A flash of orange and raspberry in the form of Emmett Honeycutt rushed into the Liberty Diner at the height of the morning breakfast rush. "Teddy!" Emmett gushed. "Just the little ole friend I was hoping to see," he proclaimed, giving his good friend a little peck on the cheek before plunking himself down on the adjacent counter stool.
"Hey, Em!" Theodore greeted his friend warmly; Emmett could always make him smile, no matter what kind of day he was having – his friend's zest for life was always a pick-me-upper. "What brings you into our humble neighborhood diner so bright and chipper today? Get a little lucky last night?" he asked, inquisitively, downing his second cup of coffee of the day.
Signaling to Kikki for coffee and some blueberry pancakes, Em returned his smile. "Well, you COULD say I cooked myself up a tasty little idea in my head; unfortunately, that was the ONLY tasty tidbit from last night, though," he explained a little regretfully, but just momentarily. "No matter, however – I've got a wonderful idea for the two of us, Teddy! You have GOT to help me with it!" he gushed enthusiastically.
Ted looked at him a little warily, wondering just what type of activity Emmett had in mind. "Is that so? And just what type of help does this involve, my friend?"
"Well, while I was watching some of the news last night, they were talking about Gaston Marchant – you DO know who Gaston Marchant is, don't you?" he inquired pointedly, as though that was a totally ridiculous question to ask.
Ted pondered the name for several seconds. "Well, it SOUNDS familiar in a way," he replied tentatively. "Isn't he some new porn star?"
"Teddy! Don't be ridiculous! How can you not know the name of THE most possibly famous French chef alive today?" he asked incredulously, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. "I mean, the man's cooking is unbelievable. Not to mention the man himself," Em confided in a lower voice. "The man's cooking is not the only thing that's HOT, believe you me, Honey," he intimated conspiratorially. "My, my, my," he gushed "Actually, he COULD be a porn star - that body, and that French accent to boot. I mean, the man's definitely equipped with more than a cocktail weenie, if you know what I mean," he intimated, eyebrows waggling.
Despite not knowing much about the man his friend was going on - and on - about, Ted had to laugh nonetheless. "Okay, Em, I get the picture," he told him. "But what does that have to do with ME?" he asked.
"Oh, that's the best part!" he enthused. "The man's coming to the Pitts to conduct French cooking classes at the downtown Culinary Institute next week. We have GOT to sign up!" he cried, as he emphatically speared one of the pancakes Kikki placed before him.
"Em," Ted protested. "I don't know the first thing about cooking. And all that French food – it's so heavy on the stomach. Weren't you the one who just got through telling me I was starting to get a little "pudgy?" he reminded his friend. "Do you really think eating a lot of French food would be a good idea for moi?" smiling at Em indulgently.
Pouting, Emmett implored, "Teddy…..please? I NEED these classes to help with my catering business. Don't you want your best friend to be bigger than Rachel Ray?"
"I think you're already BIGGER than Rachel Ray," Ted teased, evoking a slap of rebuke on the thigh from his friend. "Ouch!" Ted cried in mock dispute. "Sorry, Em, but it won't work. You'll just have to find another epicurean cohort," he answered sympathetically. Standing up, he announced, "Got to go – you know how my boss gets when I'm late for work, even when he's NOT in the office," he reminded the other man. Placing a hand briefly on his friend's shoulder, he said, "You'll find someone else – don't worry," he soothed. "Catch you later, Em," he replied before quickly leaving a tip and heading toward the exit. He stopped briefly to acknowledge the slender blonde man entering the diner.
"Hey, Justin," Ted greeted Brian's partner. Smiling, he added, "Glad you're here. Go cheer up Emmett for me, will you?" he asked, before he headed out the door.
Frowning a little in puzzlement, Justin searched for his tall friend, spotting him sitting rather dejectedly at the counter. "Hey, Em," he greeted the other man. "Ted said I should come and cheer you up. What's wrong?" he asked him, concerned.
"Hi, Baby," Emmett answered sadly. "Oh, nothing, really, I guess. I just had the greatest idea for Teddy and me to do, but he didn't think it was a good idea. Said he would just get fatter if he did it."
