Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Amuse-Bouche, California Style
"Luke! Why aren't you here, mate? You're missing the party of the century!"
Luke Windsor recoiled a little from the avalanche of sounds coming from his phone. First, his friend's voice on the other side of the line was unnaturally shrill and harsh, maybe because he was trying to make himself heard above all the noise. There were other voices around, mostly women's voices... competing for his attention, no doubt. And then, to complete the assault to his ears, a background tapestry of loud electronic music, not exactly Luke's favorite.
He looked around him, still feeling a bit groggy. He had been enjoying a quiet evening in the peace and calm of his elegant Mayfair flat, until... Realizing that he had fallen asleep on the sofa, and that his neck was suffering from it, he went back to the conversation with a groan.
"Tom, it's almost two in the morning, so I think the relevant question would be why are you partying on a Monday. We run a restaurant together, remember?"
"Killjoy!" shouted another voice; this time a feminine, whiny one.
"Tom, I'm not in the mood to talk to your little friends tonight. I'm not even in the mood to talk to you, considering that I've been here working all evening, going through a pile of resumés to try and find you a new sous-chef."
"Take a break, man! Look, we're at the Café de Paris. Get a cab and come here, this place is insane!"
Luke took a sip from his mug of cold coffee. "Exactly how drunk are you this time?"
"Quite a lot", was the answer, accompanied by Tom's unmistakable laugh. "But it's not the same if you're not partying with me, mate. I miss my wingman."
"Are you trying to make me believe that you haven't hooked up with some girl tonight? Not even one of the party animals I'm hearing around you? You must be losing your touch."
Tom's answer came in a whisper. "Her name is Becca, and she's an absolute bore. But she's a natural redhead, she's pretty... and her boobs aren't fake."
"Ah. Sounds like you've finally found the mother of my future godchildren. Give my regards to the excellently endowed Becca and don't forget to send me an invite to the wedding, please. And, after that, try to get your arse home, because you have to work tomorrow!" Luke hung up his phone, feeling the start of a headache behind his eyes.
Back at the exclusive Soho club, Tom and the ginger haired girl sat down at the bar for another round of vodka shooters. She was even more wasted than him, but that didn't keep her from chattering all the time. It had been fun at the start of the night, when she had recognized him and piled compliment over compliment, but now she was at the 'do you know this chef and that?' phase. Of course, she only had heard of the TV celebrity chefs, the ones from the contests and the cooking shows, and Tom hated those with a passion. To him, TV personalities were not real chefs; they were only there for the show and not for the food. The girl in front of him wasn't exactly a gourmet either; it was clear that her culinary tastes didn't go beyond bangers and mash, and she only cared about the temporary status that came from being seen in public with a famous man.
Trying to deflect Becca's clumsy attempts at conversation, he grabbed his phone again.
'Sorry about before, pal. I'll let you work. Go get me the best sous-chef out there. - TH'
'I got you four on the last seven months. You keep making them quit. - LW'
'I promise I will behave with the next one... just hire someone who can cook. - TH'
'Bugger off. With love... but bugger off. - LW'
Luke let out a pained sigh, because he knew that nights like that were usually the prelude of a bitter argument with his business partner (and, nevertheless, friend) the following day. He had definitely lost the will to sleep. He didn't want to go back to the staff selection process either: there were several good candidates, solid cooks with great resumés… but he knew none of them would endure Tom's lack of manners and cocky personality for more than a few weeks. He would have to settle with someone with little experience, fresh from culinary school, and that wouldn't help the restaurant's dwindling finances. Band of Brothers had opened only two years before. It was a small restaurant in the heart of Chelsea that had managed to get a Michelin star almost immediately, but things hadn't been going so well for the last months.
There was an old copy of Food & Wine magazine on the table, with a picture of Tom on the cover. There were also a couple of gossip tabloids, fresh from the press, showing Tom in what had become his natural state. This time the cover showed him exiting a club late at night, with his sunglasses on, a cigarette between his lips, and a girl on each arm. The headline 'Take a peek into Chef Hiddleston's wild nights', printed in gaudy yellow letters, left it very clear that Tom was becoming more famous for picking up socialites and starlettes than for his otherwise excellent food.
A quick browsing through several programs on the TV took him to an American channel, one that right in that moment was showing the finale of its star cooking show. Luke let out a bitter laugh, thinking how ironic it was that, after battling with the restaurant's finances all day, he now was choosing to spend his night watching other people cook. He couldn't help it: he was a restaurateur, not a chef, but he had always been fascinated by the culinary world. This show in particular was mildly interesting, even funny at times, full of aspiring home cooks and grumpy judges; every now and then he could catch sight of a glimpse of authentic raw talent.
He turned up the volume just when Gordon Ramsey, the other two judges, and the studio audience, started chanting a countdown.
"Four... three... two... one! Stop cooking!"
After the complimentary round of applause, the two finalists, a man and a woman, approached the judges' table with their desserts. They were as different in appearance as in their cooking style: the first finalist, Gene Cohen, was a born and bred New Yorker; technical and refined, he loved experimenting with molecular gastronomy, always relying on surprising twists and special ingredients. His thin, elegant fingers placed the dish in front of the judges with exquisite care.
"Explain your dessert, please", asked Ramsey, clearly intrigued by the complex look of the dish.
"I have an Angel cake with tamarind gelée, mango foam and curried coconut ice cream."
The dessert was a magnificent sight, and the judges let the cameraman take a close up on the beautiful palette of warm orange tones that adorned the plate. The presentation was followed by the usual round of praise from the three judges, and one of them – the pastry chef, or course – criticized one or two minor details. There was always someone who mentioned some issues with every dish, to make it look that all of the finalists had the same chances of winning.
