You know what they say.

When there's smoke

___________________

[Leroy]

A blade in the hands of the person who knows it best; the kitchen knife and its owner. This one wasn't mine but the weight of it resembled something I'd thought I would have forgotten. Only one word came to mind. Something I hadn't noticed in my years of training and experience in the kitchen of heat and flames, that there was, undeniably, the fluidity of something water-like. Something that resembled the rush of currents out in the open sea. Something cruising in an element of its own. Moving.

From station to station, all around, brought by the flow of something I was experiencing in a very long time. It wasn't completely foreign. I knew because my fingertips did not resist the surface of the currents and had chosen, instead, to do as they deemed fit.

Riding a wave.

"Twenty minutes till Andre's service, baby boy." Angie called through pickup and I turned her way, nodding once. She wasn't satisfied. "Your echo?"

I laughed. "Heard."

"You know I can't serve your courses, right? You'll have to do it yourself," she pushed past the doors but stayed out of the way, giving me a heads-up I'd already seen coming my way. I told her.

"I called for someone before coming. They should be here in less than five."

"Really?" She sounded surprised. I had my back towards her, readying the parmesan tuile crisps that would go with the white truffle eggs en cocotte. The sweet element, I considered lightly brushing the tuile with rum-infused cream or honey. A risk, but for a balanced dish, especially for an appetizer that should, by the rules, by traditionally light... I was bordering on breaking the boundaries professionals had based their entire careers on.

"Leroy." A snap. I turned to Angie. She had been speaking. I hadn't been listening. "I asked you a question. So you don't plan on having Andre or, the rest of the guests, find out who you are? You do realize he's going to blow up once things start getting messy, right?"

I turned back to the tuile. Tasted. This had to be done before the short window of time I needed to prep for the next course. "He can't in front of the media he invited. Blowing up would just make him look bad and panicked, since there isn't anyone openly provoking him. If things go well, people are just going to assume it's yet another one of his marketing tactics. Like he planned the entire thing."

"Okay... point taken, but why would they...?" She got close enough to observe my workspace. Frowning. "Andre wouldn't invite someone else to cook alongside him unless they hold some form of value or fame but I can't say you're wrong about him playing nice in front of the people he invited. A bunch of his favorites, this time, so he'd definitely put on that famous act of his. I mean, you know him."

"With people like that, an hour's really all you need." I roughly chopped a couple of shallots. One jalapeno. Bell pepper. Diced. Mango. Avocado. Tasted. Checked the eggs in the oven. Checked the clock. "You dropped by the primary to see him? Probably plating up the caviar."

She laughed, eyes fixed on my chopping board. Watching my knife do the work. "I told him I was leaving. How did you know he was on the caviar this early?"

"He used to have me on the scallops. The timing messes him up, so he'd probably give that course a little more time to work with, especially since he's doing it alone." Checked the eggs again. Ten seconds made a huge difference when it came to en cocotte. It was either a perfect run on the yolk or the bin.

"This critic..." Angie went on. I slid the ramekins out of the oven. Tasted. "Even Andre said it yesterday. 'He's getting on my nerves'. I don't think he's ever really thought of going solo for the entire evening and knowing how he is with planning and all, like you said, I don't think he's going to have the luxury of time to drop by your kitchen either way. If he wants to serve the next dish on time, that is. And fuck that smells amazing."

I sort of knew.

It was time to plate and this part of the game, I'd nearly wholly lost touch. I was looking at white ramekins on white ceramic plates, with no garnish, no direction, and a side of parmesan crisps. The staring went on for some time, enough to catch Angie's attention.

"There's a bunch of black stone slates in that third cabinet to your right," she nodded towards them, leaving the information out in the open.

I gave her the look. "Thank fucks you stayed."

The slate was a good suggestion. It made the eggs stand out and the with the tuile and edible flowers on the side—one in the ramekin, to suggest dipping. Parsley florets for color and then for the explosive aroma, a drop of truffle oil. Plating one and using that as a reference made the rest of the other four portions a lot faster to deal with.

Three critics. The last one, a service for the media. Photos were important.

Angie was eyeing the fifth portion I didn't plan on plating; meant for back-up. Just in case. "Not to put pressure on you honey, but service is in a heartbeat so whoever you called better arrive—"

Most restaurant kitchens have backdoors that make a sound that changes depending on the situation. When the crew's on full steam ahead, deep in the weeds, the door's a tiny little creak. It goes wham whenever the shift's coming to an end. Bam when it's over. Then if the kitchen's missing a head chef and everyone's waiting for him to make an appearance, the door's like a loaded gun, holding back the pull of the trigger and the fireworks of a gunshot.

