#chef!luca

The fog seemed idyllic. It was dense with humidity and carried the dawn light over the horizon better than the days prior; the rain was starting to get to you. It punctured your routine with puddles that were unavoidable and time that allowed your items to go stale because of a slow-trafficked day.

What had gone unnoticed during those days, and frankly underappreciated, was the space the weather provided. You had moved so quickly, your keys almost slipping from your hands as you bustled into the bakery, trying to keep dry. Yet, now your steps were paced by your exhaustion, only stopped by him.

Luca.

He knew better than to bring you coffee, the gesture acting more as an insult to your sleep schedule than a remedy to your dark circles. Instead, he was early, leaning against the brick wall of the bakery, waiting for you. Punctuality was just shy of being an aphrodisiac.

The cooking life was like a long love affair, with moments both sublime and ridiculous. Yet, like any love affair, looking back, you seemed to cling to the happy times the best—the things that drew you in in the first place, the things that kept you coming back for more.

Luca understood this well. Conscious or not, it hadn’t mattered; he indulged just the same. It was why he set on the stoop, day after day, only skipping out when the weather begged him to. Regardless he returned to you, waited for you, and deferred to you, even when his purpose was to poach you.

“I’m starting to lose count—” You refused a greeting. He blocked your journey to becoming a morning person. “—how many days does it take to be qualified as a stalker?”

Luca tutted teasingly, pushing through to find your humor. “Not quite eligible yet.”

“Shame.” You hummed, your key cracking open the rusted door. The click was becoming too screechy to ignore. The rain only proved further repercussions.

Noted. Fingers crossed, a handyman would be looking for something delectable on their break. Just as Luca came to expect your dry humor, you learned his body language just as well. Holding open the door you just unlocked, he held back the offer to repair it.

“Rumor has it you found your sous.” Your voice carried well through the echoing building. It was a small place, barely worth what you pay to keep it open.

Your fingers were stiff from the cold.  You cursed the winter and how it made you physically fumble for the months it endured. It was as though your body rejected how it influenced you. Yet, once your fingers found the light switches, you retracted your afflictions.

“He’s temporary.” Always a man of few words. Pointed and punctual.

“And he knows that?” You scoffed, scarf still muffling your words ever so slightly.

Your back was to him as your question lingered. Luca’s gaze admired your routine, the one he memorized as if each layer of clothing was a recipe in itself. You always saved your scarf for last as if it the way it twirled was an old-fashioned caramel drizzle on a forbidden apple.

“Everyone knows I want you.” He said deftly. Even with your back to him, you were sure he could picture your flattered, flustered features. “...He’s good. Young.”

“Mmm…” You mused, facing him. A part of you was convinced Luca would stop coming by once he’d found his counterpart. But his dissatisfaction still radiated off of him. “How long do you think he’ll last?”

“Depends.” Luca matched your tone. Young meant talent, but it also meant naive. “When do you plan to join me?”

Your laugh was let out as a breath—its presence small but worth it. “Luca—

“I’ll give it a rest.” His promise wouldn’t last very long, but it would do.

Luca reached for the apron that he had donned as his own. He reached the shelves you struggled with, learning within days through observation where to place that for when you finally mosied over. He was envious of your movements, how you found joy in moving slowly, so unrushed and unbothered to the point of pleasure.

It was strange the routine formed. It was just as unorthodox as the relationship. But within the culinary world, nothing was off-limits. There was a vague beginning to the friendship, another fitting mark. You were a friend of a friend that knew a guy. And you were the one that’s rumors claimed you were better than him.

Sometimes Luca wished he chose rivalry over admiration. But even if he had, you wouldn’t allow it. You would never go back to that world. It was far too demanding; you couldn’t thrive where you didn’t belong. You liked when your hands were layered with flour to lay out your dough. To stir a glaze in just the right way so that there was enough for an extra taste. It was you and the stillness without the adrenaline-filled demands.

The quiet of working side by side, the soft clinking of metal sheets and ceramics, was the perfect white noise. The simple patter of packed flour being muddled with oil was far better than the tourists that invaded your senses. You couldn’t decide if it was a welcomed distraction.

“What do you think?” He respected hierarchy. It was perfect. But you valued the imperfections of each unique item.

“Hmm?” You looked to your side. Luca was close; the small layout allowed for it.

“Try it.” He slid the plate to you.

Routines were hard to break. Every morning you skipped breakfast, it wasn’t until your stomach rumbled would you realize you were hungry. Luca learned you loved things sickly sweet, just shy of making your mouth pucker.

