The Connoisseurs Part 1 | A Smutty Short Story
Tensions run high during award season for a high-strung critic with a persecution complex and a heated chef with a knife to grind. A LVNDR Short Story.
The Critic ordered her steak medium. The Chef made it rare.
“You don’t know what you want until you’ve tried it," Amelia mimicked, pulling her credit card from the black leather bag slung over the back of her chair. “That’s fucking bold.”
“It’s a nice change of pace,” Meredith rebutted, taking a photo of the receipt for the expense report. “The Chefs kiss our asses so often that it’s refreshing to see one so....”
“Arrogant?”
The culinary field wasn’t exactly known for raising the most hospitable professionals. Despite the profession itself being rooted in nurturing others, cooks tended to attack each meal with the vigor of a soldier on the front lines.
However, since the Critic and her colleagues could make or break careers overnight, the culinary tyrants typically made attempts at an out-of-shape smile or joke.
Not that they announced themselves. On the contrary, the food journalists attempted to stay anonymous. Between their late Wednesday night reservation to the multiple dishes no two women could finish alone, however, restaurant staff typically sniffed them out before the main courses were decided upon.
From there, it was typically an evening of being tended to like royalty. As much as Amelia hated to admit it, the Chef’s words annoyed her not because he was rude, but because he was right. She’d forgotten how to do things any way but her own.
Amelia took a swish of wine in hopes of cooling her temper. The rush of self-awareness cooling her senses. “I’m sorry. I’m being harsh.”
“Actually, I’m glad you’re finally letting off steam,” Meredith said in a way that Amelia knew she meant it. “I just wish you’d direct this fire at the man who deserves it rather than the one who just fed us the best baklava I’ve tasted in my life.”
“Fine, but…” Amelia sighed, still weaning herself off the tantrum. “The tirokafteri was a little too spicy.”
Meredith only smiled before plopping a mint into her mouth, sucking on it as she leaned onto her forearms as if to tell Amelia a secret. “You can’t handle a little heat?”
“Whose side are you on?” Amelia had been so focused on getting out of the restaurant that she hadn’t noticed how Meredith’s eyes widened, offering a slight shake of the head amidst her continued criticism. “I’m only saying that overwhelming the senses is not conducive to a pleasurable meal.”
“It sounds like you need to expand your horizons.”
The feeling of the Chef’s gravely voice at her back reverberated down Amelia’s spine. She turned to silently watch him place boxes of leftovers they hadn’t requested onto the table before turning back towards the kitchen.
Amelia and Meredith retreated to a bar across the street to unwind from the humiliating encounter. It’d taken two more glasses of wine before Amelia was able to find the same level of humor in the memory as her colleague had.
“He was going to know our thoughts anyway, right?” Amelia continued, beating the dead horse until it was minced enough to make a dish out of.
“Right. Even though we probably would have left out the personal effects you lightly spattered in your verbal assault.”
The Critic pressed her face into the palms of her hands, elbows resting on the bartop before her empty wine glass. “I can never show my face on this block again.”
“The restaurants here are pretentious anyway.” Meredith turned toward the bartender. “You heard me! Pretentious!”
The bartender simply nodded before handing them each a glass of water. Amelia was grateful to her friend for giving her something to cringe about the next morning that wasn’t her own behavior. They’d be banned from this neighborhood together.
“My car is here.” Meredith looked down at her phone, the Uber notification lighting up the screen. “Are you okay if I head out?”
Amelia nodded before stepping down from the barstool and following her friend to the busy city street. With a hug, Meredith dipped into her ride share, leaving Amelia to wait for her own on the corner. She’d raised her face to the night sky, trying to visualize the stars permanently hidden by the city’s lights, when she heard a door slam shut from across the street. No… not shut.
The black door of the Chef’s restaurant had been thrown open. The solid, steel surface had carelessly struck the building’s vintage brick. Drunken passersby stopped to look into the restaurants as they stumbled toward their next destination.
Peeking into the restaurant’s lobby, Amelia was surprised to see it empty. The hostess table and dining room had been tidied up and readied for the next day’s guests. The only sign anyone was there at all was the steam barreling out from the kitchen.
