Helion's Kitchen

Why did it have to be scallops?

Don’t get me wrong, I can cook a mean scallop any day of the week, and even in my sleep if I wanted to, but to be able to cut one out of its shell without wastage? I’d sooner be able to cut a finger off without bleeding.

Which is exactly where I seem to be heading as I nick myself for the millionth time.

It calms me to see that the other candidates aren’t doing that much better than me. Though, from the worried glances thrown in my direction, it’s clear they’re more confident in their own abilities.

“How have you all done this before?” I ask when my knife bounces off the shell and narrowly avoids sinking into the palm of my hand.

“We haven’t,” answers Marie, a tall redhead that insists on wearing a full-coverage hairnet even though it isn’t required. “Chef showed us when we first came in. You missed it by a couple of minutes.”

The two candidates in the corner that have gotten progressively closer throughout the day giggle at this. I don’t need their giggles to remind me that I fucked up this morning. They’re lucky I’d do more harm to myself than them if I were to use this knife in retaliation.

As I try again with a new scallop, my mind drifts to my punishment. I don’t regret it. Maybe I should even be lenient on my roommate when I get home. After all, if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t know how Chef Helion tastes when he—

No! I shake the thoughts from my mind. ~You need to focus or you’ll seriously lose a finger~, I tell myself.

“I’d offer to show you how, but I have a hard stop at six. My girlfriend is taking me out for drinks to celebrate my first day.” Marie gives me an apologetic smile.

Or is it a bitchy one? I decide it’s the first. “It’s fine, thanks. I’ll stay back and YouTube it. How hard can it be?”

***

Hard.

When God invented the scallop, he didn’t want it to be eaten. But of course, we humans insist on eating everything that lives. So here I am at eight at night covered in scallop goo. But at least I have something to show for it.

I’ve been able to get the hang of cutting them out of their shells, so if Chef Helion requests a demonstration tomorrow, I’m confident I’ll be able to blow him away. Pun not intended.

My hands are frozen from handling the iced shells, so I move to the tap to let them soak until their warmth and full range of movement are restored. The running water hypnotizes me, and my mind drifts.

This trial is exactly as hard as I expected it to be. This is the big time, after all. Chef Helion isn’t fucking around when he charges a hundred dollars a plate. So if I’m anything less than perfect, I’m going to fail spectacularly.

After seeing my competition, I’m not scared. But I’m not confident either. And I’m usually a confident person. With reason. I was the best in my class, an asset to my previous line manager, and, most important of all, I can cook. I can cook well.

I squeeze my hands to test their movements, but they aren’t fully thawed yet. So I let my thoughts drift to Chef Helion and what happened. And whether I want it to happen again.

I decide I do but doubt that it will. His was a power play, and the lesson has been learned. So why would he need to do it again? I’m certainly not going to give him another reason to punish me. Men like him have naturally low patience.

And why would he want to do that for pleasure with someone like me? He’s famous, attractive, and successful. And that voice. He could get a model to do that with.

I’m a newbie nobody. And I almost failed out on my first day here. I know how to suck a dick, sure, but I’m not that good. I doubt he’ll see me as more than the girl who gave him head that one time. But I’ll still try to make him see me as a chef as well.

I squeeze my hands successfully and remove them from the water, drying them on my towel. I grab the antibacterial spray and a cloth to clean my station and whistle as I do.

“Well, Little Chef.” Chef Helion’s voice sounds from behind me, and it takes all my self-control to not drop my cloth. “Late to arrive and late to leave. At least you’re consistent.”

How long has he been standing there?

“I must say,” he says, tilting his head, “I’m impressed to see you here so far out of hours. It shows a commitment I didn’t expect from you.”

I smile. “Thank you, Chef. It’s an honor to be here.”

“Yes, it is.” He walks toward my station. “You had the pleasure of tasting that honor earlier.” He smirks at me and his eyes scan my face.

I look down at my feet as my cheeks begin to burn.

He chuckles, then a clicking fills the room followed by a burst of light. I snap my head up toward its source.

He’s lit the burner in my station. “Can you cook a scallop, Little Chef?”