"What are you talking about?" Justin inquired; after Ted had recruited Emmett for his porn site, there was no telling what the two might do next.
"Oh, I wanted Teddy to go with me to take some French cooking lessons from Gaston Marchant at the Culinary Institute downtown," he explained. "He's going to be in town for a few weeks and I thought it would be fabulous to take lessons from the master himself," he added dreamily. "It would do wonders for my catering expertise."
Justin thought for a few seconds. "Isn't that the chef who always appears on the Cooking Channel?" he asked. "He always comes across as an arrogant son of a bitch to me."
Emmett nodded his head, confirming, "That's him. At least YOU know who he is. Teddy thought he was a new replacement for Zack O'Toole," he said, giggling. Suddenly Em's eyes lit up. "Wait a minute! Why don't you and I go?" he bubbled, clapping his hands. "I know you like to cook. It's perfect!" he cried. "Please?" he implored his friend. "I'll even pay for the lessons myself, just to have the company. Don't want to poison a total stranger with my cooking," he added, teasing, "I'd rather poison a friend instead."
"Oh, come on, Em, that's bullshit and you know it!" Justin stated. "You're a GREAT cook! I've never tasted anything bad you've prepared," he told his friend encouragingly. "I think it might actually be fun," Justin declared. "I enjoy cooking, but I don't know anything about French cuisine, or how to prepare it. And I've got some extra time, too, since I'm on break from classes until the fall," he announced.
"Ooh! Sounds like a plan!" Emmett cried enthusiastically. "What do you say? Can I break out my little ole Beret and sign us up?"
Justin smiled; Emmett's enthusiasm was always contagious. "I still say the man's arrogant as they come but, hey, why not? Brian's out of town until next week, so I've certainly got the time on my hands. Sounds like fun. Let's do it!" he declared, making up his mind.
"Fabuloso, Baby!" Emmett cried, giving Justin a kiss on the cheek. Swallowing a big bite of his last remaining pancake, Em jumped up. "I'll go give the school a call now – it's going to be SO much fun!" Em bubbled, running out of the diner. "Au revoir, honey!" he called as he pushed the door open and rushed out, leaving Justin shaking his head, laughing.
Justin and Emmett headed into the large main classroom of the Pittsburgh Culinary Institute promptly at 7:30 p.m. Monday evening. It was the first day of their cooking class, and Em insisted on getting there 30 minutes early to get a practice table near the front of the room. He claimed it was so they could clearly hear the instructions of Chef Marchant, but Justin suspected it might have more to do with being able to ogle secretly at the man himself from a ringside perspective. He had seen the man numerous times on his cooking show, so he didn't blame Em for wanting a closer look; you'd have to be blind not to notice that the man was hot. And that accent – he was a sucker for a French accent every time. There is just something about their accent and their passion that makes the men ooze sex appeal. It was just a shame that the man had such a high opinion of himself, Justin thought. He's good looking and he definitely knows it. Kind of like some OTHER man I know, Justin thought, smirking. But at least Brian came across as mainly confident, rather than being downright smug about it.
Luckily for Emmett's sake, they were able to secure a right-sided, front-row table for the class; each table was equipped with a small companion kitchen for practicing their lessons, complete with a stove, oven and double sink. Justin noticed there were 15 tables in total, three to a row. He also noticed that there seemed to be a disproportionate amount of men in the class; no doubt the word had gotten out that one of the most famous gay chefs in the entire world was right here in Pittsburgh.
"Ooh, I can't WAIT to see him!" Emmett enthused to his friend. "He can come to my apartment and mix it up with me ANYTIME!" he oozed. Justin laughed; the man was practically salivating and the guy hadn't even come out yet. This should be a lot of fun, he decided.