I'm cooking

Two words. And a Google Maps link. I didn't have her number, so I had to deal with logging in to an old Facebook account I created and abandoned in a day. Purely based on the numbers game, it was a landslide win for her, hands down. That fourteen thousand followers from seven years ago was dust to the kind of numbers she racked up across the net.

"You slid into my DMs for this." Violet Birchwood; celebrity pastry chef, famous-as-fuck, in town for five days only and already, her name across every printed and digital culinary publication. Including the only one I actually bothered keeping up with every now and then. He'd kept the domain of his blog exactly the same.

Usually, I'd turn down heels in any kitchen. Heels, fire hazards, same thing. Her trench coat was expensive, that much I knew.

Naturally, Angie took less than a second to recognize her. Her face was money.

"Aren't you—isn't that...?" She turned to me but Vi cut her off, coming down the aisle like this was a private show and she owned it.

"You clearly don't understand how important I am." Her eyes went straight to my slates. Immediately she was making changes to the edible flowers with a plating tweezer I'd left on the side. "Hm. Smells decent at least."

"I'll owe you one." I wasted no time in admitting, but not looking away from the last two plates I was finishing up. "You just walk in there and serve. Three guests—he's one of them. The fourth's for cameras."

"You called Violet Birchwood to be your waitress?"

Angie was judging me hard. I let her. Aside, Vi gestured. As though making her point. "Yes. Thank you. See? Everyone thinks I'm important."

"So you're okay with one of your best friends being humiliated in front of mother fuckers like Andre?"

She frowned. "I don't have a..." I watched her face change. "What, Andre's still harping on that review? That is so immature and coming from me, uh, that means something." She did something with her hair, done with fixing the flowers on my plate. Angie told her to remove her coat and she did.

I was surprised. She came prepared. Underneath was an evening gown. Similar to what Angie would wear on her shifts.

"Fine. But you could have gotten anyone else with decent experience in service." She fixed her hair. Started transferring my plates to a dining cart and keeping them covered with cloches.

"No one's in the right mind to turn down your face," I laid out. "You're famous as fuck."

She rolled her eyes, but with a hand to her chest, I could tell she was secretly pleased. "Hm. Fine. If you put it that way." Angie helped her out with the hair, makeup and all before checking in on the other side of the restaurant. The bistro's was dark. Closed. "Alright cut the crap Leroy, where's the first course? Five years out of the kitchen and you're practically slower than my nephew."

Vi spoke too soon. And I could tell she knew as soon as I nodded at the un-plated portion of eggs en cocotte.

"Taste this first." And slid the extra over to her end of the counter.

It had been cooling out of the oven for the past minute or two. Still a little too hot, but she could handle a little heat. I went back to plating up the last portion. Angie handed her a spoon, got one for herself, and then went straight for it.

I watched Vi go stiff. Her face like a rock with the spoon in her mouth.

She made no comment, only reached for a second spoonful.

"Yeah, I hate you."

___________________

[Vanilla]

Entering the restaurant was a whole other endeavor by itself. The entire entranceway, nearly cordoned off by large-scale, heavy-duty cine-cams propped up on tripods, accompanied by light stands, refractors, boom microphones alike and seconds past the door, lights were already flashing my way.

I found myself standing stock still in the middle of the hallway for quite an unbearable moment, blinded instantly by whatever they had pointing in my general direction and of course, coming to terms with the apparent, uninformed occasion of what looked like a full-blown press meeting.

Politely holding up a hand to dismiss the cameras, I kept my gaze fixed on the end of the hallway that opened up into the restaurant's interior. The circumstance was not difficult to comprehend: Andre had cleared out the entire restaurant for the evening—half the tables and chairs were re-arranged to house a collection of hand-picked media companies, with reporters seated up in the front row and cameras, lights and everything else required for a solid television broadcast lining the floor-to-ceiling windows behind.

This faced a seemingly harmless setup of three seats, comfortably distanced, and allowed a prime view of the restaurant's glass panel kitchen. Past that was Chef Andre at his plating counter with a pleased smirk on his features, eyes fixed on the appetizers he readied.

I sighed. The noise returned.