Like a proverbial moth to a literal flame, the Critic walked toward it.
Amelia wrapped her oversized blazer closer to her body before entering the kitchen to find the Chef alone. Facing away from her, his manic movements danced across the pots and pans on the stove before him. He only paused for a swig of red wine straight from the bottle.
Every sober sense yelled at her to leave. Every drunken one insisted that she stay.
“Should you be drinking?”
The words escaped Amelia’s lips before she was fully convinced she wanted to say them. The look of shock etched onto the Critic’s face when he whirled toward her quickly dissolved into something more playful. Lazily leaning against the counter, his expression gave way to a curious lightness for the first time that evening as he brought the bottle to his lips for a long moment.
“Always critiquing,” the Chef tsked as he used his black apron to wipe the drop of wine that had escaped his lips. He did not attempt to hide his glazed eyes as he pulled two wine glasses from the cabinet and split the rest of the red wine between them. “Oliver.”
“Amelia,” the Critic offered as she took the glass as the Chef — Oliver — turned back toward the burners.
“Drink,” Oliver tossed over his shoulder, as he rummaged through a drawer beside his work station, pocketing a small object before turning back towards Amelia.
Amelia moved forward in an attempt to see what he was cooking, only stopping when Oliver turned toward her.
“Is it too spicy for you?” Oliver mocked, pointing at Amelia’s untouched glass of wine. She took a hesitant sip in response before placing it on the counter.
“That was unprofessional.” Amelia squeezed her eyes shut as if she could physically push the memory from her brain. “Everything else was incredible. I’m just a little sensitive to…”
“Arrogance?”
Amelia genuinely wondered if she should leave the city. As if this were a sign to careers, homes, and lives altogether. “You heard that?”
“I heard that.” Oliver nodded. Wiping his hands on his apron, he set the heat to simmer before turning towards her, leaning against the stove. “I used to work with your… ex?”
“Of course you did,” Amelia paled upon realizing how an awkward situation only dipped deeper into planning her grand escape. “Well, you can add this to the list of stupid things I’ve done or said to bond over. I’m sure he’s told you plenty already.”
“He didn’t speak of you at all, actually.” She wasn’t prepared for the sting. “Which is why I didn’t feel guilty letting my thoughts wander every time you visited the restaurant.”
Oliver’s words washed over her like a soothing balm sent to heal the initial burn, leaving her speechless.
“More,” Oliver’s lips turned upward into a smirk, tongue running across his teeth as he picked up the glass and handed it to her.
Instinctively, she grabbed it from him and took a sip of the thick cabernet before setting it on the marble top once more.
“Did I say you could stop?” Oliver leaned into her, picking up the glass from where she’d discarded it once more. Instead of handing it to her, however, he raised it so that the rim was resting on her lips. “The least you could do in my kitchen is follow instructions.”
Amelia’s face flushed as she took the glass, tipping it just slightly. As she began to pull it from her mouth, Oliver’s fingers — still at the glass’s base — held it to her lips.
Another light tsk. Enough for Amelia to take another sip, then another, and another. She waited for Oliver to remove his fingers, but he didn’t. On the contrary, he tilted it so she had to lean her head back further. The last bits of wine in the glass spilling onto her as she choked. Satisfied, Oliver took the glass and set it on the counter as Amelia grabbed a paper towel to wipe the spill from where it ran down her chin and across her cream top.
“Before that hits, you need to make a decision.” Oliver scanned the length of her body from where she continued to pat at her face. The smirk hadn’t left his face since they’d begun playing this game as if some karmic power was reminding her that first impressions are often entirely wrong. “I can call you a cab, and you can go home to write whatever ostentatious piece you want about me or… You can stay and try a new recipe.”
Amelia pretended to check the gold watch beneath her blazer, gently shaking her head to clear her head, unsure if she was brave enough to agree to what she knew she wanted. As if reading her mind, Oliver placed a thumb on her lip, guiding her mouth ajar. “Wider.”
She didn’t resist.
“You can be a good listener.”