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sevenswellsTitle: The Art of Love and Cooking
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sevenswells
Best Betas Ever:drgaellon and guilshad
Rating: R for language
Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Puck/Kurt
Warnings/Spoilers: Food porn, and no spoilers because it's an AU in which glee club didn't happen. Tons of words in italics, and OCs everywhere in this part, too, sorryyyyyy
Comments: This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful betas, and to my homegirlmattiezumi , Most Valuable Reader since 2008. <3
This part gave me pain. I swear. Stupid engagement party, you took way too long to write. The bonus post will be veeery nice, though -- with pictures, too! I also made a playlist for this fic (deezer is fucked, so in the end I made it on Youtube), and you'll find there some of the songs in this part (the Celine Dion one too, OMG), you may check it out: http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=1848AC02C2B19C75
Word count: 8 089, fuck me! O.O 19 fucking pages! I can't believe it!
Puck devoted the beginning of the week to visits to markets, meetings with the local organic farmers and searching for the best-stocked wholesale trades, bearing two criteria in mind -- abundance and quality.
Busy as they both were, he didn't get the chance to see Kurt again after the little stunt he'd pulled in the kitchen. Aurélien had also kept true to his promise and had Puck moved into one of the guest houses the very same day. His new lodgings were modern -- he wouldn't admit it to himself, but he was glad: he felt intimidated in that museum of a house and he hated that feeling -- nice, clean and spacious enough, and more importantly, far enough from the main house so that Aurélien would consider Puck less of a threat to his fiancé's loyalty and virtue. At any rate, they wouldn't be likely to bump into each other by chance, now. And perhaps that was for the best, too. In the spur of the moment, Puck hadn't been able to resist the opportunity and had sort of gone with the flow, but now, with hindsight, maybe it hadn't been such a smart move. He didn't know what would possibly come out of it; whether he would finally have peace, or if all hell was about to break loose any moment now, so he was making the most of the delay. Plus there was nothing else he could do, except concentrate on the task at hand. The problem was that he also had to fight Beatrix every step of the way: he did try to persuade her to wait for his brigade de cuisine to arrive before settling on the engagement party's menu with the spouses-to-be, but then he ended up giving up altogether and stuck to simply avoiding her as much as he could. Beatrix was obviously starting to go apeshit: first because of the potential tensions between him and Kurt, which might ruin all of her hard work thus far and second, because the date of the engagement party was nearing and she couldn't rely on anything last-minute, since she didn't trust him one bit -- and Puck literally had other fish to fry than to deal with the paranoid bitch.
Fortunately, by the middle of the week, as he was just this close to throwing in the proverbial towel, his brigade was there.
The first person to come out of the sleek black cars that pulled up in front of Puck's guest house was Jeoff, his sauté cook. Jeoff was an overly-quiet, chubby, thirty-three year-old Californian whom Puck had thought a lost cause at the job interview: the fat weirdo would almost jump at every question, and answered them with inaudible mumbling, wringing his hands all along. Textbook-case psychopath, in Puck's opinion, and Jeoff's geeky, overgrown-baby looks did not help, even though the cooking school Jeoff had studied at held quite a good reputation and his grades were rather remarkable. However -- even if you chose to overlook appearances -- because of how physically taxing the job was, it was a given that working in a kitchen required excellent physical shape. Puck had years of high school football practice to thank for that, and all that muscle also gave him the prerogative to squarely refuse obese co-workers; chances were they'd end up getting in the way and he certainly wouldn't abide that. Plus, good communication was crucial in a brigade, and the weirdo hadn't been able to utter more than two words in a way that could be understood by human beings. Those constituted at least two solid, universally acceptable arguments to dismiss the application. Had Marcel not insisted, though, that the autistic train wreck should at least be evaluated through try-outs, Jeoff might not be on his brigade today. Puck would readily admit now that it would have been a true loss -- the classic rabbit sauce chasseur Jeoff had prepared that day counted as one of the most successful dishes he'd ever tasted in his life.
He greeted Jeoff with a pat on the shoulder, not offering a handshake; Jeoff didn't like them, and Puck himself generally didn't regret too much being spared the feeling of the limp, damp hand with squishy fingers feebly grabbing his own strong grip in return. Jeoff mumbled something which might have been a greeting and made way for Puck to move on to greet Cissy, his roast cook, a young woman from Tampa with Indian origins which graced her with gorgeous dark skin and long shiny blue-black hair she wore in a tight braid. In her own way, Cissy was the quiet type too, although not because she was particularly shy or uneasy with oral communication, more by choice, in fact. She was the kind of person who remained silent if they didn't have anything to say, and as it happened, she just naturally didn't have much to say. She applied the same no-bullshit policy in her job: her style was efficient, practical, and direct. She knew what she had to do and didn't have to be told anything twice; in other words, just the cook that Puck had needed when he had started to assemble his brigade. She had come to the job interview on Gill's recommendation: the two women had worked together in the same steak house in Florida for two years and got along pretty well. That fact alone finished convincing Puck that he should hire her; if Cissy, in addition to all her other qualities, was patient enough to put up with Gill's bossiness in the kitchen for two whole years, then she was fit for any job. Gill was generally a sweet girl if you got to know her, and an excellent cook, but as a sous-chef, she sometimes pushed the others hard -- which was part of her job description, actually, but she had also broken many cooks along the way and such turnover might have translated into bad press for Puck and Marcel's business had it continued like that.
In the end, Cissy turned out to be a sweet girl, too. Puck had thought about bedding her, once, on a drunken night. After all, she was a nice, attractive young woman, and he knew he didn't leave her completely cold either. It had been one of those nights where anything could have easily happened, in the space of a thought -- even an alcohol-induced thought. Nevertheless, Puck hadn't been drunk enough to forget Gill would have his balls if he ever disrupted the dynamics on the team by screwing around, so nothing had happened, and today he was grateful that for once in his life, he hadn't thought with his dick.
The roast cook took his handshake and simply nodded with a smile when he asked her how she was doing. Just one of the many subjects that didn't require development, in her opinion.
Third came Anthony, nonchalant Englishman -- which sounded redundant, but there was no other way to define him -- fish cook and entrée preparer, and Puck reckoned Anthony was quite the womanizer too. He was one of those men who got considerably more handsome as they aged, like Sean Connery. As a younger man, Anthony mustn't have scored as much as did now -- and he was reaching a respectable age, that Puck estimated around 50 although Anthony would never tell. His tranquil confidence, his calm, reassuring gestures, his lazy smile and heavy-lidded gray eyes seemed to work wonders on women with a daddy complex; as a result, Anthony often dated younger and hotter foxes than Puck's own trophies. In the kitchen, however, Anthony's manner changed: he became more intense, doing everything with a focus and a precision he never showed outside the job -- or maybe he did, but in situations Puck would rather not think about.
"I hear you got yourself in quite a messy situation, Chef?" The Englishman said with his usual detached amusement as he shook Puck's hand.
"So Gill told you, huh?" Puck sighed. "Dude, you have no idea. But now that you guys are here everything is already starting to look better."
"We'll see about that. Frédérique has been insufferable during the whole trip and some serious bitching is coming your way, I think."
"Oh, shit. What is it this time?"
"Well, the little I could gather -- over my headache from his incessant yammering with his atrocious accent, poor grammar and limited vocabulary -- was something about wedding cakes. But you'll hear it all soon enough, here he comes."
When the young dark-haired, dark-eyed, small-framed pastry chef came out of one of the cars in turn and walked up to him with angry strides and a sullen expression on his face, Puck chose to turn the charm up to a maximum. "Hey, Frédérique, my man, ready to..."
"Shut ze fuck up. Don't fucking talk to me," Frédérique interrupted briskly. "Why you make me come here, hah? For making fucking wedding cake! Stupidest fucking cake to make on ze planet, what were you ssinking? I fucking hate you! Why didn't you buy fucking wedding cake at ze supermarket, no? Save me ze time, and ze tasteless fuckers zey won't be able to tell ze difference. Wedding cake! Stupid gaudy piles of shit, all of zem! Fuck it all!"
Puck barely had the time to blink as Frédérique finished delivering his hateful speech with broad, menacing gestures and stormed past him to join the other cooks who were standing by the front door of the house, awaiting instructions.
Like most Frenchmen Puck knew, Frédérique had a tendency to overuse the word "fuck" when he spoke English -- worse than Gordon Ramsay on a really bad day -- but Puck was way past taking offense at that kind of thing. After all, Frédérique had a foul mouth and issues with authority: of course Puck would like him.
Behind him, he heard a familiar voice say in a hushed tone, "I think he's trying to tell you thanks for the trip, and the job, and that he's looking forward to revolutionizing the very concept of wedding cake."
Puck smiled.
"Yeah, that's what it read to me too," he replied in an equally low voice.
"He's lucky pastry chefs are considered a little apart in the brigade, though, because if that brat worked under my direct orders, he would definitely -- hey!"
The sous-chef yelped out in surprise as Puck turned to take her in his arms.
"Good to see you Gillian," he greeted, meaning every word.
"Technically, you can't see me when you're trying to smother me with your chest, now, can you?" She asked in a muffled voice. She was so petite that she almost disappeared in his embrace, her face buried in his shoulder. "Let go of me, you big oaf, you're embarrassing me in front of the children!"
"Never. You're mine, baby, and tonight, when you and I are alone, I'm gonna take my time, and make sweet, sweet--"
"Ahem."
Puck intended to finish his sentence with something idiotic like "tartlets with you" but he didn't get the chance. Kurt and Beatrix had appeared out of nowhere and were standing there watching as he released his hold on Gill, finally letting his sous-chef breathe normally again. Kurt sure had a knack for happening on him with the weirdest timing, Puck reflected.
"Mr... Andrews, Miss Lonsdale. What can I do for you?"
