Chapter 1: Mise En Place

Arthur gawked from his regal velvet chair, his green eyes open in wonder, his jaw hanging in amazement. He heard a sharp tut, which was swiftly followed by his mother's slender, gloved hand reaching under his chin to push his mouth closed.

Arthur's eyes circled around the lavishly decorated room which was adorned with the finest filigrees. Ornamental cherubs and golden curls covered the ceiling, trailing alongside a fresco painted by a little known artist who really deserved more credit. The walls were illustrated with images of the French countryside, drawn in vibrant colors that made Arthur want to jump on a plane and travel the world. There were paintings and murals of breathtaking scenery everywhere. Not a space of wall was left blank.

A scene depicting a glimpse of a vineyard at dawn was particularly exquisite: the sun's rays were reminiscent of wispy golden tendrils that reached across the ground, like fingers stretching to hold the fresh soil beneath the endless rows of deep red grapes. The restaurant's candelabras emitted a soft glow across these paintings, the electric lights hidden behind semitransparent lampshades. The room stretched on endlessly, making the young boy feel particularly small in his large dining chair, which no doubt had been previously graced by the presence of the rich and famous.

His fingers unconsciously gripped the red velvet tighter as he scanned the room. People dressed elegantly in evening gowns and their best suits sat around tables draped in white tablecloths, the simplicity of which balanced out the elaborate decorations of the centuries old building. Whispers of their chatter snuck into Arthur's ear from the low din that filled the room. His gaze came to rest upon a waiter and then his mother, who was glaring at him in annoyance.

Arthur abruptly fell out of his surreal daydream and shrunk back into his seat.

"Arthur! Qu'est-ce que vous voulez manger?" his mother snapped.

Arthur's heartbeat quickened in dread. No matter how often he tried to comprehend his mother's obsession with appearing classy by speaking the trending language of the "sophisticated," he could not understand it. Thus, he shrugged and braced himself for the coming onslaught of whispered reprimands. His mother looked at him sharply, and gestured at the menu sitting in front of him atop his white plate.

Arthur looked futilely at the menu, which was written completely in French. There were no pictures in this menu, unlike the menus of the less expensive places his father used to bring him and his mother when Arthur was younger. Not a single crayon has appeared either. What his father had described earlier as a day of bonding for the pair only meant a long day of torment and twisted sorrow for Arthur.

He looked up again in desperation, and noticed the waiter had been standing there for quite a length of time. Arthur jabbed his finger at a random item on the menu, and the waiter swiftly yet gracefully took the menu and replied to his mother, whose expression immediately changed into one of false gratitude. Arthur shrank even farther into his seat, having guessed that the waiter had been speaking to his mother while he had been marveling at the sights and sounds around him. No wonder his mother was unhappy, having had to wait that long for a reply.

As soon as the waiter was out of sight, she bent slightly forward across the table, her high collared dress secured by a brooch that shone in the pleasant light of the restaurant. The brooch gleamed enough to relfect Arthur's terrified expression.

"Arthur! Have you been studying your French at all? Your father and I" - Arthur wanted to snort at this - "pay a lot of money to afford you a tutor, yet this is how you repay us?" she hissed.

Arthur's mother leaned back and smoothed her ruffled feathers, her fingers tucking a stray brown lock behind her ear and rearranging the folds of her dress to fall "elegantly," as she so put it. Arthur was tempted to respond with a snide comment, but he bit his tongue. It would not do to appear immature. Instead he replied, to the best of abilities, in French.

"Désolée, maman."

Sorry, Mother.

His mother looked somewhat pleased at this and nodded in acknowledgment. She took a sip from her wine glass, with an air as if her palate she could discern anything about it like that of a connoisseur.

Arthur could not help but despise the woman he called his mother. As if she ever would be such.

She was just some woman who had been disposed of by her former husband, no doubt because of her "lovely" personality. She had found Arthur's father late at night in a bar drinking away the sorrows of the death of his late wife, Arthur's real mother, and had supposedly fallen in love at first sight. In reality, however, she had been scorned by her previous fiancé, and now, having had a brief taste of the luxurious upper crust lifestyle, desired more.