You worked alone often; you hadn’t needed the company nor the help. However, the pair of hands that steadied themselves on your hips to pass by made you question your need. It made you question if the warmth that spread through your body was from him or from the oven pre-heating near your knees. It would have been easy to doubt it all if there hadn’t been a ghost print of flour on your black apron.

“Go on…” Luca returned, pushing a found spoon into your hands. “Give me your worst.”

You rolled your eyes. He knew it was good. You knew it was good. The first spoonful was annoyingly satisfying. You maintained your breath through the second bite. If you went for a third, you knew Luca’s ego would soar.

The extra hands were helpful, but you refused to let the aid blind his purpose. So, you deflected, pointing the spoon to him.“I’m sure it’ll sell.”

Luca’s lips played with a frown. You were good at reminding him that his so-called sweetness could cross over into becoming a chore. His thick skin was scarred, burned, and continually tested.  You had the skill to crawl under it and almost get to him.

Accepting the utensil, he tasted his own creation. “It’s missing something.”

“Yeah?” You weren’t shy about plucking your finger into the cream filling for another taste. “What are you thinking?”

There it was, his earlier promise broken. With just a look, you knew what he was thinking; you. It was a tacky way to beg again for you to work with him; it was why he only gave you a look. One that was brief and gone before you could say anything before returning steely.

“Increase the fat content.” You advised, breaking your gaze. It was a test, and you were well aware you passed. It was textbook. Again, you’d proven your mind was in tune with his. “Cut it with acidity.”

He nodded, inked arms crossed against his chest. Luca lacked  the asinine chef bravado. A welcome reprieve. Self-assured, steady, and strong. Your eyebrows pinched when he stumbled slightly, drawing in a breath to say something just to let the words die. It was out of character, a side to him you didn’t believe existed. He seemed nervous.

“It’ll be ready in a few weeks.” His words seemed to settle finally.

“Ah…” You wiped your hands on your chest, reaching for the next thing. The beauty in baking was constantly moving. Even when your patience was being tested while things rose, there was always another something to work on. “...I forgot how much modernist cuisine attracts attention.”

New items meant new clients. New reviews and new criticism. You continued to assure him, chatting softly of what snobs people could be when they were filled with only ignorance. You meant to ease his apprehension, but you realized it had nothing to do with hosting an event.

Deep breaths helped.

The nicotine’s warmth sparked excitement in your veins. It made a tedious night seem just bearable with each inhale. You eyed the falling ash as if it were tea leaves promising your near future. Yet, when your eyes surveyed the crowd within the restaurant, it cemented the dull company you’d join.

Excusing yourself was easy. Slipping away wasn’t the issue; it was expected as the call for a cigarette completed your image. The cliché of it made your mouth pucker with your final drag.

“There you are...” A hand settled on your shoulder. Ryan. “They’re ordering another bottle as we speak.” Lighting her own cigarette, she cursed. “We better fucking land this deal—I’m about to max out the company card.”

Flicking your roach under the point of your heel, you scoffed, “Please, if I have to hear that man say heavenly one more time, I’ll—

“You’ll smile.” She reminded you. It was an instruction, really. “Nod your head, agree with anything—Everything.”

“He said supposebly.” You tutted. “I can’t take him seriously.”

“He’s ancient. Cut him some slack!” She laughed. Charm came second nature to Ryan; you weren’t convinced she even knew its effect on people. “He’s sweet on you.”

“Right…” You tried to make out the stars, but the light pollution fought against you. “So, what? I marry him for the life insurance?”

“Let’s just make it through dessert,” Ryan spoke definitively, always cutting through. Yet, room always remained to entertain you. “Then we can talk wedding plans.”

The man that waited for you was Avery Sinclair—world-renowned something. You had listened, but the information had already left you. Those around you, though, knew who sat across from you well. They were almost as good as you hiding their discomfort. Eyes were always on him, knowing his thoughts before he could form them. New forks were laid after the slightest touch, napkin splayed on his lap before he could lift it himself, and every meal came with the chef that made it.

He was respected.

Yet, all you saw was his brittle and thin mustache, sitting upon his lip like forgotten food. The comb-over was just as wirey and pulled kindness to his cheeks. They flushed now as he flirted with another glass of wine.

“There you are!” He bubbled. With a wave of his hand, your diligent waitress returned with the Italian bottle. “I ordered the oak-aged white. It has a buttery note that is just heavenly with the gelée.”

You smiled.

“I cannot believe our night is coming to an end.” Ryan charmed. She held her nose to the glass, listening intently as Mr. Sinclair explained each technique to her. The slurping was a bit much.

“My dear, this is just a start.” The deal was confirmed with those words alone. A part of you wished the promise had a false bottom. “We can draft up something agreeable, I’m sure?”

