of his reverie by Frankie’s annoying Cockney accent.
“Feeling a mite nervous, are we, mate?” Frankie asked, showing that unsettling ability to read people that Devon remembered from Appetite, back when Devon ran his own kitchen and Frankie was a lowly line cook. Thinking about it now, Devon wasn’t surprised the man had risen to sous chef—that pinpoint accuracy in judging situations made him a huge asset to any busy kitchen.
Devon didn’t bother to resist rising to the bait. “Of course. Of all the kinds of food I’ve tried my hand at over the years, Adam’s particular brand of crunchy-munchy eco-friendly emo-cuisine might be the toughest to master.”
Devon awarded himself a point when he saw Frankie stiffen. Honing in on the weakness, Devon continued, “Sure, it’s not poaching perfect duck breast en sous vide or working with exotic ingredients like tamarind or pacu fish ribs—but with that ridiculous restriction of his, no food from further away than a one-hundred-mile radius around the restaurant?” Devon shook his head in mock awe. “Well, the winter months must be a bitch. How many ways are there to cook a turnip, anyway?”
“Plenty, if you’ve got half the talent Adam has.”
“Hmm.” Devon let his lips twist in a way that he knew projected cool amusement. “And who was it that discovered Adam and gave him his start, I wonder?”
Frankie opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Devon waved it away with a languid hand.
“Doesn’t matter. That was then, this is now. And thank the kitchen gods it’s not winter, so we have no root vegetables to contend with. It’s summer, that season of glorious fresh fruit and vegetable bounty.
And in the spirit of Market’s mission, I went to the Union Square greenmarket and picked up a few things to add to tonight’s dishes.” Allowing himself another curled lip, Devon stared straight into Frankie’s black eyes and said, “The menu needed a bit more curb appeal before I’d be willing to have my name associated with this restaurant.”
“You jumped-up piece of shit,” Frankie exploded, tossing his knife to the counter. He made an abortive move as if to hurdle the huge wooden kitchen block separating him from Devon, but the garde manger guy, a scrappy little Italian—Milo?—rounded the corner of the salad and cold apps station to grab Frankie’s arm.
“Quit it, man,” the smaller man said, shooting Devon a disgusted look. “Chill. Adam’s only gone for a coupla weeks. We just gotta get through it. Don’t go making trouble.”
“Bugger off,” Frankie sneered. “What’s this ponce going to do, fire me? He knows damn well Adam didn’t leave him with that kind of authority. Did he, Hollywood?” Devon tilted his head, studying the pugnacious thrust of Frankie’s rough-shaven chin. All activity in the kitchen had ceased; every line cook was watching to see who would come out on top of this dog pile.
Devon smiled. It wasn’t a nice expression, he knew.
“You’re right. I can’t get rid of you, no matter how obnoxious you are. But don’t fool yourself; if your plan is to make the next two weeks a living hell for me, I’ll give as good as I get. This is my kitchen for fourteen days; you’ll cook whatever the fuck I say you’ll cook. If I want to add a nice pavé of dog shit and horse testicles as a special, you’ll cook it, and perfectly.” Calmly, with deliberate steps, Devon rounded the butcher block and moved into Frankie’s personal space. When they were nose to nose, Devon said, “And if you think I’m going to allow a snot-nosed punk like you to throw me attitude, then you’ve taken one too many stage dives, mate. Now get back on the line and get ready for service.”
Without waiting to see if he’d be obeyed, Devon turned, hands on his hips, to shout to the rest of the cooks, “That goes for the rest of you monkeys! Keep your head down, do your job, and we won’t have any problems. Give me
“Feeling a mite nervous, are we, mate?” Frankie asked, showing that unsettling ability to read people that Devon remembered from Appetite, back when Devon ran his own kitchen and Frankie was a lowly line cook. Thinking about it now, Devon wasn’t surprised the man had risen to sous chef—that pinpoint accuracy in judging situations made him a huge asset to any busy kitchen.
Devon didn’t bother to resist rising to the bait. “Of course. Of all the kinds of food I’ve tried my hand at over the years, Adam’s particular brand of crunchy-munchy eco-friendly emo-cuisine might be the toughest to master.”
Devon awarded himself a point when he saw Frankie stiffen. Honing in on the weakness, Devon continued, “Sure, it’s not poaching perfect duck breast en sous vide or working with exotic ingredients like tamarind or pacu fish ribs—but with that ridiculous restriction of his, no food from further away than a one-hundred-mile radius around the restaurant?” Devon shook his head in mock awe. “Well, the winter months must be a bitch. How many ways are there to cook a turnip, anyway?”
“Plenty, if you’ve got half the talent Adam has.”
“Hmm.” Devon let his lips twist in a way that he knew projected cool amusement. “And who was it that discovered Adam and gave him his start, I wonder?”
Frankie opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Devon waved it away with a languid hand.
“Doesn’t matter. That was then, this is now. And thank the kitchen gods it’s not winter, so we have no root vegetables to contend with. It’s summer, that season of glorious fresh fruit and vegetable bounty.
And in the spirit of Market’s mission, I went to the Union Square greenmarket and picked up a few things to add to tonight’s dishes.” Allowing himself another curled lip, Devon stared straight into Frankie’s black eyes and said, “The menu needed a bit more curb appeal before I’d be willing to have my name associated with this restaurant.”
“You jumped-up piece of shit,” Frankie exploded, tossing his knife to the counter. He made an abortive move as if to hurdle the huge wooden kitchen block separating him from Devon, but the garde manger guy, a scrappy little Italian—Milo?—rounded the corner of the salad and cold apps station to grab Frankie’s arm.
“Quit it, man,” the smaller man said, shooting Devon a disgusted look. “Chill. Adam’s only gone for a coupla weeks. We just gotta get through it. Don’t go making trouble.”
“Bugger off,” Frankie sneered. “What’s this ponce going to do, fire me? He knows damn well Adam didn’t leave him with that kind of authority. Did he, Hollywood?” Devon tilted his head, studying the pugnacious thrust of Frankie’s rough-shaven chin. All activity in the kitchen had ceased; every line cook was watching to see who would come out on top of this dog pile.
Devon smiled. It wasn’t a nice expression, he knew.
“You’re right. I can’t get rid of you, no matter how obnoxious you are. But don’t fool yourself; if your plan is to make the next two weeks a living hell for me, I’ll give as good as I get. This is my kitchen for fourteen days; you’ll cook whatever the fuck I say you’ll cook. If I want to add a nice pavé of dog shit and horse testicles as a special, you’ll cook it, and perfectly.” Calmly, with deliberate steps, Devon rounded the butcher block and moved into Frankie’s personal space. When they were nose to nose, Devon said, “And if you think I’m going to allow a snot-nosed punk like you to throw me attitude, then you’ve taken one too many stage dives, mate. Now get back on the line and get ready for service.”
Without waiting to see if he’d be obeyed, Devon turned, hands on his hips, to shout to the rest of the cooks, “That goes for the rest of you monkeys! Keep your head down, do your job, and we won’t have any problems. Give me
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