"We came to see if everything was all right, and if your team had arrived safely," Kurt said, with just a hint of resentment in his voice. Puck didn't know where that tone came from, but he figured Kurt might still be just a little pissed about the kitchen incident. He briefly wondered what Kurt was doing here in person, before he realized that Beatrix must have asked him for support since she couldn't get her hands on Puck, and she'd thought that he wouldn't turn her down again if their employer was there. Sneaky, and not very bright, in Puck's opinion; it wouldn't do much for her credibility if she ran to her mother's skirts every time she experienced some difficulties with the people she was supposed to coordinate. She had to be very new at this. Another thought occurred to him, as he remembered Senator Marlowe's hand on her shoulder: maybe she got the job because of another type of experience.
"Yes," Beatrix spoke in turn, eyes shooting daggers at him -- at least where she was concerned he knew exactly what the anger was about. "And we were wondering whether you would have the time to speak to us about Saturday's menu. Mr Andrews happens to be available this afternoon and I thought this would be a good opportunity to--"
"Doesn't Mr Marlowe have a say on the menu too?" Puck interrupted, not bothering to remain polite towards the wedding planner anymore.
"Mr Marlowe is busy at the moment, so he's leaving every decision to Mr Andrews and me. Also, may I add Mr Andrews is on a very tight schedule too, so if you could--"
"I hear you, Miss Lonsdale," Puck cut her off again. "My people have barely arrived and they must be tired from their trip, but I'm sure they'll understand the imperatives of your job. We'll get to work right away so I can present you and Mr Andrews a list of propositions for Saturday." He quickly added before she could open her mouth, "After lunch." His tone was final and Beatrix didn't dare to protest.
"Good," Kurt said. "We'll be waiting for you in the main house's living room; Beatrix and I will be sorting out other details in the mean time. See you then."
He turned and left, closely followed by the planner. Gill let out a long whistling sound when they were out of hearing range.
"Hot stuff," she chirped. "And a very nice ass he has. I'd totally bully that, too, if you ask me, even though he might enjoy it a little less than with you."
Puck barely suppressed a grimace. Gill had the physique of a leprechaun -- a lithe and small body, red hair that she'd recently cut so short that it didn't conceal her stuck-out ears anymore, and a wicked grin that sent sparkles shooting in her blue eyes -- and sometimes Puck believed she behaved like one too.
"Look, Gill, no laughing matter, okay? I barely convinced him -- using my irresistible charm -- not to exact whatever kind of revenge he had in store for me, so don't remind him, even by accident, of why he should hate me. No jokes about it, no remarks, nothing. Let's try at least to get some work done here."
"Ooh, touchy, I see. Puck and hot gay Broadway singer, sittin' in a tree..."
He chose to blatantly ignore her and turned to the rest of his team to announce, "There are two houses to accommodate us, guys. Cissy and Gill will remain here with me, while Anthony, Frédérique and Jeoff will move to the other one, which is not far down this path."
"And why would you be the one who gets to stay with the ladies?" Anthony protested.
That comment earned the British cook a general bout of laughter.
"Because I'm the chef de cuisine, Tony," Puck replied, trying -- and failing -- to keep a serious face. "It means I'm the guy who gets privileges that you bums don't. You also know that I would never, ever entrust 'the ladies' to you in particular."
The cooks all laughed good-naturedly again. Puck clapped his hands, once.
"Anyway, for now, let's all have lunch at la casa de Puck," he said, gesturing them towards the house. "And then we can put our heads together and decide what kind of poisonous shit we're going to serve all those capitalist fatcats and political scum on Saturday. Come on now, team, let's get to work."
**********
Over a fragrant dish of Thai green curry and rice that Cissy, Anthony and Gill had prepared using fresh basil that Puck had received as a gift from one of the organic farmers, they started to discuss the menu. It went rather well and quickly; only the dessert turned out to be a bit of a problem.
"We can't have everybody's full attention on the dessert," Puck declared, "because of the recital at the end of the meal. It will have to be finger food, nibbles that can be eaten standing. We'll just turn the drinks-and-canapés buffet in the ballroom into a dessert buffet and people will get them there. What do you think?"
Gill was hesitant.
"I get your point, Puck, but mignardises can't be considered proper dessert, you know, especially if you serve them like canapés. Won't they complain? Also, I'm not sure about the change of formula -- dishes served to them during dinner, then they have to get up and fetch the dessert themselves? Sounds like a complication to me, and another subject of complaint."
"Mignardises are just fine," Frédérique put in with a satisfied expression. "Anyssing not fucking wedding cake is fine. Just don't call zem 'nibbles' in front of zem, and zey won't say shit. Also, I will make different kinds of zem, and, like, very traditional, very French, but small, you know? Zey won't say shit."
"So, what are you proposing, Frédérique?" Puck asked.
"I was ssinking, mini éclairs, you know, ze kind I made you taste last time. And macarons, of course, yes? Zey go well wiz ze coffee, so you put ze coffee at ze buffet too. People get up to get zeir coffee, zey take ze éclairs and macarons on ze way and zey remain standing for listening to your friend sing. Macarons go well wiz ze champagne too, so it's also perfect for a final toast. Good, no?"
"He's not my friend." Puck glared at Gill when she snickered. "Other than that, yeah, excellent idea. Do you have something more, just in case?"
"For somessing zat looks a bit more like dessert, if you wish, let's say... Small crèmes brûlées. Zis way, everybody is satisfied, plus you can't get more French. Make it a trio: lavender, orange blossom and -- ah, fuck, what do you call it? Romarin?"
"Rosemary," Puck and Gill translated almost instantly.
"Sounds good. That's not exactly finger food, though," Puck objected.
Frédérique shrugged.
"Well it's not messy, unlike choux à la crème, it's still refined, ze ladies love it and you can eat it standing all ze same. Just not wiz ze coffee, of course, zey won't have enough hands. But not everybody will drink coffee, so it's okay. Ze only problem will be burning ze sugar; zat, we will have to do on ze spot."
Puck looked questioningly at Gill, who looked back and nodded.
"Okay, guys," Puck concluded. "I think we're good to go."
**********
Kurt seemed satisfied with the list of propositions and he made his choice among them, except for the dessert, which, to Puck's relief, he didn't question; he merely asked for all of the items at once: éclairs, macarons and crèmes brûlées.
"What kind of flavoring will the éclairs have?" Kurt asked.
"My pastry chef wants to go for four kinds: chocolate, rose, matcha and blood orange," Puck said. "In my opinion, and even though it's a lot less unusual than the rest, the chocolate one is amazing. The crème pâtissière inside isn't sweet; it's made of very dark and bitter chocolate. Only the top, the glaçage, is sugary, so it creates a balance; not bitter at all, not too sweet, absolutely perfect."
"What is 'matcha'?"
"It's basically Japanese green tea."
"Japanese?" Kurt repeated doubtfully.
It took Puck a few seconds to identify the problem.
"Not typically French, indeed, but it's used so much in French pastry nowadays that might as well be considered as such. We could leave it out, if you prefer, although it would be a shame for the color scheme -- matcha gives food a vivid green colour naturally, and it makes sense when you see all four éclairs aligned. It's the same for the taste, all four are meant to go together, and in that context matcha isn't exotic at all; I honestly don't think it will shock anybody's palate. But I could arrange for a tasting, if you like, so you can see for yourself."
"That won't be necessary," Kurt said. "I won't have the time anyway. Matcha it is, then. Make sure everything is perfect."
Puck gave a short nod. Of course he would.
**************
Finally, D-day came. Finally, Puck was where he belonged, in the midst of pure chaos, with plates and pans clattering, people rushing around, food and fire everywhere. He was always on the move too, barking orders, trying to dry off the sweat that never stopped pouring from his brow -- enjoying it all to no end.
Beatrix had been hovering in the kitchen at the beginning of the evening and had almost caused Puck to breach the contract, before Anthony quickly intervened and pretended to need her opinion on his entrée, a subtle trick to get her out of the way without causing a blood bath. Had she remained looking over Puck's shoulder to check on what he was doing, he would have ended up turning her into sausage, no doubt. Now she was gone, probably to supervise the ballroom and the guests, and everything was for the best.
"Jeoff!" Puck yelled as he plated the last of the langoustine ravioli, which was the first dish to go out of the kitchen. "You've been taking ages! Where the fuck is that sauce?"
He didn't wait for Jeoff to answer and went directly over to the sauté cook to have a taste of what was in the pan.
"Reduce it," he commanded, "it's too flat, and definitely needs more oompf to it. Don't add any more vanilla, just sharpen the acidity. Also, you need to hurry the fuck up."
Jeoff, looking frantic, merely shook his head in acquiescence, which made his cheeks wobble, and augmented the fire. Puck felt someone bumping into him as he was turning to check on Cissy.
"Sorry, Chef," Gill apologized, and then she shouted over Puck's shoulder, painfully close to Puck's ear, "Anthony! Lobster! And I need you to start plating that gazpacho!"
"I'm on it, love!" Anthony shouted back.
Everything passed in a blur when they were caught in the rush like that; soon the white gazpacho was out, and Jeoff made Puck taste the final version of the vanilla sauce to go with the lobster.
Puck swore out loud.
"Not good?" Jeoff asked, looking like he was about to pass out any minute.
"It's good, but that's not the point. It just hasn't cooled down enough; I burned my tongue. I can tell the lobster will overcook when you put this on it. Fuck, Jeoff, how many times do I have to tell you to mind the timing?"
The sauté cook cringed as if Puck was going to hit him.
"Okay, and you really need to stop doing that," Puck said, trying to go back to a more even tone. It would do neither him nor Jeoff any good if he lost his temper now. "We don't have a choice, now, anyway, time is running out; let's just pray they won't notice. Come on, keep moving, start pouring that fucking sauce on the lobster, go!"