"Mr. White, what are your expectations for—" "Is it true that you and Chef Siegfried Cox share a—" "Mr. White, does this mean you take back your review of—" "People are asking about the color of your hair." "What made you change your mind about Chef Andre's—"

Making for the only empty seat remaining in the restaurant, I turned to the two other critics seated at the long table. Andre's companions. And by the looks of it, conservatives who were ready to destroy a novice writer like myself in an instant.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

"Evening, Mr. White. Finn Lockhart." We shook. "Been writing the food columns of Tatler and The Mail on Sunday for a good quarter of my life and I have to say, haha, your review of Andre's came across as the funniest little story I've ever read." His grip was measly.

I turned to the other. Same treatment. His name, I barely remembered. Quite frankly, the entire exchange felt like I was at a golf club being introduced to the top-tier members who'd spent their remaining days in cigar smoke and old-fashioned chairs without a single drop of logic in their glasses of wine.

I couldn't be bothered to further the conversation with effort or meaning. Alas, I didn't even need to. Sir Finn Lockhart of the country club was a fan of speaking to himself. Good god I was in an awful mood this evening.

"You are one lucky lad, my boy, do you know that? Andre insisted on making this a humble occasion. He even arranged to have the dishes served up by himself. Not everyone gets to enjoy that sort of treatment, you know. He only ever does that when we come around. No hosts, no waiters, just the chef and his honored guests."

Honored was not the word I would use to describe Andre's sentiments towards myself. That much, I was aware of. Increasingly, the dangerous, ice cold streak of honesty and sarcasm was starting to chisel at the cracks of a frozen lake and knowing how unfortunate it would be to cause yet another scene in the exact same restaurant, now, packed with cameras and reporters, I was sane enough to put on the straightest face and keep my lips sealed with a smile.

I let Lockhart beside me ramble on to myself and his other companion about the 'pleasant atmosphere' and the 'decadent menu' he so remembered it as while I, a helpless, acrid bean in a puddle of wet mush could merely hope for anything else that was not Andre's everyday menu being served this evening. At the very least, the attention of the other critics made it so that the media had to return to their positions and wait quietly for the head chef's appearance instead of firing question after question in my weary face.

Needless to say, by this point in time, I'd nearly wholly given up on a decent meal. All I needed was to be surprised. Anything! Anything at all, really, that was not the usual. I didn't even see the need or the will to be impressed per se, but—

And speak of the devil. There he was.

Wheeling out the hors d'oeuvres on a dining cart, along with glasses of what seemed like personalized cocktails, was Chef Andre the Child. Fond of doll sets, tea parties, toy kitchens and tantrums. He was greeted with a round of applause, courtesy of the reporters and the two other guests beside myself. I nearly failed to join in out of politeness.

Yes, I did not possess the luxury of twenty-twenty vision; but with the help of a pair of decent glasses, anyone without perfect vision would still be able to make out the awful, dainty plating of the egg caviar dish I'd stomached twice in the two visits I'd made to Andre's restaurant. The exact, same, unappetizing, unholy little thing.

I barely processed it being served right in front of me; Andre's face came and went but I was not even looking at it. The evening sunk to a brand new low when I realized: he was going to serve the exact same menu.

God, that idiot was right.

I was upset beyond belief, quite unable to lift a muscle to pick up a spoon to start on the appetizer while cameras began snapping away, rolling, picking up the smiles and approving nods of the critics to my left while I, a complete blank, struggled to find the will to even acknowledge the dish in front of me.

The critic in me was close to passing the ultimatum on the terrible evening by admitting complete defeat and perhaps killing every other second, third chance I was willing to give a chef and their subsequent redemption arcs when... well, an oddly familiar voice broke the restaurant's evening whisper.

I nearly laughed.

"Good evening gentlemen! And cameras, of course. I love cameras."

That, to me, was the sound of an incoming Starbucks order. Either that, or a long-winded complaint about the new drink her boyfriend got her the day it was released. Frankly, I preferred the latter. She doesn't know that.

"Glad to see you're enjoying the, uh, pleasant evening." Violet's appearance stunned the entire room into silence. She'd come in from somewhere off the side—a different entrance from the one I was familiar with. Before her was yet another dining cart. This time, with the dishes covered by a cloche each. "You wouldn't mind if I joined in, would you, Chef Andre?"

As soon as the initial surprise of her entrance subsided, the next instant was filled with the sound of cameras snapping away, redirected microphones and rolling camcorders. I had my gaze fixed on Andre, wondering if this was yet another sort of ploy he'd had the time and effort to engage in.

