Page 88 of Ours to Lose
“Go!”
We sprang into action, grabbing the ingredients lined up in front of us, peeling and chopping, dropping them into sauté pans, and snagging more items from the pantry.
The energy of having another chef in the kitchen brought more to the space than a playlist ever could. I didn’t even need to see what Jase was doing. I could hear his knife making cuts, smell the onion and garlic as it hit his pan, feel his presence beside me creating without hesitation, which meant I had to do the same.
No time for thinking; just cooking on pure instinct.
What felt like twenty seconds and not twenty minutes later, his phone alarm blared, and we dropped whatever was in our hands and raised them in the air.
I looked at his plate. He looked at mine. We both grinned.
“Moment of truth,” he said.
We started with his.
My favorite thing about Jase’s food was how intentional it was. Nothing went on the plate without purpose. No garnish for the sake of garnish. No ten different components if the same impact could be achieved with six. When you were being forced by the exercise to use certain ingredients, it was easy to drop a shaving of one on at the end and call it a day, but Jase never did. He was mindful about his food, and it showed.
The ingredients the guys and Neela had picked were shrimp, fermented chilis, strawberries, and bacon. Jase had made strawberry carpaccio with shrimp-chili broth and bacon dust.
It was so freaking good. If I were him, I’d put it on Ardena’s menu next week, no changes necessary. He was seriously the best chef I’d ever worked with.
Then it was my turn. While Jase tended to focus on how to be most efficient with the ingredients, I liked to go for the unexpected. Try out a technique that might not typically be used for something and see what it did.
“What the fuck,” Jase said as he tasted it. He pointed at my dish. “That sauce is ridiculous. I never would have thought of putting hibiscus with fermented chili.”
I glanced at my bacon-poached shrimp with roasted strawberries and fermented chili-hibiscus sauce, my rib cage lifting. I wouldn’t put it on a menu as is, but I agreed there were special aspects to it. The kind of something that had been missing from my menu attempts so far.
“What if we used your carpaccio idea instead of poaching the shrimp?” I suggested. “I think it’ll balance better than the bacon.”
“Or we could try octopus. It would elevate it slightly, which seems like what the judges are looking for.”
I flipped to a new page of my notepad and scribbled our ideas, writing so fast my hand hurt.
An hour later, we’d mapped out enough for me to play with, and I felt full in a way that had nothing to do with food.
“Thanks for this,” Jase said, surprising me.
“Why are you thanking me? You’re the one who helped me out.”
He dropped his gaze to his knife roll, almost shy. “I know, but you never ask for help. You’ve saved my ass a hundred times over the years, and this feels like the first chance I’ve had to repay you.”
That couldn’t be true. Could it?
“Even back at Pépère,” he went on, “you never asked me to step in when Christian was being an ass or to give you the better tasks just to piss him off. Not that it would have made a difference in the long run, but it would have been something.”
“You did that anyway,” I said.
“Yeah, after I realized you were never going to ask. I had your back then, and I have it now. It just”—he shrugged—“feels good to know you know you can ask. Especially now that we’re not in the same kitchen.”
My throat tightened. “Sometimes I wish I was still your sous chef. I really liked cooking with you.”
“Then we’ll do more of it,” he decided. “Stuff like this. Staff meals and shift drinks and team trainings.” He sought my gaze. “You’re still a part of my team, Chef. An important one. And if at some point one of us isn’t at Ardena any longer, you’llstillbe a part of my team. I know I’ll always be able to count on you. I hope you’ll give me more chances to be there for you too.”
“It wasn’t your job to help me,” I tried to explain. It was one thing to delegate tasks to line cooks or waitstaff—that wasmyjob. It wasn’t asking for help when it was how things flowed in a kitchen.
But when it came to bosses and—I was starting to realize—the people I cared about, the worst thing I could think of being was a burden. What kind of boss wanted an employee who constantly needed help?
What kind of parent wanted a child who was always in the way?