Jeoff rapidly complied. Puck turned his attention on Gill and Cissy as they cut slices of the duck breasts rubbed with espelette: with just the right amount of blood and juices oozing from it, the meat presented an enticing shade of pink and looked perfectly cooked. At least that dish was going to be a hit, Puck thought, especially with the caramelized gingerbread sauce -- one of Jeoff's inventions. Jeoff sure was a weirdo and his timing was definitely crap, but Puck would never fire him as long as he came up with brilliant ideas like this one.
"Gill!" He called.
The sous-chef raised her head, not stopping the movements of her hands.
"I'll let you handle the mille-feuilles; I'm going to give Frédérique a hand out there."
"All right, Chef, see you."
He got out of the kitchen and walked through the corridors until he reached the ballroom at the far end of the house, where the dining tables had been arranged. Before he entered the ballroom, he rolled his sleeves back down to look more presentable. He had donned his favorite cooking blouse, black and subtly underlined at the cuffs, collar, and hems by a single, deep red stripe. He possessed a more traditional white blouse, of course, that he had almost never worn since his return to the States. He knew black look good on him, made him look even more dangerous: that was an image he was fine with projecting.
Once inside, he had no trouble spotting Kurt, seated next to his fiancé, and looking like a billion bucks; the singer was even more impeccably dressed than usual, like he was Fred Astaire or some other classy guy from a black and white movie. Kurt was smiling, and Puck caught himself wondering whether he had found the food to his taste, whether he'd enjoyed it. Well, he would know the answer to that soon enough, wouldn't he? And his job for tonight wasn't over yet, anyway; there was still more prowess he needed to demonstrate.
On the previous day, Frédérique had spent all day long preparing raspberry, coffee, pistachio, vanilla and saffron macarons. Along with the éclairs, the explosion of colors they created on the dessert table was spectacular. Frédérique was busy arranging the crèmes brûlées on a bare tin table so they could easily be burned one after another, and only registered Puck's presence when Puck also started arranging the small cups by his side. By the time they were finished, the green apple mille-feuilles with pine nuts and blue cheese were being served to the guests.
"They're almost done there," Puck said. "Time for you to shine, Frédo."
"Don't fucking call me zat," the pastry chef grumbled, too focused to really care. "Here, pour ze sugar, I'll get ze torches."
Puck did as he was told while getting acquainted with the charming waitress called "January" who had been assigned to coffee duty at the dessert buffet, only to be rudely interrupted by Frédérique who tossed a torch at him and told him to "fucking get to work, and save ze flirt for later."
"Tell me again why I don't sack your French ass and hire someone less insolent?" Puck asked as he started on the first cup on his side of the table.
"Because I'm too pretty, zat's why. Unionized, too," Frédérique added on second thought.
"Yeah? Unionize this, bitch."
Puck flipped him the bird, handling the torch with one hand.
"Careful wiz your sleeves," Frédérique warned.
"I have this, kid, trust me."
"I know, but I also saw your expression when you do flambés -- remember zat contract in San Francisco?" Frédérique snickered. "You just love to put fire to stuff, don't you?"
It was meant as a joke, of course, nevertheless Puck paused to consider.
He had looked up "pyromania" when he was still a teenager, a word that had managed to filter through the buzzing sound that used to fill his head whenever he was stuck in Miss Pillsbury's office and the skittish wide-eyed woman would lecture him about this and that. He'd never listened; he automatically tuned out after the inevitable "I'm here to help you, Noah." She had handed him a pamphlet that day, one that read: "So you like to burn things down?" That was how he got the spelling right.
His friend Wikipedia had said, "A type of impulse control disorder, pyromania is an impulse to deliberately start fires to relieve tension and typically includes feelings of gratification or relief afterward."
And maybe there was some truth in that. Maybe there was a little of that involved when he first started at the Visconti's kitchen, maybe there was something about him and fire. Destruction in general too, he supposed. And then along came Mr Trevino, who showed him through cooking that destruction could be more than that; it could go further, become art, and bring something to the world. Mr Trevino made him understand that the principle of cooking was turning something into something else. Into something more. How cool was that? The sweetest part was that Puck saw nothing boring or repetitive in it, which suited his paper-thin attention span just fine. His fascination for fire, the "relief" and "gratification" he felt after destroying things couldn't be compared to the exhilaration of perpetrating the act of destruction and then arriving at the most important part, the one that had never been part of the equation before: creation. Or re-creation, for that matter. Two faces of the same coin. The yang to his yin. Wax on, wax off. Or something.
Had he not met Mr Trevino, Puck might've turned out very badly indeed. He might've ended up burning the whole of Lima down. The cycle would have stopped for him at "destruction" and nothing else, burn, burn, burn, until there was nothing left, no one else to walk away from him again. Fire helped settle things, come to terms with the bad stuff that clawed at his guts; it made everything final. But cooking... transformed. And made some things meaningful again.
He stopped the torch and handed a lavender-flavored crème brûlée to a guest.
Slowly the staff were taking away some of the tables and re-arranging others, as discreetly as possible, while the guests were attending to their caffeine and sugar fix. A grand piano was brought into the ballroom and when Aurélien led Kurt to it, silence slowly descended upon the crowd.
"Dear family, dear friends," Aurélien started, loud and clear. "Evan and I are most honored and pleased to have you here tonight to celebrate our official engagement."
A small round of applause, a few camera flashes here and there.
"Well," he continued with a smile, "I must tell you that our first, less official engagement was conducted in Evan's apartment a few months ago, with me in socks because the neat freak wouldn't let me wear shoes on his precious carpet, and a completely surprised Evan coming out of the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth. To be honest, when I actually proposed, the first answer I got was toothpaste foam all over my face."
Delighted laughs rang out at the cute anecdote. Kurt lowered his head modestly, cheeks flushed, looking a little embarrassed.
"So, tonight, thank you for helping me making amends for that awkward moment in Evan's life, and turning it into a wonderful party, with exceptional people."
Yet another round of applause.
"Evan also chose this special night to make a very important announcement. Evan, if you will."
Aurélien retreated a few steps, leaving Kurt in the center of attention. Kurt seemed slightly hesitant for a moment, then he lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders.
"Being an actor doesn't necessarily make you good at giving speeches," he said, even louder and clearer than his fiancé. "So I will make this short. I wanted..." There was that shadow of hesitation again, but it vanished even quicker. "I wanted to announce tonight my decision to retire from the stage. The recital that I'm about to give you now will be my very last public performance."
Shocked gasps all across the ballroom, camera flashes suddenly crackling everywhere. Puck got careless and knocked one crème brûlée over lovely January's shoes, who was so caught up in the unexpected drama anyway, just like everybody else, that she barely noticed. It seemed the only one who wasn't paying any attention to what was going on was Frédérique, who was cheerfully humming some stupid French pop song as he was putting some order in the scattered éclairs on the platters.
"Please, please." Kurt raised his hands in the air, demanding quiet so he could continue. "It is entirely my decision, and I want you to know that my wedding to Aurélien didn't provoke it. I would say the desire to leave the lights of Broadway behind me had simply been confirmed by this occasion. My wedding certainly helped me make up my mind, but that's all. I understand that this must come as a shock to all of you, but trust me when I say that I've been toying with the idea for quite some time, and for me, now, with you, this is the perfect moment to put an end to a wonderful career, that brought me many joys and successes, and absolutely everything I could wish for as an artist. And I am very grateful for all I've received, but now is the time for me to turn this particular page of my life, and move on to another."
He stopped a moment to let his words sink in, his blue gaze embracing the audience with confidence, and then he continued:
"Of course, I will explain myself in further detail during a press conference that will be held very soon; but for now...I just want to offer you tonight, dear guests, and especially my amazing fiancé, this last recital, as a... as a thank you."
His voice faltered a little on the last words, Aurélien stepped back in, took Kurt in his arms, and Kurt cuddled against him. Perfect timing; it looked like a dance, choreographed down to the second. Then Kurt parted from his fiancé with handsomely dewy eyes, and took his place in front of the piano as the crowd broke into thunders of clapping, that slowly died after the first few notes resonated.
Je rêve son visage je décline son corps
Et puis je l'imagine habitant mon décor
J'aurais tant à lui dire si j'avais su parler
Comment lui faire lire au fond de mes pensées?
Puck blinked. He thought he knew the song. Where did he hear it? Frédérique provided him with an answer when he muttered under his breath, "Oh my fucking god. Céline fucking Dion. Alors ça, c'est le pompon. Fucking kill me, will you?"
Mais comment font ces autres à qui tout réussit?
Qu'on me dise mes fautes mes chimères aussi
Moi j'offrirais mon âme, mon coeur et tout mon temps
Mais j'ai beau tout donner, tout n'est pas suffisant
It was quite nice, in fact. Céline Dion had never been Puck's thing, and never will be, but this particular song fitted Kurt's voice beautifully, Puck had to admit.
The only problem was that Aurélien had remained standing by the piano, pretending to really listen to the lyrics as if they were some kind of sacred gospel and gazing with enamored eyes into Kurt's own.
S'il suffisait qu'on s'aime, s'il suffisait d'aimer
Je ferais de ce monde un rêve, une éternité
The whole scene played out horribly cheesy and camp, although the audience didn't seem to think so as the applause was loud as ever by the end of the song, especially when Kurt took Aurélien's extended hand in his. They remained like this for a while, merely staring at each other, hand in hand, and as the clapping faded, Kurt let go of Aurélien's hand to play the piano intro to Leonard Cohen's Dance me to the end of love.
His voice was pure and soft, although still laced with intensity as he sang the first verse. Puck found himself quite unnerved when Kurt stared across the room, looking at no one in particular, and felt like Kurt's baby blues had halted on him and no one else. Just a wrong impression, because the only one Kurt really looked at was Charming, still hanging by the piano and looking utterly useless. When Kurt attacked the second verse, a few people in the crowd -- no doubt a little too imbibed with champagne -- cheered at the blatant sensuality of the lyrics.
Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
At some point during the piano solo, Aurélien leaned in to steal a quick kiss from Kurt's lips, and one or two notes slipped from Kurt's fingers. The singer recovered quickly.
Touch me with your naked hand, touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Puck was starting to consider he wasn't paid enough to endure this. In fact, there just wasn't enough money in the world to compensate for this kind of offense to his good taste. There was only so much campiness he could face, and this took the fucking cake, no pun intended. He made sure Frédérique didn't need his help with the buffet anymore and walked out of the ballroom, then decided to get out of the house altogether for a bit of fresh air. He found a back door that led to some sort of paved backyard where a few cars were parked. The outside was still, and quiet, the music from the house barely audible. Just what he needed. As he was just starting to unwind a little, Puck was shocked and barely suppressed a scream that would have no doubt sounded very girly when a bit of night suddenly detached itself from the darkness and came to bump against his leg. Recovering from his surprise, Puck could finally make out, with the help of the light coming through the open door, the shape a dog, a big black Labrador Retriever which started nudging at Puck's leg with its nose.
"Hey there Padfoot," Puck said, tentatively patting the beast's silky head after it directed soulful eyes at him, obviously expecting something. "Haven't seen you anywhere around here before. Where the fuck have they been keeping you?"
The dog didn't answer, so Puck settled for sitting down on the steps where he was standing. Laying its big body beside him, the dog followed. Puck didn't know how much time passed like that, with his fingers scratching behind the dog's ears to the animal's utter contentment, and him gazing into the squares of yellow light the windows projected on the pavement, absently thinking about a pet turtle he used to have in eighth grade.
"Keeping Ulysses company?" A voice said behind him.
The dog stood back up in one blink, wagging its tail furiously when he saw the newcomer. Puck didn't need to turn around to know who it was. That voice was unmistakable.
"That his name?" Puck asked.
"Yes; after James Joyce's novel, in fact. Sit, Ulysses," Kurt ordered.
The dog obeyed, letting the endless ribbon of his tongue hang loosely from his mouth. Without warning, Kurt took place on the steps beside Puck, almost causing Puck to jump out of his skin.
"So," Kurt said. "I'll admit it. I'm intrigued."
"So you should be," Puck replied automatically, out of nervousness. "Intrigued by what?" he asked after a short pause while he mentally smacked himself.
"What on earth got into you the day you decided to become a chef?"
Puck gave a short laugh.
"It wasn't a decision I made in just a day, believe me. Won't they be needing you over there?"
"It's okay, I told them I needed to talk to you. About the job tonight."
Puck said nothing and resumed caressing Ulysses' head.
"Is he yours?" He asked after a pause.
"No, he's Aurélien's parents', but it seems he took a liking to me."
"Doesn't surprise me," Puck said without thinking. Then he changed the subject, "Nice recital out there. Didn't know you could sing like that."
"Well it's... It was my job. You didn't even stay until the end," Kurt remarked with no animosity. "May I add, that wasn't very professional of you."
"So, what, am I fired because of that?" Puck asked with defiance.
"Hmm, let's see..." Kurt pretended to think about it for a moment. "I suppose I could very well fire you on that basis, yes, but I have to say, the duck was pretty spectacular."
Puck grinned, tension gradually leaving his shoulders.
"It was, wasn't it," he said, feeling smug.
"And that cold white soup was genius. Loved its sweetness and how fresh it was, absolutely perfect for the season."
"Almond, cucumber and rice milk, it's a killer combination. What did you think of the lobster?" Puck enquired, trying not to let his anxiety show behind the question.
"Was there vanilla in the sauce?"
"Yes."
"I'd say it was... unusual, to say the least. I could taste the vanilla flavor but it didn't bother me; it tasted rather excellent, in fact. I also very much appreciated the three different kinds of beetroot that went with the lobster, the colors on the plate were absolutely gorgeous. I didn't even know yellow beetroot existed."
Nothing about the lobster itself, Puck noted, but there was still a chance that nobody had noticed that it was overcooked.
"You were also right about the -- what was it again? 'Matcha'? Matcha éclairs," Kurt continued. "I had a taste of every little dessert after the recital, and everything was sublime, especially the chocolate éclairs, like you said, and the matcha ones really made sense with the rest, indeed. Well done."
"I know, Frédérique is an excellent pastry chef. He's very lucky his enormous amount of talent balances out his enormous amount of shitty behavior."
"Well, if tonight's any indication, you're an excellent chef, too," Kurt said softly. "Do tell, how did that happen? No offence, but judging from your potential in high school, you certainly weren't on the right track for a successful career. Or any career at all, for that matter."
That stung a bit, but Puck let it slide. It was perfectly true, after all.
"After graduation," Puck started, "my mom forced me to take a summer job as a dishwasher, at a small Italian restaurant, called the Visconti, owned by a friend of our family whose name was Joseph Trevino."
From the corner of his eye, he saw Kurt nod, encouraging him to continue.
"Even though I didn't ask him anything," Puck kept on, "he taught me the basics of cooking. Did you know that all the greatest chefs, and I mean every single one of them, started at the lowest scale in the kitchen hierarchy? Scrubbing the dishes? It's almost compulsory, actually. Because it makes you familiar with the utensils you'll be using. Fuck the American Dream, you know, it doesn't work, not in this day and age. A kitchen is the only place in real life where you can really rise from rags to riches. Paul Bocuse used to do the laundry and tend to the garden at his mentor's house before he was deemed fit to be allowed anywhere near food, did you know that? That's what Mr Trevino told me, too. Said I could become anything I wanted, should I choose that path, if I was humble and willing enough. You know me. My whole life, I've never been humble, nor willing. Didn't matter. Mr Trevino made me believe I could become that person."
Puck paused for a moment, running his hands through Ulysses' shiny fur.
"When I finally manned up after thinking about it for ages, and felt enough confidence in me to tell him I wanted to go to Italy to learn how to cook," Puck said, "his reaction was... downright outrage."
"Why?" Kurt asked, sounding slightly surprised.
"He said to me, 'My boy, I only opened an Italian restaurant because my surname would make it look authentic. But the main reason I chose Italian cuisine is also because I knew I would never be good enough to do justice to French cuisine the way I wanted to. If you need to know anything about food, you must go to France!'. "
Puck allowed himself to laugh a little, remembering the old bachelor's emphatic manners.
"He told me that when he was young, he went on a backpacking trip through Europe. There he went out with a French girl -- or they were just friends with benefits, I didn't really get it when he explained, it sounded kind of complicated. Whatever. The important thing is, she made him taste real French cuisine for the first time in his life when they were together in Paris, and it was an experience that almost brought tears to his eyes when he told me about it. He's the one who convinced my mum I could go there to study at a culinary school. My mum was... completely lost, to say the least. You know... when you've been in Lima all your life, and your children and grandchildren, if you have any, will probably just stay there too, the concept of 'Paris' or 'cuisine' is a little hard to grasp, I think. It's kind of... too exotic."
He knew Kurt fully understood; except that the boy had already been a Martian amongst the misunderstanding Earthlings and he'd already known that all he had to do was to go back to his home planet for his life to be normal again. Puck, on the other hand, had been an Earthling who dreamed himself a Martian.
"Anyway," Puck continued, "I still don't know how, but he managed to convince her to finance part of my studies, while he paid for the most part. Said I could pay him back when I would become a famous chef."
He stopped caressing the dog, which went to Kurt to beg for some more love, and Puck pressed his palms together between his knees, looking down at his feet.
"In the end, I couldn't. He died of stomach cancer while I was finishing my studies in Lyon. To this day, even though I'm giving the money to a charity he supported, I feel like I still haven't found the right way to thank him, for the chance he gave me."
He let the silence stretch a little, then concluded, shrugging, "And that's how I became a chef. I learned humility. I learned that no matter how hard you tried, you still had to try harder. And now here I am, working for you. Your turn."
Kurt looked baffled.
"What? My turn to what?"
"I told you my sob story, now I need a little something in return."
"I wasn't aware of such an arrangement."
"Come on, Kurt, be a good sport. At least answer one of my questions."
"Which one?" said Kurt, withdrawing a little, his body language screaming mistrust.
"What does the 'J' stand for?"
After a brief moment of puzzlement, Kurt laughed genuinely, throwing his head back.
"You had me worried for a moment there," he said, smiling. "I can't answer that, though. It's part of my whole stage persona. I just can't tell."
A sudden realization hit Puck. It had been nagging at him from the moment he had entered the ballroom to join Frédérique. He had known something was off but obviously his mind had been occupied with other stuff and he hadn't been able to tell. Before he could stop himself, he said softly, "I didn't see your father anywhere in there."
He didn't look, but he could almost feel the sudden and violent tension coursing through Kurt's body, beside his. When Kurt spoke again, he was back to full-on Ice Queen mode.
"Not that it's any of your concern, but... no, my father doesn't know about all this."
Puck noted the deliberate vagueness, and wondered what "all this" implied exactly, but didn't comment on it. Instead, he said, "So that's the reason behind the stage name. Am I right?"
From Kurt's expression, Puck knew he was spot on. Kurt abruptly stood up, causing Ulysses to fumble down the steps in surprise.
"It doesn't matter," Kurt said as he was heading back inside the house, becoming only a voice behind Puck's back, "I only came to tell you that your hiring was confirmed. Congratulations to you and your team, the job was brilliantly executed. Just one last thing you need to know, though, so that you don't repeat the same mistake in the future..."
Puck kept silent and braced himself, because he could guess what was coming next.
"That lobster was overdone."