Though, judging by the look on his face, it was not. The media however, had not taken notice of Andre's stunned apprehension, written all over his features. They were too busy attending to yet another celebrity chef.

"Violet Birchwood! Have you come to attend the—" "Miss Birchwood! Over here please." "Could you explain the occasion of..." "Violet—" "Miss Birchwood, this was not stated on your schedule within the planned five days of your visit. Were you invited by Chef Andre?" "Look here Violet!"

For all intents and purposes, Violet Birchwood was much, much bigger than Andre in terms of fame and fortune. Having abandoned all relation to her father's wealth and name, I'd watched her work doubly hard to get back on her feet and stand on credit that she owned as a result of sheer grit and talent. Her brand personality certainly helped. She was known for being a diva; proud and unafraid of demonstrating raw skill.

"Violet Birchwood," Chef Andre began, regaining control of the situation with a snap. The way he said her name betrayed some form of visible wavering. He could not control the split-second glimpse in my direction. "So nice to see you here. It's been some time since we last met... hasn't it? What brings you here?"

"Honestly, I don't know how to answer that," she laughed, fearless. "I'm just your server for tonight. Aren't you the one who thought of something interesting? Inviting a guest chef to cook alongside you tonight to... spice things up a little? I assumed it was to put your skills into perspective. You know, to show your guests just how perfect your famous menu is, that it hasn't changed in years." Violet flashed her signature smile, a honeyed sweetness on her tongue. "You've always had a knack for things like that. Making things so interesting all the time."

From the sidelines, it was becoming increasingly obvious to both myself and the rest of the room how Andre's expression stiffened at every passing second.

Though the two other critics beside myself appeared rather pleased to see an acknowledged, talented individual like Violet turn up for the eventful evening, Andre, clearly, did not. This confused me thoroughly. Naturally, my instinct was to pull her aside and, well, clear the air.

"Miss Birchwood—"

"I know we haven't seen each other since high school but conversation can be reserved for later, Julian." Her gaze was the shape of a blade and fortunately, I was all-too-familiar with her expression for 'shut up now'. "I'm sure everyone's dying to know what Chef Andre's new partner has prepared for us to start with."

"Of course!" Even Lockhart bought her smile, gesturing to the empty space on our table. "Please do, Miss Birchwood. We'd like to know as well." He did not seem to have caught on about there being something odd about the whole circumstance. Andre most certainly did not look like he had this planned; yet, the rest of the room seemed almost obliged to assume that he had primarily due to Violet's overbearing presence.

Whoever did this, they knew how important she was to the game.

But surely, it would not matter how talented this mystery chef was going to be or how heavenly their dishes were; the fact remained that Andre had planned for the entire evening to be a humiliating occasion for my culinary palate and there was simply no way his guests would prize the work of another chef over... over...

Good god.

Fireworks, nearly. As soon as Violet had lifted the cloches of the dishes on the top tier of her dinner cart, the aroma of truffles, deep and savory, filled the room like a burst of fiery flowers in the night sky.

"Eggs en Cocotte."

Needless to say, the fragrance was enough to turn heads and all of a sudden, the scrambled egg caviar dish with a vodka-infused cloud of cream looked a lot less appealing in comparison. To begin with, it wasn't that I, well, had a glaring issue with the egg-caviar combination. There was nothing wrong with it. Just, for the fanciness of it all and the price of it, well, it did not quite translate in terms of flavour and wow factor, thus lacking... excitement.

Quite simply put, Andre had in hand, a gun that fired blanks while the mystery chef had, in his, a loaded gun. Starting the game with a bang.

Photographers scrambled forth to get a good shot like the dish was a celebrity and deserved a good horde of paparazzi but Violet was quick to reassure them. She placed a perfectly plated portion on the table closest to the reporters and invited them to take pictures, going as far as to provide utensils for them to taste it after documentation.

And with that, she'd left in a heartbeat. Cart and all.

Andre's first reaction was to go after her, perhaps to demand an explanation of sorts, which, honestly speaking, would have been exactly what I too, would have done. He was, however, stopped short by the many questions that everyone in the room seemed to have. Even the critics beside me appeared decently floored by the appetizer in front of us.

A white, palm-sized ramekin housed a molten treasure of perfectly cooked eggs, flecked with herbs, topped with panko crust and cracks of black pepper—crowned by a delicate parmesan tuile that, just like Andre's, featured some sort of cream, an element of sweetness, dolloped over the top of the crisp tuile. An instant juxtaposition of textures.

