Chef's Special, Locally Sourced

The cool, smooth glass in Alan’s coat pocket playfully teased his fingers from the parking lot to the rear entrance of the long hall. He glanced around, braced the brick wall next to the loading dock, and let the hot honey burn of amber nectar caress his guzzling throat. A little trickle tried to sneak by the corners of his lips, but Alan’s greedy tongue trapped it, slurped it up, and swallowed it whole.

Chasing the sweet relief with a sin-smothering mint, Alan let himself in the service door, glancing at the green light of the neutralized security alarm. The place was deserted at this time of night, the only illumination coming from the kitchen, throwing bars of cold white light across the dark utility corridor. Squinting against the harsh fluorescents, Alan stepped onto the polished tile floor, rolling the mint over his restless tongue. “Something smells good. What you got going on?”

Matilda glanced up from the stainless steel table, her spotless chef’s coat glaring into Alan’s retinas. In her blue-gloved fist was a half-empty spray bottle of industrial sanitizer, the chick towel in her other hand making wide, counter-clockwise circles on an antiseptic NASCAR track. “Tantalus pie.”

Alan glanced toward the combi oven, where a hotel pan basked in the golden glow of the center rack. “Somebody else coming?”

Shaking her head, Matilda said, “That’s all for you.”

“Oh, even I can’t eat all that.” Alan watched the single, wisping spiral that had fallen down against Matilda’s bending neck. He had seen her without the uniform cap binding her hair, the long, thick, grabbable curls tumbling down her willow spine. The wording of her invitation had promised nothing specific, but Alan had considered the possibilities, working out a transaction here, at night, just the two of them alone.

The rubber snapped as Matilda peeled off her gloves. “Trust me, you won’t want to share.”

“I never do,” Alan confessed. “Listen, sweetheart, I know you might feel some kind of way about how things are shaking out, but I want you to know it’s nothing personal.”

Matilda was turning on the chemical taps over the three-compartment sink, the small stack of used dishes impatiently waiting as the water foamed in yellow and pink. “Uh-huh.”

“No, really, I mean it,” said Alan, the mint in his mouth souring under the faux-citrus smell. He wondered when he could duck out for another cheeky little nip. “You’re a hell of a cook, we all know that. Everybody loves your little treats and things, and I’m sure any kitchen would be glad to have you.”

“Hm.” Matilda was rolling up her sleeves. Her strong arms had satin skin, smooth, youthful, and a teasing tattoo of a butterfly on her wrist. “But not this one.”

She turned her back to him and plunged those lovely arms into the warm water. Alan crept a little closer, soundless footsteps bringing him a better view of the way Matilda put her back into scrubbing the crud from those hard to reach places, bent over the deep basin, shuddering all through her curving musculature as she pushed and pressed against the lapping slap of the sloshing sink. Alan leaned in closer. “Would you want to stay?”

A loud splash as a silver bowl plunged into the sanitizing bath. Matilda flicked little crystals from her fingertips as her journey toward the paper towels conveniently steered her out of Alan’s reach. “I thought it was already done.”

Alan leaned against the sink and popped another mint in his mouth. “Well, nothing’s set in stone. We all assumed one in one out, but maybe there’s a little wiggle room in the budget. You know, if a really dedicated employee made it worth my while.”

Matilda’s dark magenta lips twitched. “You must have a short memory.”

The sly smile dropped off Alan’s face. “No, I don’t. I thought I’d give you the opportunity to change your attitude.”

Nobody looked pretty wearing utter contempt. “What a saint.”

“See? This is the problem!” Alan pushed off from the sink, running a hand through his thinning hair as he paced the tiles. “If I’m going to onboard anyone, from any background, I need to have absolute authority, here. I will not have you undermining me in front of any new hire, let alone my son!”

Those lips twitched again. “That won’t be a problem.”