**********************************************************************************************************
Chapter Three
:::::
Back to Chapter One part 1/2
Back to Chapter One part 2/2
Back to Chapter Two part 1/2
:::::
Bonus to Chapter One: First amuse-bouche
Bonus to Chapter Two: Second amuse-bouche
Author:
sevenswells Best Betas Ever:
drgaellon and guilshad Rating: R for language
Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Puck/Kurt
Warnings/Spoilers: Food porn, and no spoilers because it's an AU in which glee club didn't happen. Tons of words in italics, and OCs everywhere in this part, too, sorryyyyyy
Comments: This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful betas, and to my homegirl
mattiezumi , Most Valuable Reader since 2008. <3This part gave me pain. I swear. Stupid engagement party, you took way too long to write. The bonus post will be veeery nice, though -- with pictures, too! I also made a playlist for this fic (deezer is fucked, so in the end I made it on Youtube), and you'll find there some of the songs in this part (the Celine Dion one too, OMG), you may check it out: http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=1848AC02C2B19C75
Word count: 8 089, fuck me! O.O 19 fucking pages! I can't believe it!
Puck devoted the beginning of the week to visits to markets, meetings with the local organic farmers and searching for the best-stocked wholesale trades, bearing two criteria in mind -- abundance and quality.
Busy as they both were, he didn't get the chance to see Kurt again after the little stunt he'd pulled in the kitchen. Aurélien had also kept true to his promise and had Puck moved into one of the guest houses the very same day. His new lodgings were modern -- he wouldn't admit it to himself, but he was glad: he felt intimidated in that museum of a house and he hated that feeling -- nice, clean and spacious enough, and more importantly, far enough from the main house so that Aurélien would consider Puck less of a threat to his fiancé's loyalty and virtue. At any rate, they wouldn't be likely to bump into each other by chance, now. And perhaps that was for the best, too. In the spur of the moment, Puck hadn't been able to resist the opportunity and had sort of gone with the flow, but now, with hindsight, maybe it hadn't been such a smart move. He didn't know what would possibly come out of it; whether he would finally have peace, or if all hell was about to break loose any moment now, so he was making the most of the delay. Plus there was nothing else he could do, except concentrate on the task at hand. The problem was that he also had to fight Beatrix every step of the way: he did try to persuade her to wait for his brigade de cuisine to arrive before settling on the engagement party's menu with the spouses-to-be, but then he ended up giving up altogether and stuck to simply avoiding her as much as he could. Beatrix was obviously starting to go apeshit: first because of the potential tensions between him and Kurt, which might ruin all of her hard work thus far and second, because the date of the engagement party was nearing and she couldn't rely on anything last-minute, since she didn't trust him one bit -- and Puck literally had other fish to fry than to deal with the paranoid bitch.
Fortunately, by the middle of the week, as he was just this close to throwing in the proverbial towel, his brigade was there.
The first person to come out of the sleek black cars that pulled up in front of Puck's guest house was Jeoff, his sauté cook. Jeoff was an overly-quiet, chubby, thirty-three year-old Californian whom Puck had thought a lost cause at the job interview: the fat weirdo would almost jump at every question, and answered them with inaudible mumbling, wringing his hands all along. Textbook-case psychopath, in Puck's opinion, and Jeoff's geeky, overgrown-baby looks did not help, even though the cooking school Jeoff had studied at held quite a good reputation and his grades were rather remarkable. However -- even if you chose to overlook appearances -- because of how physically taxing the job was, it was a given that working in a kitchen required excellent physical shape. Puck had years of high school football practice to thank for that, and all that muscle also gave him the prerogative to squarely refuse obese co-workers; chances were they'd end up getting in the way and he certainly wouldn't abide that. Plus, good communication was crucial in a brigade, and the weirdo hadn't been able to utter more than two words in a way that could be understood by human beings. Those constituted at least two solid, universally acceptable arguments to dismiss the application. Had Marcel not insisted, though, that the autistic train wreck should at least be evaluated through try-outs, Jeoff might not be on his brigade today. Puck would readily admit now that it would have been a true loss -- the classic rabbit sauce chasseur Jeoff had prepared that day counted as one of the most successful dishes he'd ever tasted in his life.
He greeted Jeoff with a pat on the shoulder, not offering a handshake; Jeoff didn't like them, and Puck himself generally didn't regret too much being spared the feeling of the limp, damp hand with squishy fingers feebly grabbing his own strong grip in return. Jeoff mumbled something which might have been a greeting and made way for Puck to move on to greet Cissy, his roast cook, a young woman from Tampa with Indian origins which graced her with gorgeous dark skin and long shiny blue-black hair she wore in a tight braid. In her own way, Cissy was the quiet type too, although not because she was particularly shy or uneasy with oral communication, more by choice, in fact. She was the kind of person who remained silent if they didn't have anything to say, and as it happened, she just naturally didn't have much to say. She applied the same no-bullshit policy in her job: her style was efficient, practical, and direct. She knew what she had to do and didn't have to be told anything twice; in other words, just the cook that Puck had needed when he had started to assemble his brigade. She had come to the job interview on Gill's recommendation: the two women had worked together in the same steak house in Florida for two years and got along pretty well. That fact alone finished convincing Puck that he should hire her; if Cissy, in addition to all her other qualities, was patient enough to put up with Gill's bossiness in the kitchen for two whole years, then she was fit for any job. Gill was generally a sweet girl if you got to know her, and an excellent cook, but as a sous-chef, she sometimes pushed the others hard -- which was part of her job description, actually, but she had also broken many cooks along the way and such turnover might have translated into bad press for Puck and Marcel's business had it continued like that.
In the end, Cissy turned out to be a sweet girl, too. Puck had thought about bedding her, once, on a drunken night. After all, she was a nice, attractive young woman, and he knew he didn't leave her completely cold either. It had been one of those nights where anything could have easily happened, in the space of a thought -- even an alcohol-induced thought. Nevertheless, Puck hadn't been drunk enough to forget Gill would have his balls if he ever disrupted the dynamics on the team by screwing around, so nothing had happened, and today he was grateful that for once in his life, he hadn't thought with his dick.
The roast cook took his handshake and simply nodded with a smile when he asked her how she was doing. Just one of the many subjects that didn't require development, in her opinion.
Third came Anthony, nonchalant Englishman -- which sounded redundant, but there was no other way to define him -- fish cook and entrée preparer, and Puck reckoned Anthony was quite the womanizer too. He was one of those men who got considerably more handsome as they aged, like Sean Connery. As a younger man, Anthony mustn't have scored as much as did now -- and he was reaching a respectable age, that Puck estimated around 50 although Anthony would never tell. His tranquil confidence, his calm, reassuring gestures, his lazy smile and heavy-lidded gray eyes seemed to work wonders on women with a daddy complex; as a result, Anthony often dated younger and hotter foxes than Puck's own trophies. In the kitchen, however, Anthony's manner changed: he became more intense, doing everything with a focus and a precision he never showed outside the job -- or maybe he did, but in situations Puck would rather not think about.
"I hear you got yourself in quite a messy situation, Chef?" The Englishman said with his usual detached amusement as he shook Puck's hand.
"So Gill told you, huh?" Puck sighed. "Dude, you have no idea. But now that you guys are here everything is already starting to look better."
"We'll see about that. Frédérique has been insufferable during the whole trip and some serious bitching is coming your way, I think."
"Oh, shit. What is it this time?"
"Well, the little I could gather -- over my headache from his incessant yammering with his atrocious accent, poor grammar and limited vocabulary -- was something about wedding cakes. But you'll hear it all soon enough, here he comes."
When the young dark-haired, dark-eyed, small-framed pastry chef came out of one of the cars in turn and walked up to him with angry strides and a sullen expression on his face, Puck chose to turn the charm up to a maximum. "Hey, Frédérique, my man, ready to..."
"Shut ze fuck up. Don't fucking talk to me," Frédérique interrupted briskly. "Why you make me come here, hah? For making fucking wedding cake! Stupidest fucking cake to make on ze planet, what were you ssinking? I fucking hate you! Why didn't you buy fucking wedding cake at ze supermarket, no? Save me ze time, and ze tasteless fuckers zey won't be able to tell ze difference. Wedding cake! Stupid gaudy piles of shit, all of zem! Fuck it all!"
Puck barely had the time to blink as Frédérique finished delivering his hateful speech with broad, menacing gestures and stormed past him to join the other cooks who were standing by the front door of the house, awaiting instructions.
Like most Frenchmen Puck knew, Frédérique had a tendency to overuse the word "fuck" when he spoke English -- worse than Gordon Ramsay on a really bad day -- but Puck was way past taking offense at that kind of thing. After all, Frédérique had a foul mouth and issues with authority: of course Puck would like him.
Behind him, he heard a familiar voice say in a hushed tone, "I think he's trying to tell you thanks for the trip, and the job, and that he's looking forward to revolutionizing the very concept of wedding cake."
Puck smiled.
"Yeah, that's what it read to me too," he replied in an equally low voice.
"He's lucky pastry chefs are considered a little apart in the brigade, though, because if that brat worked under my direct orders, he would definitely -- hey!"
The sous-chef yelped out in surprise as Puck turned to take her in his arms.
"Good to see you Gillian," he greeted, meaning every word.
"Technically, you can't see me when you're trying to smother me with your chest, now, can you?" She asked in a muffled voice. She was so petite that she almost disappeared in his embrace, her face buried in his shoulder. "Let go of me, you big oaf, you're embarrassing me in front of the children!"
"Never. You're mine, baby, and tonight, when you and I are alone, I'm gonna take my time, and make sweet, sweet--"
"Ahem."
Puck intended to finish his sentence with something idiotic like "tartlets with you" but he didn't get the chance. Kurt and Beatrix had appeared out of nowhere and were standing there watching as he released his hold on Gill, finally letting his sous-chef breathe normally again. Kurt sure had a knack for happening on him with the weirdest timing, Puck reflected.
"Mr... Andrews, Miss Lonsdale. What can I do for you?"
