#cheflucathebear

Part 1 - Part 2

Word Count: 900+

Chapter 3: First Encounter

The next morning came earlier than expected. Jet lag buzzed under Amelie's skin, but adrenaline won out. She pulled her hair into a loose bun, dressed in black chef's pants and a fitted white tee, and layered her coat over it. Her hands shook slightly as she tied her apron around her waist and slipped her notebook into her bag.

 Carmy had sent her the address with no other details—no name of the place, no prep about Luca. Just: "Be on time. He hates late." It was 5:00 AM when she arrived at the bakery. From the outside, it didn't look like much. No sign. Just large windows fogged from the inside and the faint scent of baking bread leaking into the street. She hesitated only a moment before pushing open the heavy glass door. 

 Inside, the space was minimalist but warm: white walls, polished concrete floors, rustic wood counters, and a long steel prep table at the back under warm overhead lights. The ovens were humming. Trays of dough sat proofing under linen cloths. And at the far end of the kitchen stood a man with his sleeves rolled up, arms dusted with flour, folding laminated dough with surgical precision.

 Luca. 

 He didn't look up right away. Didn't greet her.Amelie hovered, uncertain, until finally he glanced over his shoulder. His face was unreadable—sharp jawline, tired eyes, messy but styled blonde hair,  the kind of calm that came off more intimidating than reassuring."You're early Chef," he said flatly, not stopping his work."I was told you hate late Chef," she replied , standing her ground.That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile—more like the acknowledgment of one. He nodded, once, then returned to his dough, folding it over with smooth, practiced movements.

"You come recommended," he said after a pause, eyes still on his work. "Berzatto doesn't usually hand people off. Not unless he thinks you're something."

"I don't want to be something," Amelie said, stepping closer to the counter. "I want to be better Chef."

Now he looked at her—really looked. His gaze was steady, assessing. Like he was sizing her up the same way he might inspect the elasticity of a dough or the sheen on a ganache.

"That's good," he said simply. "Ambition's the only ingredient you can't fake."

Amelie didn't know how to respond, so she just nodded, gripping her bag tighter.

He gestured toward the table. "Apron on. Hands washed. Let's see what you know."

For the next hour, he didn't say much. He showed her the rhythm of the place with gestures more than words. The proofing room. The temperature logs. The way he scored croissants—not with flair, but with intention. Everything was deliberate. Clean. Silent.

It was maddening.

She was used to noise—used to Carmy's chaos, Marcus's chatter, the clang of trays and Richie's cursing words at filling up The Bear. Here, the only soundtrack was the whirr of stoves and ovens and the occasional scrape of metal on wood.

"You always this quiet?" she asked finally, unable to bear it anymore.

Luca looked up from his shaping. "You always this loud?"

The question wasn't mean—it was teasing. Barely. But it still made her cheeks flush.

"I'm used to a kitchen that talks back." Said Amelie with a defiant tone.

"This one listens," he said nonchalantly. "If you let it."

That shut her up. And strangely, it made sense.

By the end of the morning, her forearms ached from kneading and rolling, her brain buzzed with details she was trying to memorize—proofing temperatures, egg wash ratios, the way Luca's brow furrowed ever so slightly when something wasn't up to standard. He was patient, but brutal in his precision. Not once did he compliment. Not once did he scold. He just expected.

As she cleaned down her station, Luca handed her a still-warm pastry. A spandauer—simple, delicate, gleaming with apricot jam.

"Yours," Luca said, placing a jar of vanilla paste back on the shelf. "Today was a trial. You showed me some of your skill—and it's impressive. But starting tomorrow, we begin from zero."

Amelie froze mid-bite, confusion flickering across her face. "From zero?" she repeated. "You mean... basics?"

"Yes." Luca didn't soften it. "You're technically sound. But there's no passion in your food. And if you want to be worthy of cooking in the same kitchen as Carmen Berzatto, you need that fire. Right now, it's missing."

The words landed hard. Not cruel—just honest. Brutally so. Just like Carmy had warned her.