Thus, she had wandered into a bar and found the most drunken fellow, which happened to be Arthur's father in a moment of weakness. Arthur was fiercely proud of his father, who worked seven days a week to support them and never uttered a word of complaint. The man had been sober for more than two years now, living out his promise to this woman to stay clean. He hadn't ever been an alcoholic to begin with, but had merely been searching for a way to nurse the heartache from his late wife's death. Thus he had gone out for a drink, much to Arthur's confusion. Arthur, having been left at home, was eleven at the time—barely old enough to understand what had happened.

And what had really happened was that this woman sitting before Arthur, who was currently stealing glances at the high class society about her in pure glee, had sunk her talons into his unsuspecting father. Her previous fiancé had been an esteemed politician who since birth had been promised to her in marriage. But after the discovery of this woman's evil nature, he disregarded social etiquette and broke their engagement - probably his way of saying good riddance, and frankly, Arthur couldn't blame him.

She had been searching for a husband ever since, and had caught Arthur's father in a rare drunken state. They were wed the next month. She had only married Arthur's father because she had mistakenly thought they were better off then they actually had been - and it also wasn't socially acceptable to be unwed at thirty.

Now she spent every moment of Arthur's life making it hell - which Arthur suspected was revenge for being tied to the pair for the rest of her life. She couldn't divorce his father no matter how much everyone but his father wanted it, because it just wasn't done. Arthur was sure, however, that she would jump at any chance to leave them if she could.

Now, two years after the marriage, they were sitting in an extravagant restaurant, wasting his father's hard earned money for a two day trip to the fake, albeit beautiful, city of Paris - where everyone's goal was to climb the social ladder and please others, only to stab them in the back moments later.

She was infuriatingly shallow, but his father somehow found it deep within himself to love her. So instead of insulting her, Arthur smiled weakly, feigning the ever-loyal son façade. He kept his mouth shut, and diverted his attention back to the gorgeous restaurant. After several tense moments, the waiter brought Arthur his first dish - his appetizer. He poured sparkling mineral water into the tumbler for which Arthur's wine glass had been swapped, and then proceeded to set the bottle on the table and politely excuse himself.

Arthur looked skeptically at the food in front of him. Gourmet cuisine was not what he thought it would be. For the boy's first trip to a four-star restaurant, he had expected something more hearty. There wasn't a single thing on the miniscule plate that looked edible. He would have warily pushed it off to the side, but his mother glared daggers at him lest he chose to do so. So instead, he momentarily set aside his frustrations concerning his mother. Arthur gulped nervously and timidly cut off a section of the mystery food and slid it onto his fork. He lifted it to his mouth and chewed.

He was in love.

Arthur had apparently pointed to something in the menu that was delicious, and mouthwatering. He took a closer look at the appetizer placed in front if him. It was a small circle of chesse... was it from a sheep? Or perhaps a goat? A small leaf was placed atop for decoration - a simple thing, whose appearance did the dish no justice. He took another bite, and his toes curled beneath the table.

The flavors were layered to perfection. There was a sharp bite of citrus, as well as the distinct flavor of olives, and the classic taste of thyme. The world briefly shrank, until it was just Arthur and his wonderful dish of cheese. He closed his eyes in pure bliss, the darkness blurring as he tried to put the images to the flavors. Large pops of color and brief interludes of music accompanied each unique taste. The tang of the lemon sent yellow swirls zooming into his range of thought, accompanied by a zesty samba beat. The mellow flavor of the olives brought the light blue of waves, washing away the yellow swirls as quickly as they had come with their crescendos. And the thyme... it was Arthur's personal favorite. Soft red flashes gently eased into the mix, with a lively foxtrot behind it. Arthur had trouble expressing the exquisite blend of foods. He rolled it around his mouth, the smooth consistency somewhat intoxicating. Without realizing, Arthur had shut out most of the sounds that surrounded him from the low murmur of the restaurant. When he finally had to swallow, he missed the presence of the utterly divine taste. Laughter and trivial chatter slowly filtered back into his consciousness.