"We came to see if everything was all right, and if your team had arrived safely," Kurt said, with just a hint of resentment in his voice. Puck didn't know where that tone came from, but he figured Kurt might still be just a little pissed about the kitchen incident. He briefly wondered what Kurt was doing here in person, before he realized that Beatrix must have asked him for support since she couldn't get her hands on Puck, and she'd thought that he wouldn't turn her down again if their employer was there. Sneaky, and not very bright, in Puck's opinion; it wouldn't do much for her credibility if she ran to her mother's skirts every time she experienced some difficulties with the people she was supposed to coordinate. She had to be very new at this. Another thought occurred to him, as he remembered Senator Marlowe's hand on her shoulder: maybe she got the job because of another type of experience.
"Yes," Beatrix spoke in turn, eyes shooting daggers at him -- at least where she was concerned he knew exactly what the anger was about. "And we were wondering whether you would have the time to speak to us about Saturday's menu. Mr Andrews happens to be available this afternoon and I thought this would be a good opportunity to--"
"Doesn't Mr Marlowe have a say on the menu too?" Puck interrupted, not bothering to remain polite towards the wedding planner anymore.
"Mr Marlowe is busy at the moment, so he's leaving every decision to Mr Andrews and me. Also, may I add Mr Andrews is on a very tight schedule too, so if you could--"
"I hear you, Miss Lonsdale," Puck cut her off again. "My people have barely arrived and they must be tired from their trip, but I'm sure they'll understand the imperatives of your job. We'll get to work right away so I can present you and Mr Andrews a list of propositions for Saturday." He quickly added before she could open her mouth, "After lunch." His tone was final and Beatrix didn't dare to protest.
"Good," Kurt said. "We'll be waiting for you in the main house's living room; Beatrix and I will be sorting out other details in the mean time. See you then."
He turned and left, closely followed by the planner. Gill let out a long whistling sound when they were out of hearing range.
"Hot stuff," she chirped. "And a very nice ass he has. I'd totally bully that, too, if you ask me, even though he might enjoy it a little less than with you."
Puck barely suppressed a grimace. Gill had the physique of a leprechaun -- a lithe and small body, red hair that she'd recently cut so short that it didn't conceal her stuck-out ears anymore, and a wicked grin that sent sparkles shooting in her blue eyes -- and sometimes Puck believed she behaved like one too.
"Look, Gill, no laughing matter, okay? I barely convinced him -- using my irresistible charm -- not to exact whatever kind of revenge he had in store for me, so don't remind him, even by accident, of why he should hate me. No jokes about it, no remarks, nothing. Let's try at least to get some work done here."
"Ooh, touchy, I see. Puck and hot gay Broadway singer, sittin' in a tree..."
He chose to blatantly ignore her and turned to the rest of his team to announce, "There are two houses to accommodate us, guys. Cissy and Gill will remain here with me, while Anthony, Frédérique and Jeoff will move to the other one, which is not far down this path."
"And why would you be the one who gets to stay with the ladies?" Anthony protested.
That comment earned the British cook a general bout of laughter.
"Because I'm the chef de cuisine, Tony," Puck replied, trying -- and failing -- to keep a serious face. "It means I'm the guy who gets privileges that you bums don't. You also know that I would never, ever entrust 'the ladies' to you in particular."
The cooks all laughed good-naturedly again. Puck clapped his hands, once.
"Anyway, for now, let's all have lunch at la casa de Puck," he said, gesturing them towards the house. "And then we can put our heads together and decide what kind of poisonous shit we're going to serve all those capitalist fatcats and political scum on Saturday. Come on now, team, let's get to work."
**********
Over a fragrant dish of Thai green curry and rice that Cissy, Anthony and Gill had prepared using fresh basil that Puck had received as a gift from one of the organic farmers, they started to discuss the menu. It went rather well and quickly; only the dessert turned out to be a bit of a problem.
"We can't have everybody's full attention on the dessert," Puck declared, "because of the recital at the end of the meal. It will have to be finger food, nibbles that can be eaten standing. We'll just turn the drinks-and-canapés buffet in the ballroom into a dessert buffet and people will get them there. What do you think?"
Gill was hesitant.
"I get your point, Puck, but mignardises can't be considered proper dessert, you know, especially if you serve them like canapés. Won't they complain? Also, I'm not sure about the change of formula -- dishes served to them during dinner, then they have to get up and fetch the dessert themselves? Sounds like a complication to me, and another subject of complaint."
"Mignardises are just fine," Frédérique put in with a satisfied expression. "Anyssing not fucking wedding cake is fine. Just don't call zem 'nibbles' in front of zem, and zey won't say shit. Also, I will make different kinds of zem, and, like, very traditional, very French, but small, you know? Zey won't say shit."
"So, what are you proposing, Frédérique?" Puck asked.
"I was ssinking, mini éclairs, you know, ze kind I made you taste last time. And macarons, of course, yes? Zey go well wiz ze coffee, so you put ze coffee at ze buffet too. People get up to get zeir coffee, zey take ze éclairs and macarons on ze way and zey remain standing for listening to your friend sing. Macarons go well wiz ze champagne too, so it's also perfect for a final toast. Good, no?"
"He's not my friend." Puck glared at Gill when she snickered. "Other than that, yeah, excellent idea. Do you have something more, just in case?"
"For somessing zat looks a bit more like dessert, if you wish, let's say... Small crèmes brûlées. Zis way, everybody is satisfied, plus you can't get more French. Make it a trio: lavender, orange blossom and -- ah, fuck, what do you call it? Romarin?"
"Rosemary," Puck and Gill translated almost instantly.
"Sounds good. That's not exactly finger food, though," Puck objected.
Frédérique shrugged.
"Well it's not messy, unlike choux à la crème, it's still refined, ze ladies love it and you can eat it standing all ze same. Just not wiz ze coffee, of course, zey won't have enough hands. But not everybody will drink coffee, so it's okay. Ze only problem will be burning ze sugar; zat, we will have to do on ze spot."
Puck looked questioningly at Gill, who looked back and nodded.
"Okay, guys," Puck concluded. "I think we're good to go."
**********
Kurt seemed satisfied with the list of propositions and he made his choice among them, except for the dessert, which, to Puck's relief, he didn't question; he merely asked for all of the items at once: éclairs, macarons and crèmes brûlées.
"What kind of flavoring will the éclairs have?" Kurt asked.
"My pastry chef wants to go for four kinds: chocolate, rose, matcha and blood orange," Puck said. "In my opinion, and even though it's a lot less unusual than the rest, the chocolate one is amazing. The crème pâtissière inside isn't sweet; it's made of very dark and bitter chocolate. Only the top, the glaçage, is sugary, so it creates a balance; not bitter at all, not too sweet, absolutely perfect."
"What is 'matcha'?"
"It's basically Japanese green tea."
"Japanese?" Kurt repeated doubtfully.
It took Puck a few seconds to identify the problem.
"Not typically French, indeed, but it's used so much in French pastry nowadays that might as well be considered as such. We could leave it out, if you prefer, although it would be a shame for the color scheme -- matcha gives food a vivid green colour naturally, and it makes sense when you see all four éclairs aligned. It's the same for the taste, all four are meant to go together, and in that context matcha isn't exotic at all; I honestly don't think it will shock anybody's palate. But I could arrange for a tasting, if you like, so you can see for yourself."
"That won't be necessary," Kurt said. "I won't have the time anyway. Matcha it is, then. Make sure everything is perfect."
Puck gave a short nod. Of course he would.
**************
Finally, D-day came. Finally, Puck was where he belonged, in the midst of pure chaos, with plates and pans clattering, people rushing around, food and fire everywhere. He was always on the move too, barking orders, trying to dry off the sweat that never stopped pouring from his brow -- enjoying it all to no end.
Beatrix had been hovering in the kitchen at the beginning of the evening and had almost caused Puck to breach the contract, before Anthony quickly intervened and pretended to need her opinion on his entrée, a subtle trick to get her out of the way without causing a blood bath. Had she remained looking over Puck's shoulder to check on what he was doing, he would have ended up turning her into sausage, no doubt. Now she was gone, probably to supervise the ballroom and the guests, and everything was for the best.
"Jeoff!" Puck yelled as he plated the last of the langoustine ravioli, which was the first dish to go out of the kitchen. "You've been taking ages! Where the fuck is that sauce?"
He didn't wait for Jeoff to answer and went directly over to the sauté cook to have a taste of what was in the pan.
"Reduce it," he commanded, "it's too flat, and definitely needs more oompf to it. Don't add any more vanilla, just sharpen the acidity. Also, you need to hurry the fuck up."
Jeoff, looking frantic, merely shook his head in acquiescence, which made his cheeks wobble, and augmented the fire. Puck felt someone bumping into him as he was turning to check on Cissy.
"Sorry, Chef," Gill apologized, and then she shouted over Puck's shoulder, painfully close to Puck's ear, "Anthony! Lobster! And I need you to start plating that gazpacho!"
"I'm on it, love!" Anthony shouted back.
Everything passed in a blur when they were caught in the rush like that; soon the white gazpacho was out, and Jeoff made Puck taste the final version of the vanilla sauce to go with the lobster.
Puck swore out loud.
"Not good?" Jeoff asked, looking like he was about to pass out any minute.
"It's good, but that's not the point. It just hasn't cooled down enough; I burned my tongue. I can tell the lobster will overcook when you put this on it. Fuck, Jeoff, how many times do I have to tell you to mind the timing?"
The sauté cook cringed as if Puck was going to hit him.
"Okay, and you really need to stop doing that," Puck said, trying to go back to a more even tone. It would do neither him nor Jeoff any good if he lost his temper now. "We don't have a choice, now, anyway, time is running out; let's just pray they won't notice. Come on, keep moving, start pouring that fucking sauce on the lobster, go!"
Jeoff rapidly complied. Puck turned his attention on Gill and Cissy as they cut slices of the duck breasts rubbed with espelette: with just the right amount of blood and juices oozing from it, the meat presented an enticing shade of pink and looked perfectly cooked. At least that dish was going to be a hit, Puck thought, especially with the caramelized gingerbread sauce -- one of Jeoff's inventions. Jeoff sure was a weirdo and his timing was definitely crap, but Puck would never fire him as long as he came up with brilliant ideas like this one.