Just then, a tall, thin man rushed onstage. Clapping rapidly for attention, he said, "Please. Can I have everyone's attention? My name is Claude Depree, I am Master Chef Marchant's personal assistant. Before the chef appears, I need to make some things clear to you. Monsieur Marchant has agreed to be the cooking instructor for this class. That means he is expending his valuable time and considerable talent to hopefully impart some of his great expertise to you. That does NOT mean he will be utilizing his critical time to sign autographs. He is NOT here to pose for photographs, either. " Justin rolled his eyes as the man continued, "If you are here as a Chef Marchant groupie as you call it in America, you will be sadly disappointed. If that is your goal, please spare yourself the embarrassment and do all the serious students a favor that are actually here to learn authentic French cuisine and leave NOW before he appears. Thank you," he finished, before walking off stage.
"Oh, brother," Justin muttered. "Sounds like the chef isn't the ONLY one who's full of himself," he observed.
"Maybe not," Emmett replied. "But if that chef looks half as good in person as he does on television, he can come fill me up ANYDAY," he advised, batting his eyes suggestively.
Justin shook his head, giving up, just before he noticed an official-looking, older man in a navy suit walking onto the stage. Stopping at the center microphone, he announced, "Students, welcome to the first night of Chef Marchand's French Cuisine Cooking Class. I'm Dean Stinson, and we are all delighted you are here. And I am equally delighted AND honored to introduce to you the man who has won several international accolades for his innovative interpretation of his native French cuisine. Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great excitement that I introduce to you…..Master Chef Gaston Marchant!" Smiling broadly and clapping, he motioned to his left as a brown-haired, tanned and toned man in his early 30's elegantly strutted onstage to tumultuous applause. The green-eyed, angular man was definitely striking, and he KNEW it. Rather than wearing a chef's hat and apron, he confidently chose instead to wear a casual, dark gray jacket and matching linen pants. His light gray shirt was open at the neck, from which dangled a slender, platinum chain. A Rolex watch shone from his wrist, and he wore polished, black Armani shoes.
Wearing, also, what appeared to Justin to be a painted-on smile, the man strode up to the dean and shook the other's hand somewhat stiffly. "Thank you, Dean Simpson," he politely acknowledged the older man, who tried not to appear affronted by the chef's mispronunciation of his name. "It is an honor to be here with all of you tonight," he said, sweeping his hand from right to left as he faced the students. "I hope before you all leave at the end of this class each of you will develop a great appreciation for the wonders of French cuisine," he cooed to the students, most of whom were almost swooning at the man's French accent and plastered-on smile.
Despite Justin's feeling that the man was a total fake, his friend was absolutely captivated. "Ooh, Honey, he's absolutely beautiful!" he gushed to Justin, clapping his hands furiously as the man onstage continued to talk to the students in what Justin suspiciously thought was a distinctively patronizing tone of voice. Somehow, though, none of the other students seemed to notice; they were all too busy gazing at the chef with adoring eyes. I'm think I'm going to throw up in my eclair, he thought suddenly, not being able to prevent the snort that escaped his lips just as the room quieted down.
Emmett looked at him, almost with a shocked expression as if he had uttered something sacrilegious, as the chef's eyes onstage narrowed and peered over at the student who had dared to apparently mock his opening statement.
"Excuse me. Were you making a comment, Monsieur….?" All eyes were suddenly on Justin as the chef asked him the question.
Justin could feel his face flushing as he realized everyone was staring at him. Straightening up in his chair, however, he thought, you arrogant Chef Boyardee wannabe, before he acknowledged the man's inquiry. "Taylor. That's T-A-Y-L-O-R in English," he advised in a loud, clear voice, annunciating his words carefully, not able to keep the sarcasm from creeping into his voice.
"Well, Monsieur TAYLOR, T-A-Y-L-O-R, you were saying?" the chef asked, eyes narrowing.
"Nothing important," Justin responded. No ONE important, either, he couldn't help adding to himself. The blond decided this might just be a fun diversion for the next week or so – maybe even more so than actually learning how to cook French food. He might create a new game – "How to Torment a Pompous French Chef." Seeing his friend's horrified expression, he decided for the time being, however, that he would attempt to humor Emmett and at least TRY to get along with their teacher.
Speaking of which, the heir apparent to Julia Child continued, stating haughtily, "Well, if there are no MORE interruptions," he added, pointedly glaring at Justin, "We can begin our first lesson."