going well.

  “I am Ryan Nicholson. We have corresponded via email,” the salt-and-pepper haired man remarked. “I’m the owner of Trainyard, and the Executive Chef! Pleased to meet you!”

  Corey smiled. Never had he met such a friendly restaurant owner. Previous experiences had made him assume that all restaurant owners were surly, even big bullies. One tried to even grope his ass when he was busy preparing a veal. But looking at Ryan, all that changed. He beamed at Corey like a proud older brother.

  “Any resume I can take a look at?” Ryan asked.

  Corey fumbled with his file. Unclasping the fragile hook, he took out the paper and extended a trembling hand towards Ryan.

  “No need to be nervous, boy,” Ryan laughed. He reached out for Corey’s resume with one hand, and fished out a pair of black, square-rimmed glasses with another. “Three years at the Benson Culinary School, internship at Azare, and another internship at the Downtown Hotel. Not bad, not bad at all. You’ve had some experience. So, why would you want to intern here?”

  Ryan put Corey’s resume on the table and looked at the young man. The twenty-two-year-old was just an inch or two taller. He was green in both eyes, and experience.

  “I’ve always wanted to intern in a fine dining restaurant, chef,” Corey replied. “It’s my dream to work in an establishment such as yours!”

  “We are a 2-star Michelin restaurant, Corey,” Ryan smiled though his eyes were slightly narrow now. “This is not a place where you can fuck up and get away scot free. There will be repercussions if that does happen, you know.”

  “I… I understand, sir!” Corey said, louder than he intended too.

  Ryan regarded him for a few more seconds, as though sizing him up and then nodded. “Well, that’s settled then. Prep for lunch begins in thirty minutes, so follow me!”

  “Wait, what? So, I’m in?” Corey asked, not daring to believe it.

  “Oh yes, you’re in,” Ryan replied, already walking. He beckoned Corey to follow. “But I wouldn’t go on celebrating yet. Not when there’s a lot of work to be done.”

  “Y… Yes, chef!” Corey said excitedly.

&nbs
p; He let out a breath of relief as he followed in the wake of Ryan. The shorter man went through the doors to reveal the kitchen. Corey stopped and looked around, trying to absorb the world here, which was extremely different from the one outside. From a woody, forest-like aura that was echoed by the dining room with its curved tables and soft chairs, the kitchen was a polar opposite. Here, everything glinted in a metallic silver, from the workstations, to the pans, and knives. Colours of fire and vegetables, along with the blood of steak flooded Corey’s eyes.

  “Plenty of time for the later, Corey!” Ryan clapped him back to attention. “In here, now!”

  Within seconds, he was ushered into Ryan’s office. It was a small, cramped room with an office table and chair, a computer on the desk, a small wardrobe at the opposite corner, and a bookshelf with various cookbooks, ancient and new, accompanied by company files.

  “So, you will start work at 10 a.m. all the way till 5 p.m. Your usual responsibilities will include staging, and various other kitchen work the commis and sous chef would require you to do. Don’t worry about cleaning, we aren’t big bullies here. That will be the job of the kitchen porter and cleaners. Concentrate on the craft, all right?” Ryan explained in great speed. “Though this is an internship, you will be paid ten dollars an hour.”

  It was more than Corey had dared to bargain for. Most of his classmates were already complaining that they had to mop floors and clean toilets in their restaurants. He could only nod happily in silence, unwilling to make a fool of himself. Ryan was a serious man when he had to be, and Corey did not want to disappoint the Executive Chef, not when there was so much on the line.