Now it was time for contestant number two. Luke had been following her progress on the show, mostly because this finalist was actually British, although she had been raised in California. It made him marginally proud to see a Brit in the final of an American contest, and it was clear that the girl could cook really well.
"Hallie, what delicacy do you have for us tonight?" asked Chef Ramsey, who also seemed quite proud of his countrywoman making it so far into the competition.
"Rose vanilla macarons filled with basil infused buttercream, and accompanied by an almond raspberry pannacotta."
It looked like a work of art, a symphony of pinks decorated with delicate flower petals. The texture of the pannacotta was deemed perfect by the three judges. The flavor of the macarons, enthusiastically praised, especially by the pastry chef judge. She also reminded his colleagues (and the audience) of how difficult it was to work with rose extract because it tended to taste like burnt sugar if it wasn't handled correctly. When she received the highest compliment someone could get in that show, 'This is really you on a plate', the blonde woman in front of the judges beamed. Hallie Harrison had been a favorite of the audience from the start, with her warm smile and her bold flavors, and her cheeks turned a darker shade of pink when the audience erupted in a spontaneous wave of applause.
Luke turned down the sound while the judges deliberated. He knew how these things went, and of course he was aware that the real deliberation wouldn't take place in front of the cameras. He didn't look at the telly again until the moment of the final reveal, when Gordon Ramsey stood with a megawatt smile plastered on his face and the contest award in his hands.
"One of the two people standing before me tonight will receive a hundred thousand dollars, the opportunity to publish their own cookbook, and of course this fantastic trophy. And that person is..." he stopped for the usual couple of seconds of suspense, took a breath and showed his best TV smile again. "Congratulations... Hallie!"
And then there was the mandatory mix of confetti and tears, incoherent words from the winner and politely disappointed smiles from the runner up. The audience clapped and cheered as if they were the ones who would walk away with the money. Luke saw a middle aged woman, probably Hallie's mother, run to the stage and hug the overjoyed winner. Someone opened a bottle of champagne; each one of the judges and contestants got a full glass, and a long round of hugs from several people.
"Hallie, I would offer you a job on one of my restaurants right now if you wanted it", interrupted chef Ramsey, always eager to have the final word. "It was a very close final, but you have a lot of talent and you cook like an angel. However, a little bird told me you want to go back to the motherland, right?"
"Yes, chef. I promised myself that if I won I'd go back to London and look for work there. I haven't been to England since I was eight... and I think it's time for me to expand my horizons", she answered, wiping a furtive tear from her eye.
"Get ready, England, because Hallie Harrison is going to take the country by storm!" Gordon laughed.
Luke didn't hear him laugh. He didn't hear anything at all after the word London, the word that made him raise his head like a hound and scramble in the dark for his laptop. He wrote a hurried email to Shirley, his secretary, hoping she would see it first thing in the morning; finishing the dregs of his coffee, he closed the laptop and turned off the TV. But before he could leave for the bedroom, the loud tone of his mobile phone startled him.
"Hey, boss! What's the emergency?"
"Shirley? Is there a full moon tonight or something? Why is the whole city awake?"
"I was watching the American Masterchef finale! Did you see it? The British girl won!"
"That's exactly why I wrote to you. I want you to contact the studio first thing tomorrow, and find a way to make that Hallie talk to us. Apparently she dreams of working as a chef in London, and I'd love to make her dreams come true before anybody else does."
Even though he wasn't on speaker, Luke could hear Shirley let out a loud and excited squeal. "That's going to be great publicity for the restaurant! Oh, and I'm dying to taste her cooking, too!"
"I expect everybody else will be as enthusiastic as you. This could be really good for the business... especially if, in addition to working with us, she wants to invest a part of her prize in Band of Brothers. But it has to be done soon, or someone will make her a better offer."
"Will Chef Tom be ok with it, boss? You know how cranky he gets every time he sees a chef from the telly."
"Don't you worry about that. Just get me Miss Harrison on the phone tomorrow as soon as she's available, and I'll take care of Tom. He may be a reckless sod, but he's not stupid when it comes to the restaurant. I'll make him see reason."
"As long as it's you who has to deal with our diva and not me, I'm fine. Night, boss!"
The now hopeful restaurateur let out a sigh and smiled. Hallie Harrison. The golden girl, the wonder girl. It would be great if he could finish the deal before she was snatched by some other restaurant owner... and before she arrived in England, bought the Daily Mail and learned about Tom's exploits. Oh, he was doing it for the good of the business, of course. But he also got some degree of pleasure from the idea of imagining his friend having to work with the kind of celebrity cook he detested. Grabbing the blanket from the sofa in one hand and his phone in the other, he got ready to retreat to his bedroom, but he couldn't help teasing Tom a little before going to sleep.
'After all I may have to thank you for waking me up. I have good news on the sous chef front. - LW'
'Brilliant! Where did you find one at this hour? - TH'
'In America, of all places. She comes recommended by three great chefs. - LW'
'Nice work, mate! I knew you could find me someone. - TH'
'I still need to interview her in person. But, with a bit of luck, our new sous chef will be in your kitchen really soon. Goodnight - LW'
Luke didn't wait for Tom's answer, because he wasn't going to give him any details until the deal had been arranged. He also omitted the part where he hoped to get Hallie to invest in Band of Brothers. His working partner owned only a quarter of the restaurant, and if Miss Harrison came into the business she would have a saying in many important decisions. But in the end what really mattered to Tom was the food, and according to the judges his future new chef cooked like an angel.
Dragging his feet on the luxurious grey carpet he went to his room, slipped into his bed and slept better than he had in several weeks. He finally was a man with a plan... And what could possibly go wrong with it?