"Gill!" He called.
The sous-chef raised her head, not stopping the movements of her hands.
"I'll let you handle the mille-feuilles; I'm going to give Frédérique a hand out there."
"All right, Chef, see you."
He got out of the kitchen and walked through the corridors until he reached the ballroom at the far end of the house, where the dining tables had been arranged. Before he entered the ballroom, he rolled his sleeves back down to look more presentable. He had donned his favorite cooking blouse, black and subtly underlined at the cuffs, collar, and hems by a single, deep red stripe. He possessed a more traditional white blouse, of course, that he had almost never worn since his return to the States. He knew black look good on him, made him look even more dangerous: that was an image he was fine with projecting.
Once inside, he had no trouble spotting Kurt, seated next to his fiancé, and looking like a billion bucks; the singer was even more impeccably dressed than usual, like he was Fred Astaire or some other classy guy from a black and white movie. Kurt was smiling, and Puck caught himself wondering whether he had found the food to his taste, whether he'd enjoyed it. Well, he would know the answer to that soon enough, wouldn't he? And his job for tonight wasn't over yet, anyway; there was still more prowess he needed to demonstrate.
On the previous day, Frédérique had spent all day long preparing raspberry, coffee, pistachio, vanilla and saffron macarons. Along with the éclairs, the explosion of colors they created on the dessert table was spectacular. Frédérique was busy arranging the crèmes brûlées on a bare tin table so they could easily be burned one after another, and only registered Puck's presence when Puck also started arranging the small cups by his side. By the time they were finished, the green apple mille-feuilles with pine nuts and blue cheese were being served to the guests.
"They're almost done there," Puck said. "Time for you to shine, Frédo."
"Don't fucking call me zat," the pastry chef grumbled, too focused to really care. "Here, pour ze sugar, I'll get ze torches."
Puck did as he was told while getting acquainted with the charming waitress called "January" who had been assigned to coffee duty at the dessert buffet, only to be rudely interrupted by Frédérique who tossed a torch at him and told him to "fucking get to work, and save ze flirt for later."
"Tell me again why I don't sack your French ass and hire someone less insolent?" Puck asked as he started on the first cup on his side of the table.
"Because I'm too pretty, zat's why. Unionized, too," Frédérique added on second thought.
"Yeah? Unionize this, bitch."
Puck flipped him the bird, handling the torch with one hand.
"Careful wiz your sleeves," Frédérique warned.
"I have this, kid, trust me."
"I know, but I also saw your expression when you do flambés -- remember zat contract in San Francisco?" Frédérique snickered. "You just love to put fire to stuff, don't you?"
It was meant as a joke, of course, nevertheless Puck paused to consider.
He had looked up "pyromania" when he was still a teenager, a word that had managed to filter through the buzzing sound that used to fill his head whenever he was stuck in Miss Pillsbury's office and the skittish wide-eyed woman would lecture him about this and that. He'd never listened; he automatically tuned out after the inevitable "I'm here to help you, Noah." She had handed him a pamphlet that day, one that read: "So you like to burn things down?" That was how he got the spelling right.
His friend Wikipedia had said, "A type of impulse control disorder, pyromania is an impulse to deliberately start fires to relieve tension and typically includes feelings of gratification or relief afterward."
And maybe there was some truth in that. Maybe there was a little of that involved when he first started at the Visconti's kitchen, maybe there was something about him and fire. Destruction in general too, he supposed. And then along came Mr Trevino, who showed him through cooking that destruction could be more than that; it could go further, become art, and bring something to the world. Mr Trevino made him understand that the principle of cooking was turning something into something else. Into something more. How cool was that? The sweetest part was that Puck saw nothing boring or repetitive in it, which suited his paper-thin attention span just fine. His fascination for fire, the "relief" and "gratification" he felt after destroying things couldn't be compared to the exhilaration of perpetrating the act of destruction and then arriving at the most important part, the one that had never been part of the equation before: creation. Or re-creation, for that matter. Two faces of the same coin. The yang to his yin. Wax on, wax off. Or something.
Had he not met Mr Trevino, Puck might've turned out very badly indeed. He might've ended up burning the whole of Lima down. The cycle would have stopped for him at "destruction" and nothing else, burn, burn, burn, until there was nothing left, no one else to walk away from him again. Fire helped settle things, come to terms with the bad stuff that clawed at his guts; it made everything final. But cooking... transformed. And made some things meaningful again.
He stopped the torch and handed a lavender-flavored crème brûlée to a guest.
Slowly the staff were taking away some of the tables and re-arranging others, as discreetly as possible, while the guests were attending to their caffeine and sugar fix. A grand piano was brought into the ballroom and when Aurélien led Kurt to it, silence slowly descended upon the crowd.
"Dear family, dear friends," Aurélien started, loud and clear. "Evan and I are most honored and pleased to have you here tonight to celebrate our official engagement."
A small round of applause, a few camera flashes here and there.
"Well," he continued with a smile, "I must tell you that our first, less official engagement was conducted in Evan's apartment a few months ago, with me in socks because the neat freak wouldn't let me wear shoes on his precious carpet, and a completely surprised Evan coming out of the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth. To be honest, when I actually proposed, the first answer I got was toothpaste foam all over my face."
Delighted laughs rang out at the cute anecdote. Kurt lowered his head modestly, cheeks flushed, looking a little embarrassed.
"So, tonight, thank you for helping me making amends for that awkward moment in Evan's life, and turning it into a wonderful party, with exceptional people."
Yet another round of applause.
"Evan also chose this special night to make a very important announcement. Evan, if you will."
Aurélien retreated a few steps, leaving Kurt in the center of attention. Kurt seemed slightly hesitant for a moment, then he lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders.
"Being an actor doesn't necessarily make you good at giving speeches," he said, even louder and clearer than his fiancé. "So I will make this short. I wanted..." There was that shadow of hesitation again, but it vanished even quicker. "I wanted to announce tonight my decision to retire from the stage. The recital that I'm about to give you now will be my very last public performance."
Shocked gasps all across the ballroom, camera flashes suddenly crackling everywhere. Puck got careless and knocked one crème brûlée over lovely January's shoes, who was so caught up in the unexpected drama anyway, just like everybody else, that she barely noticed. It seemed the only one who wasn't paying any attention to what was going on was Frédérique, who was cheerfully humming some stupid French pop song as he was putting some order in the scattered éclairs on the platters.
"Please, please." Kurt raised his hands in the air, demanding quiet so he could continue. "It is entirely my decision, and I want you to know that my wedding to Aurélien didn't provoke it. I would say the desire to leave the lights of Broadway behind me had simply been confirmed by this occasion. My wedding certainly helped me make up my mind, but that's all. I understand that this must come as a shock to all of you, but trust me when I say that I've been toying with the idea for quite some time, and for me, now, with you, this is the perfect moment to put an end to a wonderful career, that brought me many joys and successes, and absolutely everything I could wish for as an artist. And I am very grateful for all I've received, but now is the time for me to turn this particular page of my life, and move on to another."
He stopped a moment to let his words sink in, his blue gaze embracing the audience with confidence, and then he continued:
"Of course, I will explain myself in further detail during a press conference that will be held very soon; but for now...I just want to offer you tonight, dear guests, and especially my amazing fiancé, this last recital, as a... as a thank you."
His voice faltered a little on the last words, Aurélien stepped back in, took Kurt in his arms, and Kurt cuddled against him. Perfect timing; it looked like a dance, choreographed down to the second. Then Kurt parted from his fiancé with handsomely dewy eyes, and took his place in front of the piano as the crowd broke into thunders of clapping, that slowly died after the first few notes resonated.
Je rêve son visage je décline son corps
Et puis je l'imagine habitant mon décor
J'aurais tant à lui dire si j'avais su parler
Comment lui faire lire au fond de mes pensées?
Puck blinked. He thought he knew the song. Where did he hear it? Frédérique provided him with an answer when he muttered under his breath, "Oh my fucking god. Céline fucking Dion. Alors ça, c'est le pompon. Fucking kill me, will you?"
Mais comment font ces autres à qui tout réussit?
Qu'on me dise mes fautes mes chimères aussi
Moi j'offrirais mon âme, mon coeur et tout mon temps
Mais j'ai beau tout donner, tout n'est pas suffisant
It was quite nice, in fact. Céline Dion had never been Puck's thing, and never will be, but this particular song fitted Kurt's voice beautifully, Puck had to admit.
The only problem was that Aurélien had remained standing by the piano, pretending to really listen to the lyrics as if they were some kind of sacred gospel and gazing with enamored eyes into Kurt's own.
S'il suffisait qu'on s'aime, s'il suffisait d'aimer
Je ferais de ce monde un rêve, une éternité
The whole scene played out horribly cheesy and camp, although the audience didn't seem to think so as the applause was loud as ever by the end of the song, especially when Kurt took Aurélien's extended hand in his. They remained like this for a while, merely staring at each other, hand in hand, and as the clapping faded, Kurt let go of Aurélien's hand to play the piano intro to Leonard Cohen's Dance me to the end of love.
His voice was pure and soft, although still laced with intensity as he sang the first verse. Puck found himself quite unnerved when Kurt stared across the room, looking at no one in particular, and felt like Kurt's baby blues had halted on him and no one else. Just a wrong impression, because the only one Kurt really looked at was Charming, still hanging by the piano and looking utterly useless. When Kurt attacked the second verse, a few people in the crowd -- no doubt a little too imbibed with champagne -- cheered at the blatant sensuality of the lyrics.
Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
At some point during the piano solo, Aurélien leaned in to steal a quick kiss from Kurt's lips, and one or two notes slipped from Kurt's fingers. The singer recovered quickly.