"I'm giving you a challenge," Luca said, wiping his hands on a towel as he turned to face her fully. "By the end of your time in Copenhagen, you'll create three original pastries—completely your own. No templates. No borrowed ideas. Just you, your instincts, and what you learn here."

Amelie blinked, stunned. The weight of his words settled fast.

"You're technically strong," he continued. "But it's time to sharpen that into something real. Something personal. You've been playing it safe, sticking to the basics. That won't fly here."

She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut in, gaze cool.

"I've seen your work. I know none of your pastries have made it onto the main menu at The Bear. That says something."

The comment stung more than she expected.

Luca didn't wait for a reply. He slung his apron onto a hook, already halfway out the door. "Be here tomorrow," he said without looking back. "And forget everything you think you know."

Amelie lowered the spandauer, her jaw tightening. It was good... Textbook, even. But not unforgettable. Not the kind of pastry that made someone feel something. And somehow, he'd seen it within the first hour of working with her.

That realization rattled her as she was walking out of the restaurant.

The next few months were going to be intense.

A tangle of nerves, determination—and something dangerously close to hunger.

Not for food.

For truth. For mastery. For new experiences. For the kind of passion Luca said she was missing.

Excitement. Fear. And something else entirely.

Part 1

Word Count: 1.2k

Story continues here!!

Chapter 2: Arrival

The Bear was more than just a restaurant—it was a family, messy and loud, but fiercely loyal. The connection between the staff ran deeper than the constant chorus of "Yes, Chef" shouted during the dinner rush. So when Carmy announced that Amelie would be flying to Denmark for two months, the kitchen erupted in cheers. Everyone knew her skills would only sharpen abroad, and that she'd return with something fresh, something bold—something hers.

Richie and Fak got unexpectedly emotional. At twenty-two, Amelie was the youngest in the kitchen, but she fit in like a missing puzzle piece—matching their chaotic energy both in and out of the kitchen. To them, she wasn't just a co-worker; she was family.

Sydney, ever the composed second-in-command, nodded in quiet approval. She understood the weight of this opportunity. Amelie was already sharp—this would make her dangerous. Still, Syd couldn't help but feel the distance growing between herself and the restaurant. With Shapiro's offer still on the table, Amelie's departure stirred something uncertain in her chest. So she smiled, supportive, but kept her feelings close.

Marcus and Tina were the most outwardly excited. "I'll be waiting, Number Two," Marcus said with a soft grin as he handed her a boxed pastry for the plane. Despite the heaviness he'd been carrying—grief, burnout, life—he wanted Amelie to succeed where he couldn't always guide her. Tina, ever the heart of the kitchen, hugged her tight and whispered, "Make us proud, girl."

Amelie tried to soak in all of it—the noise, the love, the pressure. This wasn't just a trip.

This was the moment everything could change.

After more than eight hours on a plane, Amelie had finally arrived in Copenhagen, Denmark. The city felt serene, cold, and unfamiliar to the twenty-two-year-old. As she stepped off the plane and into the quiet stillness of the terminal, a pang of longing hit her—she already missed Carmy's chaotic crashouts and the relentless rhythm of The Bear's kitchen.

The moment she stepped outside, the crisp Scandinavian air slapped her across the face, making her gasp. Instinctively, she reached up to tighten the red scarf around her neck, its warmth a small comfort against the chill. Her eyes scanned the pickup zone, searching for the Uber Carmy had promised would be arranged.

Instead, she spotted a white placard held by an older man in a long charcoal coat. "Amelie Rousseau." The letters were neatly printed, stark against the Danish gray.

She hesitated for a second, then approached. The man gave a polite nod and introduced himself in accented English. No frills. No small talk. Just a gesture toward the waiting van.

Without another word, she climbed inside.

This would be her home for the next two months. And something told her it wouldn't be the cold that tested her—it would be everything else.