I turned to the critics on my left. It did not require a genius to recognize excitement on one's features. No one seemed to notice that I'd left Andre's appetizer untouched.

"Shall we?" Lockhart was readying his spoonful, noting how the chef had perhaps intended for the eggs to be eaten with the parmesan crisp dipped into it, whole, herbs and all, a harmony of textures and savory flavours. I decided against utensils completely, picking it up between my fingers.

The first bite was silence.

Truffle oil was a double-edged sword. When used correctly, they could bring out the depth of flavour in a dish that is otherwise bland and shallow. This was such an occasion. The parmesan tuile complemented the runny yolk and aroma of truffles perfectly whilst providing a hidden, light sweetness that balanced the otherwise heavy flavour of the dish.

A splendidly balanced creation.

But, when compared to the traditional appetizer, much, much heavier than what was ordinarily expected of a five-course. The portion was small, yes, and the ramekin no bigger than an average palm but the ingredients, combined, provided a flavour so deep that it risked coming off as heavy. By itself, the dish was perfect.

I couldn't be too sure if something like this would've worked as any other standard five-course starter, but perhaps in experimental, fusion cuisine... something unique of its own that tantalized the senses and excited the palate.

I was left wondering what was going to be next.

"Andre!" The critic at the end of the table spoke first, gesturing to his plate of eggs en cocotte. "Would I be wrong to assume that you've trained, yourself, a new talent of sorts?"

"Well," Andre was frowning. His eyes went to the plate before the reporters that was nearly clean in a matter of seconds. "That was the uh... surprise, I trained him for some time... but the menu—"

"You continue to impress us," Lockhart chimed in with a beam. "We never knew you were a mentor as much as you were a culinary genius."

Andre could only provide sheepish laughter in response. I said nothing; merely cleaned my plate and watched as the other critics did the same. It was delicious.

In the midst of noting down the details of this... surprise menu, I could not help but find myself quietly pleased by the pleasant twist of events on what I was close to dubbing as the most boring evening of the century. Soon enough, Andre had retreated back into his private kitchen to ready the next course while the critics to my left proceeded to engage in stimulated conversation.

I merely eavesdropped. Also, the media was in a frenzy—calling up photographers and backup to be positioned outside the restaurant, with new information on Violet Birchwood's whereabouts and guest appearance.

Next up was Andre's signature Hokkaido sea scallops with caramelized cauliflower but nothing of that sort could beat the electricity of "Island-style, spice-crusted scallops with mango salsa," topped with tempura crunch and pan-seared to perfection. Violet introducing the dish was nearly ignored by the sheer bold, daring flavours presented by the mystery chef.

This was Caribbean, Cajun, French and Japanese influence all in a single dish that featured the exact same primary ingredient used by Chef Andre. 

To a conversative diner, this was fired mess. There was absolutely no telling what sort of background this chef possessed because they had somehow decided to combine every single instance of influence from various cuisines and and somehow made it work to extreme perfection and and and, w-well, quite frankly put, I was as confused as I was stimulated.

This was no longer fusion food. This was flames. I simply could not imagine or even put a name to what sort of cuisine this would be because there was no name for a mess! There was no identifying what this was—and all that occupied my mind was the first and foremost knowledge that what was before me tasted amazingly novel, fresh and delicious.

Add to that the seeming fact that this mystery chef had no apparent core influence or fixed school of training made it seem like every dish was going to be a surprise. No one knew what was coming next; I could not wait to see what was to be served.

Simply put, I was electrified.

And most importantly, I was not the only one blown away. For the rest of the entire evening, we were served dishes that broke rule after rule, besting one after the other with its inexpensive ingredients that compromised neither creativity or taste and rivalled the workings of a once-in-a-century talent—a name I dared not even think.

It could not be the case. It would not have made any sense. I was feeling foolish just by giving the thought some consideration.

He'd left it behind. Just as he... just as he should have. The kitchen had weighed on his back like a burden for the longest time, in which he was never whole when it was there, pulling him down. So much time, he'd spent breaking free from that; there was simply no way he would... I wouldn't even allow it.

"Dessert," Lockhart's heads-up brought me back to the table, his gaze turned towards where Violet would be appearing. Not Chef Andre. "I'm craving something chilled. Something cold."

"Indeed." I looked away.

It would seem like a good time for some ice cream.

Even the most bland, boring flavour would surprise me now.

_________________________

There's fire.