Alan slapped his flat palm against the table. It made a very satisfying thwack! but Matilda didn’t flinch. She’d heard it before. Alan pulled the whiskey out of his coat—what could she do, file a complaint?—and took a vicious swish before barking, “Why’d you call me out here, anyway? I thought you wanted another chance!”

Reaching down below the basin, Matilda twisted the handle and drained the sink, a deluge of pink-tinged water rocketing down the pipes. “Well, I didn’t come here to fight.”

“My son was always going to end up here,” Alan growled. “It’s my privilege to let someone else go! Mine, alone! So if you value your job, my opinion is the only one that matters.”

The buzzer went on the oven. Matilda’s butterfly tattoo disappeared inside the gargantuan heat-resistant gloves, and she withdrew the large pan, its golden-brown contents steaming with a savory fragrance. She set it down and turned the oven to cool, the door slightly ajar to let the hot air out before she shut it down.

The enormous pie rested on the table, brushed with the glossy sheen of a salted wash, the flaky layers of buttery pastry latticed over one another on a biased angle, curling over in a toasted roll of crisp delicacy. In between the criss-crossed covers, diamonds of glistening amber gravy pooled and slathered over a delectable treasure chest. Caramelized pearl onions peeked and teased between emerald snow peas and velvet mushrooms, the ruby wink of a honey-baked apple, the seductive scent of roasted garlic rising in tantric tandem with—“Is that bacon?”

Matilda shrugged. “Almost. Hope you like it.”

“Pork belly!” Alan guessed. He picked a fork out of the drying rack and spear-fished one of the dripping shreds of meat, so tender it nearly melted off the fork before he could ferry it into his drooling mouth. The juices squeezed over his tongue, the warm flavor caressing his heart on its way down his throat. “God, that’s good! Is this braised?”

The fired chef was smiling a little, her anger taking a back seat to pride. “I got the meat from a local butcher, marinated it in ginger, serrano, and pineapple, and seared the outside on the flat top for a sweet charred crust. Then I spiral-cut it, stuffed it with butter, leek, and deep-fried garlic, wrapped it in foil, and slow-roasted it until you could pull it apart with a passive-aggressive look. I guess I ought to thank you for the free time.”

“I can be persuaded, you know,” Alan said, slightly damaging the lattice as he went back in for his third piece. “If I’m honest, my boy didn’t even show up for his first shift, won’t answer any of my texts. You’re a good cook, we just need to work together. Aren’t butterflies supposed to be about transformation?”

Frowning a little, Matilda held up her wrist. “This is not a butterfly. It’s a lantern fly. They look very pretty, innocent, harmless. But they consume everything, multiplying and invading like some Biblical plague. If you see one, you have to—” She clapped her other hand around her wrist. “Stamp it out. Before it spreads.”

Alan laughed with his mouth full. “This is your problem, doll: you have this angry thing you call ‘justice’. Everybody else just does the job, you have to show early, stay late, do extra. All the other girls are good sports, and you had to file a complaint. And you expect me to put up with you because you knock it out of the park with your tantalizing pie.”

“Tantalus pie.”

Rolling his eyes, Alan said, “You think I’m dumb. I know who Tantalus is, he was the Greek guy who got stuck up to his gut in the mud, and had all this fabulous food dangling over him, just out of reach. Making it tantalizing. So, there.”

Matilda actually raised her eyebrows as she nodded. “That’s one of them,” she said, taking off her apron. “In Seneca’s Thyestes, he had a son named Tantalus, too. Thyestes was famously invited to his enemy’s house, in an effort to settle their differences and make amends. His nemesis served a banquet, and do you remember the main course?”

“Yeah, Miss Smarty Pants,” Alan said. “It was his own s…”

He dropped his smile and looked down at the pie. Pink petals of meat floated in between the lattice lakes, pink as newborn skin, and something deep inside of Alan revolted upward as his stomach sank. “Pork belly?"

“Long pork.” Matilda hung up her hat, releasing her tumbling curls. “Never mind about the job. I’m quite happy with my severance.” She set the alarm by the door, and turned out the light.