The city was breathtaking. From the clean, modern architecture to the quiet rivers winding through cobbled streets, Copenhagen felt like a different world. Amelie had never been outside of Chicago—never even owned a passport until a month ago. Now, everything around her was foreign. Beautiful. A little intimidating. She felt small, almost fragile. But something told her this experience would be worth every uncomfortable moment.

After an hour-long drive through unfamiliar streets and across narrow bridges, the car finally came to a stop. Her new home wasn't a flat or a shared apartment. It was a small, weathered houseboat moored at the edge of the canal—tucked away, almost secretive.

She stepped out slowly, thanking the old man as he lifted her bags from the trunk. He nodded once, gave a brief smile, and drove off without ceremony, leaving her standing alone with her luggage and a cold gust of wind.

Dragging her suitcase inside, Amelie paused at the threshold. The houseboat was nothing like her cramped Chicago apartment. It was warm, quiet, and oddly comforting. The space was small, but it wrapped around her like a blanket—wood-paneled walls, a narrow kitchen with a window facing the water, an individual bed tucked beneath a skylight, and a tiny living room filled with soft light and mismatched furniture. It smelled faintly of cedar and coffee.

She set her bags down slowly, soaking in the silence.

Somehow, even in this foreign place, she already felt lighter. As if this little boat had been waiting for her all along.

After unpacking her small suitcase and tucking away the last of her sweaters, Amelie's stomach reminded her just how long it had been since her last meal. She slipped on her coat, wrapped the red scarf tighter around her neck, and stepped back out into the crisp Copenhagen air. The sun had already begun to sink behind the buildings, casting golden shadows across the quiet streets.

She wandered aimlessly for about ten minutes, letting the city guide her. Cobblestones under her boots, foreign street signs, and the low hum of bikes whirring past. Then, just as her hunger began to twist into something sharper, a small bakery came into view—its windows glowing with soft amber light, fogged slightly from the warmth inside.

The second she stepped through the door, the scent hit her—sweet and savory, butter and sugar, fresh yeast and something spiced she couldn't quite place. It was like being wrapped in a warm hug after a long day. Her body eased without her even realizing.

She made a beeline for the counter, eyes wide with awe. Behind the glass were rows of perfect pastries: flaky, golden, dusted, drizzled, filled. A symphony of textures and technique.

An older woman appeared from the back, her hair swept into a neat bun and her smile kind. "Hej," she greeted, her Danish accent soft but clear.

Without hesitation, Amelie blurted, "Can I get one of everything?"

The woman blinked, surprised. "For a party?" she asked with a small laugh.

Amelie smiled, cheeks flushed. "No, ma'am. I'm here to learn."

The woman's eyes crinkled at the edges, sensing something more in Amelie's tone—hunger, yes, but not just for food.

"Then eat slowly," she said, beginning to box up the pastries with practiced hands. "You'll taste more that way."

After lugging four pastry boxes through narrow streets and earning more than a few curious glances from locals, Amelie finally made it back to the houseboat. Her fingers were numb from the cold, her arms sore from the awkward weight, but the quiet thrill in her chest kept her moving.

Inside, she kicked off her boots, set the boxes down on the small kitchen table, and rummaged through her bag. From its depths, she pulled out a black notebook and a pen—her culinary journal, untouched until now. She opened to the first page and, in neat print, wrote:

Baking Notes & Ideas – Pt. 1

Still wrapped in her coat, she opened each of the pastry boxes, releasing a wave of sweet, buttery perfume into the room. There were delicate kringles, rustic tebirkes, glossy cinnamon snails, and spandauers filled with everything from custard to tangy raspberry.

Hungry in both body and mind, Amelie took a bite of each one, savoring them slowly. With every taste, she scribbled down her thoughts: the name, the dominant flavors, the texture of the layers, the type of fat—was it butter or oil-based? The protein structure, the flakiness, the glaze, the type of marmalade or filling, even the crumb density. She broke each pastry down like an equation, dissecting it with the kind of precision only someone obsessed with improvement could manage.

To anyone else, it might have looked like a binge.

But to Amelie Rousseau, this was study. This was discipline. This was the beginning of something real.