“Come on. Just a short video.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Can you blame me? Our audience loves the stern chef vibes.”
“So it’s about sex appeal?”
“It’s about forming a connection with the audience. Selling them on the concept of Fable.”
“Winfield.”
“Fine. It’s maybe a little about the way you look in chef’s whites.” I tilt my head to the side, fighting a smile. “Don’t pretend it’s not flattering.”
“I need people coming here for the food. Not me.”
“Why can’t it be both?”
“Fine.” He clicks the tongs in his hand impatiently. “But get over here and learn how to sear.”
I quickly set up before he can change his mind. “Hey, everyone,” I say once I’m recording, flashing my phone my best smile. “I’m herein the future kitchen of Fable with its owner and head chef, Jack Hartman. And guess what? He had me butchering a whole chicken just now.”
“Winfield,” he warns again.
“Sorry, sorry. But now we’re learning how to sear!” I move over to the stove, angling my phone to show the pan, then Jack’s charming scowl, and then me again.
“So, Chef, tell us how this goes.”
He looks at the ceiling, as if searching for something to grant him patience. “The important thing with a sear is color. You want the outside to develop a nice golden-brown crust, especially when the skin is on. Color is flavor.” He lays one of the chicken breasts in the pan, the instant sizzle great ASMR. “Salt and pepper on the chicken first, of course.”
“Isn’t the pan hot?”
“Chicken’s still cold.”
“That’s a pretty badass move, you know. Putting it in the pan with your bare hands.”
He slants his eyes in my direction. “That sounded a lot like a compliment.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes as I look into the camera. “Don’t let it go to your big head.”
I’m not totally sure, but I think I catch a smile.
“Tell us a little about Fable,” I prompt. “What can people expect when it opens?”
“Good food.”
“Jack.”
“What? That’s the truth.”
“Work with me here.”
He sighs, as if I just asked him to cook a ten-course meal, and says, “Fable is going to tell a story of authenticity. You come in, and you make a memory that you’ll want to share. The experience of the food is as important as the food itself. I want it to feel elemental. A little rough around the edges but still refined.”
“Perfect,” I mouth.
He ducks his head, focusing on the pan. He tilts it from side to side, re-distributing the oil, but doesn’t touch the meat yet. Thekitchen starts to smell like chicken, rousing my stomach despite breakfast not too long ago. He turns on the vent fan. “You got your content. Put that down and actually pay attention.”
I watch as he carefully checks the chicken, nodding to himself as he flips it onto the other side. I lean in closer, still recording. He gives the pan a vigorous shake, splattering oil around; as I jerk away from the pinpricks of heat, I accidentally jostle into him, dropping my phone on the floor.
The crack of my phone seems to cut through the air as I watch, in slow motion, his bare forearm press against the piping hot pan.
He hisses through his teeth, jerking back. I shriek, clapping my hands over my mouth. There’s a long, angry red line on his tattooed skin.