Touch me with your naked hand, touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Puck was starting to consider he wasn't paid enough to endure this. In fact, there just wasn't enough money in the world to compensate for this kind of offense to his good taste. There was only so much campiness he could face, and this took the fucking cake, no pun intended. He made sure Frédérique didn't need his help with the buffet anymore and walked out of the ballroom, then decided to get out of the house altogether for a bit of fresh air. He found a back door that led to some sort of paved backyard where a few cars were parked. The outside was still, and quiet, the music from the house barely audible. Just what he needed. As he was just starting to unwind a little, Puck was shocked and barely suppressed a scream that would have no doubt sounded very girly when a bit of night suddenly detached itself from the darkness and came to bump against his leg. Recovering from his surprise, Puck could finally make out, with the help of the light coming through the open door, the shape a dog, a big black Labrador Retriever which started nudging at Puck's leg with its nose.
"Hey there Padfoot," Puck said, tentatively patting the beast's silky head after it directed soulful eyes at him, obviously expecting something. "Haven't seen you anywhere around here before. Where the fuck have they been keeping you?"
The dog didn't answer, so Puck settled for sitting down on the steps where he was standing. Laying its big body beside him, the dog followed. Puck didn't know how much time passed like that, with his fingers scratching behind the dog's ears to the animal's utter contentment, and him gazing into the squares of yellow light the windows projected on the pavement, absently thinking about a pet turtle he used to have in eighth grade.
"Keeping Ulysses company?" A voice said behind him.
The dog stood back up in one blink, wagging its tail furiously when he saw the newcomer. Puck didn't need to turn around to know who it was. That voice was unmistakable.
"That his name?" Puck asked.
"Yes; after James Joyce's novel, in fact. Sit, Ulysses," Kurt ordered.
The dog obeyed, letting the endless ribbon of his tongue hang loosely from his mouth. Without warning, Kurt took place on the steps beside Puck, almost causing Puck to jump out of his skin.
"So," Kurt said. "I'll admit it. I'm intrigued."
"So you should be," Puck replied automatically, out of nervousness. "Intrigued by what?" he asked after a short pause while he mentally smacked himself.
"What on earth got into you the day you decided to become a chef?"
Puck gave a short laugh.
"It wasn't a decision I made in just a day, believe me. Won't they be needing you over there?"
"It's okay, I told them I needed to talk to you. About the job tonight."
Puck said nothing and resumed caressing Ulysses' head.
"Is he yours?" He asked after a pause.
"No, he's Aurélien's parents', but it seems he took a liking to me."
"Doesn't surprise me," Puck said without thinking. Then he changed the subject, "Nice recital out there. Didn't know you could sing like that."
"Well it's... It was my job. You didn't even stay until the end," Kurt remarked with no animosity. "May I add, that wasn't very professional of you."
"So, what, am I fired because of that?" Puck asked with defiance.
"Hmm, let's see..." Kurt pretended to think about it for a moment. "I suppose I could very well fire you on that basis, yes, but I have to say, the duck was pretty spectacular."
Puck grinned, tension gradually leaving his shoulders.
"It was, wasn't it," he said, feeling smug.
"And that cold white soup was genius. Loved its sweetness and how fresh it was, absolutely perfect for the season."
"Almond, cucumber and rice milk, it's a killer combination. What did you think of the lobster?" Puck enquired, trying not to let his anxiety show behind the question.
"Was there vanilla in the sauce?"
"Yes."
"I'd say it was... unusual, to say the least. I could taste the vanilla flavor but it didn't bother me; it tasted rather excellent, in fact. I also very much appreciated the three different kinds of beetroot that went with the lobster, the colors on the plate were absolutely gorgeous. I didn't even know yellow beetroot existed."
Nothing about the lobster itself, Puck noted, but there was still a chance that nobody had noticed that it was overcooked.
"You were also right about the -- what was it again? 'Matcha'? Matcha éclairs," Kurt continued. "I had a taste of every little dessert after the recital, and everything was sublime, especially the chocolate éclairs, like you said, and the matcha ones really made sense with the rest, indeed. Well done."
"I know, Frédérique is an excellent pastry chef. He's very lucky his enormous amount of talent balances out his enormous amount of shitty behavior."
"Well, if tonight's any indication, you're an excellent chef, too," Kurt said softly. "Do tell, how did that happen? No offence, but judging from your potential in high school, you certainly weren't on the right track for a successful career. Or any career at all, for that matter."
That stung a bit, but Puck let it slide. It was perfectly true, after all.
"After graduation," Puck started, "my mom forced me to take a summer job as a dishwasher, at a small Italian restaurant, called the Visconti, owned by a friend of our family whose name was Joseph Trevino."
From the corner of his eye, he saw Kurt nod, encouraging him to continue.
"Even though I didn't ask him anything," Puck kept on, "he taught me the basics of cooking. Did you know that all the greatest chefs, and I mean every single one of them, started at the lowest scale in the kitchen hierarchy? Scrubbing the dishes? It's almost compulsory, actually. Because it makes you familiar with the utensils you'll be using. Fuck the American Dream, you know, it doesn't work, not in this day and age. A kitchen is the only place in real life where you can really rise from rags to riches. Paul Bocuse used to do the laundry and tend to the garden at his mentor's house before he was deemed fit to be allowed anywhere near food, did you know that? That's what Mr Trevino told me, too. Said I could become anything I wanted, should I choose that path, if I was humble and willing enough. You know me. My whole life, I've never been humble, nor willing. Didn't matter. Mr Trevino made me believe I could become that person."
Puck paused for a moment, running his hands through Ulysses' shiny fur.
"When I finally manned up after thinking about it for ages, and felt enough confidence in me to tell him I wanted to go to Italy to learn how to cook," Puck said, "his reaction was... downright outrage."
"Why?" Kurt asked, sounding slightly surprised.
"He said to me, 'My boy, I only opened an Italian restaurant because my surname would make it look authentic. But the main reason I chose Italian cuisine is also because I knew I would never be good enough to do justice to French cuisine the way I wanted to. If you need to know anything about food, you must go to France!'. "
Puck allowed himself to laugh a little, remembering the old bachelor's emphatic manners.
"He told me that when he was young, he went on a backpacking trip through Europe. There he went out with a French girl -- or they were just friends with benefits, I didn't really get it when he explained, it sounded kind of complicated. Whatever. The important thing is, she made him taste real French cuisine for the first time in his life when they were together in Paris, and it was an experience that almost brought tears to his eyes when he told me about it. He's the one who convinced my mum I could go there to study at a culinary school. My mum was... completely lost, to say the least. You know... when you've been in Lima all your life, and your children and grandchildren, if you have any, will probably just stay there too, the concept of 'Paris' or 'cuisine' is a little hard to grasp, I think. It's kind of... too exotic."
He knew Kurt fully understood; except that the boy had already been a Martian amongst the misunderstanding Earthlings and he'd already known that all he had to do was to go back to his home planet for his life to be normal again. Puck, on the other hand, had been an Earthling who dreamed himself a Martian.
"Anyway," Puck continued, "I still don't know how, but he managed to convince her to finance part of my studies, while he paid for the most part. Said I could pay him back when I would become a famous chef."
He stopped caressing the dog, which went to Kurt to beg for some more love, and Puck pressed his palms together between his knees, looking down at his feet.
"In the end, I couldn't. He died of stomach cancer while I was finishing my studies in Lyon. To this day, even though I'm giving the money to a charity he supported, I feel like I still haven't found the right way to thank him, for the chance he gave me."
He let the silence stretch a little, then concluded, shrugging, "And that's how I became a chef. I learned humility. I learned that no matter how hard you tried, you still had to try harder. And now here I am, working for you. Your turn."
Kurt looked baffled.
"What? My turn to what?"
"I told you my sob story, now I need a little something in return."
"I wasn't aware of such an arrangement."
"Come on, Kurt, be a good sport. At least answer one of my questions."
"Which one?" said Kurt, withdrawing a little, his body language screaming mistrust.
"What does the 'J' stand for?"
After a brief moment of puzzlement, Kurt laughed genuinely, throwing his head back.
"You had me worried for a moment there," he said, smiling. "I can't answer that, though. It's part of my whole stage persona. I just can't tell."
A sudden realization hit Puck. It had been nagging at him from the moment he had entered the ballroom to join Frédérique. He had known something was off but obviously his mind had been occupied with other stuff and he hadn't been able to tell. Before he could stop himself, he said softly, "I didn't see your father anywhere in there."
He didn't look, but he could almost feel the sudden and violent tension coursing through Kurt's body, beside his. When Kurt spoke again, he was back to full-on Ice Queen mode.
"Not that it's any of your concern, but... no, my father doesn't know about all this."
Puck noted the deliberate vagueness, and wondered what "all this" implied exactly, but didn't comment on it. Instead, he said, "So that's the reason behind the stage name. Am I right?"
From Kurt's expression, Puck knew he was spot on. Kurt abruptly stood up, causing Ulysses to fumble down the steps in surprise.
"It doesn't matter," Kurt said as he was heading back inside the house, becoming only a voice behind Puck's back, "I only came to tell you that your hiring was confirmed. Congratulations to you and your team, the job was brilliantly executed. Just one last thing you need to know, though, so that you don't repeat the same mistake in the future..."
Puck kept silent and braced himself, because he could guess what was coming next.
"That lobster was overdone."
**********************************************************************************************************
Chapter Three
:::::
Back to Chapter One part 1/2
Back to Chapter One part 2/2
Back to Chapter Two part 1/2
:::::
Bonus to Chapter One: First amuse-bouche
Bonus to Chapter Two: Second amuse-bouche
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Date: 2011-02-01 01:56 am (UTC)So pretty please update soon!
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Date: 2011-02-18 08:17 pm (UTC)Thanks again, your comment was really helpful to get me out of my rut ^^