cafeteria.
“Sorry I’m late,” she whispered to the teacher. The second the words left her lips, Lexi realized the room was silent, which was unusual when over thirty teenagers were assembled in one place.
Then Lexi saw why. At the front of the room was a tall man with dark hair and striking blue eyes. He wore a navy shirt with Black Jack’s emblazoned in red on the pocket. He must be the guest chef who was scheduled to demonstrate today.
“Mr. Westcott was just telling us that he learned to cook in the CIA,” Mrs. Geffen told her in a voice everyone could hear.
Lexi nodded and understood what he meant, but she couldn’t imagine the students would catch on. No doubt they assumed he’d been in the Central Intelligence Agency.
She quickly glanced around the room to locate her younger sister, Amber. Volunteering once a week in Amber’s culinary arts class was the commitment Lexi had made to encourage Amber with her studies. This cooking class was an elective and the only subject that interested her. Unlike Amber, Lexi had always been in advance-placement classes and loved school as much as her sister hated it.
She spotted Amber in the front row. Her sister was always so eager to get to this class that she’d probably been waiting for the doors to open. Her honey-brown head tilted slightly toward the guest chef, then she turned and caught Lexi’s eye. “Hot,” she mouthed.
So that’s why her sister had been in such a rush to get here. Lexi thought the guy looked arrogant. He was frowning at her. She’d obviously interrupted and he didn’t appreciate it.
“Class,” Mrs. Geffen said as the group began to whisper, “Mr. Westcott was telling us about his training. Let’s listen to what he has to say.”
The teacher was short and packed into a moss-green suit that she’d worn almost every Wednesday that Lexi had volunteered.
“Someone asked where I learned to cook,” the chef repeated.
Lexi recalled Brad Westcott was the owner and executive chef of Black Jack’s, one of the most successful restaurants in Houston. It was also one of the few that didn’t purchase produce from City Seeds, Lexi’s gourmet-vegetable operation.
“Like a lot of you,” he said in a voice that indicated he was at ease with inner-city kids, “I used to think cooking was tossing something in the microwave.”
The students chuckled and elbowed each other, especially the boys. Many of them came from Mexico or South America and regarded cooking as women’s work. They were in this class because their other elective choices had been filled.
“Then I went into the army,” he continued.
That statement got the boys’ undivided attention. Many of them would join when they were old enough.
“I was assigned to the officers’ mess hall. That’s what they call the kitchen—the mess hall. Mostly I peeled potatoes, carrots—”
“What about the CIA?” yelled one of the boys.
“The army is where I became interested in cooking,” Brad continued, ignoring the interruption. “When I got out, I had enough money to enroll in the CI.A. The Culinary Institute of America right here in Houston.”
Lexi smiled, but it took a few seconds before the light dawned on the rest of the students. The girls giggled while the boys rolled their eyes or elbowed each other.
Their reaction didn’t bother Brad Westcott. “Over half the students at the culinary institute were men. Top chefs in many restaurants are men. Lots of the celebrity chefs on television are men.”
The boys seemed more interested. “A good chef can make a lot of money,” Brad continued. “Plus, you meet lots of interesting people, especially women.”
Now they were impressed. Money was a never-ending concern in the inner city. The word money got the boys’ attention, but mentioning women didn’t hurt. They might try to deny their interest in the opposite sex, but they didn’t fool anyone.
“Something to think about,” Brad told them with a canted smile
“Sorry I’m late,” she whispered to the teacher. The second the words left her lips, Lexi realized the room was silent, which was unusual when over thirty teenagers were assembled in one place.
Then Lexi saw why. At the front of the room was a tall man with dark hair and striking blue eyes. He wore a navy shirt with Black Jack’s emblazoned in red on the pocket. He must be the guest chef who was scheduled to demonstrate today.
“Mr. Westcott was just telling us that he learned to cook in the CIA,” Mrs. Geffen told her in a voice everyone could hear.
Lexi nodded and understood what he meant, but she couldn’t imagine the students would catch on. No doubt they assumed he’d been in the Central Intelligence Agency.
She quickly glanced around the room to locate her younger sister, Amber. Volunteering once a week in Amber’s culinary arts class was the commitment Lexi had made to encourage Amber with her studies. This cooking class was an elective and the only subject that interested her. Unlike Amber, Lexi had always been in advance-placement classes and loved school as much as her sister hated it.
She spotted Amber in the front row. Her sister was always so eager to get to this class that she’d probably been waiting for the doors to open. Her honey-brown head tilted slightly toward the guest chef, then she turned and caught Lexi’s eye. “Hot,” she mouthed.
So that’s why her sister had been in such a rush to get here. Lexi thought the guy looked arrogant. He was frowning at her. She’d obviously interrupted and he didn’t appreciate it.
“Class,” Mrs. Geffen said as the group began to whisper, “Mr. Westcott was telling us about his training. Let’s listen to what he has to say.”
The teacher was short and packed into a moss-green suit that she’d worn almost every Wednesday that Lexi had volunteered.
“Someone asked where I learned to cook,” the chef repeated.
Lexi recalled Brad Westcott was the owner and executive chef of Black Jack’s, one of the most successful restaurants in Houston. It was also one of the few that didn’t purchase produce from City Seeds, Lexi’s gourmet-vegetable operation.
“Like a lot of you,” he said in a voice that indicated he was at ease with inner-city kids, “I used to think cooking was tossing something in the microwave.”
The students chuckled and elbowed each other, especially the boys. Many of them came from Mexico or South America and regarded cooking as women’s work. They were in this class because their other elective choices had been filled.
“Then I went into the army,” he continued.
That statement got the boys’ undivided attention. Many of them would join when they were old enough.
“I was assigned to the officers’ mess hall. That’s what they call the kitchen—the mess hall. Mostly I peeled potatoes, carrots—”
“What about the CIA?” yelled one of the boys.
“The army is where I became interested in cooking,” Brad continued, ignoring the interruption. “When I got out, I had enough money to enroll in the CI.A. The Culinary Institute of America right here in Houston.”
Lexi smiled, but it took a few seconds before the light dawned on the rest of the students. The girls giggled while the boys rolled their eyes or elbowed each other.
Their reaction didn’t bother Brad Westcott. “Over half the students at the culinary institute were men. Top chefs in many restaurants are men. Lots of the celebrity chefs on television are men.”
The boys seemed more interested. “A good chef can make a lot of money,” Brad continued. “Plus, you meet lots of interesting people, especially women.”
Now they were impressed. Money was a never-ending concern in the inner city. The word money got the boys’ attention, but mentioning women didn’t hurt. They might try to deny their interest in the opposite sex, but they didn’t fool anyone.
“Something to think about,” Brad told them with a canted smile
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