The Chef’s Appetite (complete)

Chapter 1

The kitchen at Nonna's Table was quiet at 7 AM. Chloe stood at the broad marble counter, her hands unsure. At twenty-six, just out of culinary school, she felt every bit the novice. She was average height but fine-boned, with a swimmer’s narrow shoulders and a nervous energy that made her seem smaller. Her new chef’s jacket was stiff, its buttons gleaming with promise and terror.

Luca watched her from the pass. At thirty-eight, he was the solid center of the room. He was tall—well over six feet—with the strong, practical build of a man who spent his life on his feet, hauling stockpots and working dough. You could see the strength in his forearms, the width of his shoulders under his simple grey tee. He wasn’t a gym-rat; his muscles were packed by work and by eating—he wasn’t toned, he was solid. His dark hair was cropped short, his face handsomely lined from concentration and sun.

He moved to stand beside her. She became intensely aware of the space he occupied.

“Forget the card,” he said, plucking the recipe from her fingers. His voice was a low rumble, worn smooth by years of calling over the roar of the range.

“Chef.”

“The recipe is in your hands. Not on paper.” He nodded at the mounded semolina. “Show me.”

She made a crater with her fingers. It was neat, timid.

He didn’t correct her. He took an egg from the crate, cracked it into the hollow. Then another. And another. The yolks pooled, a deep, almost orange gold.

“One more,” he said, cracking a fourth. His hands were quick, precise. “The eggs here are smaller. You compensate.”

He reached for the oil. She expected a drizzle. He tipped the bottle, pouring a generous, glugging stream that made a shimmering moat around the flour. “A river, not a trickle. Fat is flavor. Flavor is life.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Now, use your fingers. Only your fingers. Mix it like you mean it.”

She worked, her slender hands quickly becoming slick and yellow. The dough came together, shaggy.

“More,” he said, sprinkling more semolina. “It’s too wet. You want it to feel like… the lobe of your ear. Firm, but soft.”

He took a pinch of the dough she’d gathered, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. He shook his head. “Not yet.” He added another glug of oil directly onto the mass. The scent was green and fragrant. “Again.”

She mixed, her arms beginning to ache. The dough transformed, becoming smooth, cohesive, satiny.

“There,” he said. He placed a hand over hers on the dough, pressing down to test the spring. His palm was warm and dry, completely enveloping her fingers. A current, sharp and unexpected, shot up her arm. She held her breath.

He held the contact for a second longer than necessary, feeling the dough—and her hand—under his. Then he pulled away.

“Now you rest it,” he said, his tone back to business. He handed her a clean bowl. “The dough rests. You clean. Then we roll.”

She wrapped the perfect, yielding ball in plastic, her heart thumping. She’d made dough a hundred times in school. It had never felt like this. It had never been watched like this.

From his desk, Luca sipped his espresso. He watched her scrub the marble, her slight frame bent over the stone. He thought of the dough’s texture, of the four rich yolks, the generous oil.

It was just good technique, he told himself. A foundation. You start with the best, you use it without fear.

But as he turned back to his invoices, a single image stuck: the bright yolk running over her pale knuckle, and the focused, almost hungry set of her mouth as she dabbed a tiny bit of raw dough on her tongue to check the salt.

He finished his coffee. It was going to be a long service. He found he was already looking forward to the family meal, to seeing what, and how much, this slender girl would eat.