He looked at you. You had that feeling like you’d forgotten to walk. Each step felt forced and off. You played off your misstep cleverly, your glass raising to the center, “I look forward to working together.”

Ryan was impressed, pride swelling in her chest. She and you were an unmistakable duo. Angel and devil. Thelma and Louise. Introvert and extrovert.  Fill in any this and that, and there you two were. Most importantly, she was the publicist, and you were the writer.

“Under one condition…” Mr. Sinclair smiled, far too tickled by your toast. He leaned in, elbows brushing the circular table. “Do you know why I chose this place tonight?”

You hadn’t expected the question. Your answer came out blunt. “Favoritism.”

“You’re sharp.” He smiled broadly, wagging his manicured finger at you. “Exactly that. Look around you…”

You took a genuine moment.  The perception of fine dining was all theatrics. It was a large show that ran every night of the week. Even those who dined were an unassuming audience. Those swiveling doors may as well be the curtain line to backstage. The kitchen, the dressing room. The dripping alleyway, the green room.

You were all too aware of the communication chain. The insults were coded frustrations that later into the service would be water under the bridge. There was a reason for everyone being here just as you were.

“We’re all cut from the same cloth. You, me, dear Ryan.” Mr. Sinclair smiled at her. “We all express our passions differently, but we love just the same.”

He felt content. His body relaxed with his decision to hire you. Sinclair could see how you hadn’t quite trusted yourself with the responsibility that he was putting on your shoulders. But he was confident you’d grow into it perfectly.

“I hope you understand the reasons for my poetics—” The rumors and gossip about him failed to do his sincerity justice. “—as I’m trusting you with my legacy.”

“Of course.” You gave another smile; this time, it felt real.

“Excuse my sentimentality!” Mr. Sinclair clasped his hands together in a soft clap. You could almost see tears forming in the corner of his eyes.   “With that out of the way, dessert? The pastry chef here is—” His favoritism came into play. “—is something special.”

You could picture the chef now, cursing at the interruption. Hopefully, complaining about the big wig seated at table seven wasn’t worth his time. You waited for the rehearsed, polite decline.

Apologies, however, our chef is tied up between aeration.

But there he was, Chef Luca. His pristine white jacket contrasted perfectly against the warm ambiance of the evening. The distance was covered within a few long strides, and once at the table, his charmed smile made you nauseous. He played his part better than you had that night.

His features were tight, unwavering as the compliments poured. Your lips twitched down as you took him in. With his hands behind his back, his chest pulled broadly, but you could still make out the littered tattoos on his forearms. Typical.

Even with his eyes on you, you hadn’t shied from your judgment. You only stopped when you heard your name.

“Isn’t that right?” Ryan prompted you again, defined features expressing her sternness. Focus.  “You always talk about how much you love to bake.”

You don’t.

“Sure.” You nodded.

“A match made in heaven, then!” Mr. Sinclair exclaimed. “You must get to know Luca; he has the most interesting story!”

In your short assessment, you already disparaged his comment. To you, Luca was, like you, a walking cliché.

“I don’t doubt that…” Your sarcasm was palpable. Luca’s stoicism broke with a smirk of confusion. “Let me guess... You were a troublemaker?” Your tone was teasing but bordered something wicked.  “Cooking put you straight, and you owe your life to grease and adrenaline.”

“Forgot to mention that I’m a hard-partying criminal.” Luca didn’t waste a beat. Impressive.

“And when did the anger issues start?” You hummed. You played at every stereotype you knew. “Before or after your—

“I think what she means to say—” Ryan cut in seamlessly. She came prepared for your shenanigans. “—is that she admires the journey you’ve taken to get here.”

Luckily, Mr. Sinclair was far too enamored with the preciseness of the dessert to interpret the sudden banter.

“Of course.” Luca looked at you. Then as you had only moments ago, he pulled a practiced expression to address his loyal customer. “Mr. Sinclair, as always, it’s a pleasure to see you.”

“Unfortunately, I must savor tonight.” He spoke. “My home on the Amalfi coast has been quite lonely.” Sinclair let out a regretful sigh. “I trust you to keep this between us, yes?”

Luca nodded. “Of course.”

“You will be a very lucky man, son.” Sinclair further divulged the secrets behind his retirement. “I hope you heed my advice and get to know this young lady.”

All eyes were on you.

“She will continue to write for me. Use my name.” He explained your purpose. You weren’t ready to hear it aloud. “So treat her kindly, or you will have to answer to me.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” Luca almost protested. It seemed elaborate to allow someone so young—you— to take his place.