Below the table, his feet, which barely touched the floor, twisted with pleasure. He stabbed a larger section of his food and beamed as he ate it. Arthur didn't care at the moment whether his mother thought he was being boorish; he was thoroughly enjoying his food, and thus was smiling blissfully. The clink of his metal fork against the fine white porcelain dish was the signal that he had completed his first course. Arthur could have just eaten the small introductory dish and been content for hours.

His eyebrows raised in surprise as the waiter brought the second course just as Arthur finished his appetizer. The main course was superb, and dessert sublime. Nevertheless, the second and third courses just didn't quite move Arthur as much as the first dish had. It had been the best meal he had ever tasted, besides his late mother's homecooking. He had sworn that he would never love another's fare, fearing the label of traitor, but in this instance, he couldn't help it.

The entire lovely experience was all over too soon, and his mother dragged him out of the restaurant as Arthur cast wistful glances about him. The scenery, the delicacies, the atmosphere... the thirteen-year old vowed to memorize them.

Arthur felt something stir within him, as the doorman held the gilded glass door open. He couldn't quite place what it was, until he stepped across the threshold of the restaurant. He craned his neck to view the tall brick building, consisting of at least four stories. The grandiose architecture and atmosphere of the restaurant left him craving more. More of what, he couldn't quite tell. Yet. He did know one thing though.

Arthur wanted to become a professional chef.

He spent the next two years working hard in school, his love of learning rekindled by his motivation to make it through high school and college, the final goal being culinary school.

Arthur attempted the occasional baking project, which, during one of his worst efforts, had set the oven ablaze. One blackened stove, cross stepmother and a rather put out Arthur later, only a burnt cake was left. After, Arthur's mother banned him from the kitchen for several weeks, and the only way Arthur had been able to avoid the kitchen was by thinking of the consequences of another failed attempt.

Arthur expressed his interest in becoming a chef, often dropping hints about cooking lessons. However Arthur's mother found the profession was 'unfit,' and as per usual, his father agreed with his mother. So, Arthur continued his fruitless endeavors, which were mediocre at best.

Much to Arthur and his mother's chagrin, his father prohibited anymore trips to fancy restaurant because of his steadily decreasing pay. Arthur was quite sure that his mother only "listened" to his father because of society's view that women were subordinate to men.

Six years came to pass, and his father tragically died due to "unknown circumstances." The police and medics deemed it a case of sleeping drug overdose, lethal when consumed with alcohol. Arthur knew better. Arthur's father never drank, until the vile woman - she was never his mother - had pleaded him to take a glass of wine on the night of their wedding anniversary. Arthur had seen her slip in a pill, but he hadn't thought she had put in anymore than that. He felt responsible, for he hadn't warned his father, but still angry as hell at the dastardly woman. He finally came to know what it felt like to hate another human with one's whole being.

However, without proper evidence, Arthur was unable to make his case against the conniving woman. His "mother" immediately abandoned him, making off with more than half of his father's meager savings. Arthur worked full-time as a busboy, trying to keep afloat in addition to paying off the rest of the mortgage on his family home. Arthur often looked forlornly in the direction of his kitchen, but he could barely find the energy within himself to lift his legs and walk up the stairs to his bedroom when he returned home late at night. Arthur desperately wanted to cook, but he could just never find the time in his chaotic schedule to do so. Earning minimum wage, Arthur couldn't keep up the payments, and the bank foreclosed on him. With the last ties to his beloved parents gone, and the last of his inheritance spent on finishing night school, the twenty one year old was left alone in the cold world. That woman had caused him years of torture. She left him loveless, alone, and dismal. Not that she had ever loved him, or made him feel warm or content.

In a way, Arthur was glad to be rid of her. His life could finally begin.

Thanks for reading! Please review! Just a side tidbit, mise en place means for a chef to gather, prepare and measure all ingredients before beginning. Thanks to my beta Galythia too! Alfred will appear in a chapter or two :)