Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [22]
Okay, not in so many words, but hey. Adam was prepared to mark this one down as a win for him, no question. Even if she’d immediately regretted her candor, retreating behind a sniffy attitude that said, “You may be able to cook, but you’re still an ass.” Which was fine, because he knew he’d been an ass to her. Damned if it was easy to keep disliking someone who so clearly enjoyed his food, though.
Miranda slanted him a suspicious glance, as if she knew what he was thinking and didn’t entirely approve. Adam took a stab at doing innocent who-me? eyes, but he forgot about that when she said, “Does it matter if I’ve ever worked in a kitchen before? This isn’t a job interview. I’m here for the duration, regardless of your feelings on the matter.”
And the dislike was back, bigger and better than ever. He could feel the blood throbbing in the vein above his left eyebrow. It must make him look like a cartoon villain, about to pop.
“Hey. I’m just trying make sure you’re not going to lose a finger if I ask you to dice veg for the mirepoix.”
She looked away. “I’ve cooked at home. And I spent time at the Academy of Culinary Arts.”
“Seriously?” Adam blinked, surprised. The Academy of Culinary Arts in upstate New York was the most prestigious cooking school in the country. He never would’ve taken her for an Academy grad. “You trained at the ACA?”
She blushed, all up her cheeks and down her neck. Adam wanted to know if the flush extended past the stiff collar of her navy blue suit.
“I worked there. In the offices,” she clarified. “Occasionally, I had the chance to observe the classes, but I was never an official participant in the program.”
Interesting. More clues. Adam was filing them all away, every tidbit she let fall about herself. Never knew what might be useful later. He wondered if that job at the ACA was before or after her parents died. How young must she have been?
“It’s just as well,” he told her. “ACA grads always think they know more than they do. Chances are I would’ve had to teach you everything from scratch anyway.”
“So I’m actually going to be cooking?” she asked.
“What, you thought you’d be sitting around looking pretty and taking notes? No way. Everyone in my kitchen works.”
“Especially you, right, Chef?” Frankie fluttered his eyelashes.
Miranda buttoned up her mouth like she was trying not to laugh. Adam narrowed his eyes at Frankie and said, “No sarcasm in the kitchen. Makes the food taste bitter.”
He tilted his head at Miranda, letting himself loom over her a little. “You know what happens to cheeky cooks in my kitchen, Wake?”
She lifted her chin coolly. “What?”
“They get assigned to make stock.”
There was a chorus of groans around the kitchen. No one liked the daily slog of making the huge pots of veal stock, chicken stock, fish stock, demi-glace and consommé that formed the base for nearly every sauce that made it onto a Market plate. It was repetitive and basic, boring, but they’d all done their time at Adam’s insistence.
“Stock isn’t fun. It isn’t sexy,” he told Miranda. “But it’s essential. Without it, you have only canned, processed sauces that taste like stale chemicals, or thin, watery concoctions that taste like nothing. We use fresh every day.”
“What do you do with the leftovers?”
“Use them for the family meal—the communal dinner the staff eats together before service. Or for testing recipes. Stuff like that.”
He assessed her for a long moment, wondering if he could trust her with the stock. “Might be a good station for you to get your feet wet,” he mused aloud. “It’d be a way for me to see what you’ve got, and it’s simple enough that I don’t really see how you can mess it up. Stocks are Rob’s responsibility right now, and I’m sure he’d love some help.”
She looked around. “Rob? Is he here today?”
“Nope. You’ll like him, though. Academy extern,