"Bard, why's the whole pan on fire?" Mey shrieks.

"That's how it's supposed to be," Bard says. With one well-timed jerk of his arm, he tosses a flaming slab of meat into the air, flips it, and catches it in his pan. "I'm just practicing before I put it on the menu as tomorrow's special."

"Tomorrow's special?" she yelps. "You'll burn the place down again!"

"Knock it off and hand me the bourbon," he cackles. "We've gotta to turn up the heat."

Bard's restaurant has just reopened its doors after an unfortunate fire. It remains an organic, tank-to-table, international fusion tapas joint with a focus on molecular gastronomy and experimental delicacies, but he has changed the name to "Phoenix."

(He refuses to drop the "experimental" edge of his cooking, even though that's what burned the restaurant down in the first place.)

Bard's set up shop in a small but wealthy New England town, competing with a tavern serving local cuisine— colorful vegetables boiled until they're white— and a vegan cafe crusading to replace beef with tempe and bread with dried fruit. Taking pity on this culinary desert, Bard cooks things he'd actually want to eat. He dreams up recipes on a daily basis and packs flavor onto every plate. He has no formal training, no, but who needs formal training when you've got heart and creativity and a sense of adventure? He's proud of his work, of his ever-expanding menus, of his bold, audacious dishes . . .

"The newly-reopened 'Phoenix' aims to deliver 'explosions' of flavor to one's palette, yet it currently manages to serve only confusion, in the form of exotic but dried-out fish, unevenly cooked meat, and vegetables burnt beyond recognition. Even the chipotle aioli, the most promising of the absurd eleven dipping sauces accompanying the bread service, ultimately left a bitter taste in my mouth— quite literally, as the 'smoked peppers' were no doubt smoked for one or two hours too long . . ."

"What the hell?" Bard hollers. "Mey, who does this guy think he is?"

"Sebastian Michael— MiKAYlis? MiKIElis? MiKH-KH-KH—"

"All right, keep your lungs in! Who is he?"

"He's a newspaper critic, looks like. I've never seen articles from him before, but then again I don't read so much after the glasses broke . . ."

"Jesus," he spits, slamming his hand on the granite counter. "It's probably some old fogey who couldn't stomach a jalapeño without a gallon of sugar water to go with it. The people around here can't handle real flavor, I tell you!"

Mey tiptoes towards Bard, trying not to spook him as he shakes two flaming pans. "Mr. Mic— the critic's here again."

Bard scowls. "What does he want?"

"Well, I gave him the bread."

"And did it offend his sensibilities?" Bard snorts. "Was he upset to find a couple of seeds in his ocean of plain white bread . . ."

"N— no, he didn't say . . ."

"So what'd Mr. McWhatsit want?"

"Well, he hated the aioli because he says the peppers are burnt again."

"Tell him to live without it," Bard snaps. "He's got ten other sauces to choose from, unless the absurdity of the choice totally overwhelms his aging brain."

"He's back," Mey announces. "He says to skip the bread, just bring the ramen."

Twenty minutes later . . .

"He wants a different ramen," she says, "because apparently that one has way too much Sriracha mixed in, when some neatly diced cilantro would do more to enhance the flavor."

"You mean it'd render it edible, even for our dear geriatric patient's tongue?" Bard rolls his eyes. "One tasteless herbal ramen, coming right up. Jesus Christ."

"He's not actually . . . Never mind." She sweeps out with another full tray of food.

"He's ba-ack," Mey calls as she darts into the kitchen. "He wants the tacos and warns you to not overcook the fish, on pain of death!"

With a huff, Bard starts slicing.

Twenty minutes later . . .

"He wants you to re-do the salsa," Mey says as she ferries back the barely-touched plate of tacos.

"Oh, for God's sake—" Bard rips off his hat and apron and storms to the door— "if this ninety-year-old wannabe thinks he's going to talk down my cooking anymore, he's got another—"

Bursting into the dining room, he falls silent.

"Another think coming?" Sebastian Michaelis finishes. "Funnily enough, I keep coming back for another 'think'— a fresh perspective, and yet due to easily preventable mistakes you have consistently failed to deliver."

Bard simply stares at him. He's a sinewy man in his twenties, maybe even younger than Bard, pale with thin lips and sharp, chiseled cheekbones and tumbling black bangs. He wears a black hoodie and jeans but yet sits so straight that he seems more dignified than all the men around him, in their collared shirts and ties. He regards the cook coolly, his eyes like the autumn leaves outside.

Bard glares. "I don't get you. Why do you waltz in with all this advice for everyone else, when you could just start a place of your own?"

"Because I wander too much to run a traditional restaurant alone, and food trucks aren't quite my style . . ."

"Convenient," Bard scoffs.

"What are you implying?"

"That those who can't do criticize."

Something sparks in Sebastian's eyes. "I have never given an unjustified critique."

"Yeah? What's your issue with the salsa?"

"The habanero."

"You want me to get rid of it?"

"Hardly," he sniffs. "You bill this as a mouth-burning habanero salsa, and yet the main taste is the sugar of the mango. You should triple the amount of pepper, at least."

Bard stops, stunned. "So," he finally eeks out, "you want more heat?"

"That's what I just said, isn't it?"

Bard tilts his head, considering. Then . . . "That's potentially a great idea."

"You sound so surprised," Sebastian smirks.

"How many other potentially great ideas have you got?"

He glances at the menu. "Off the top of my head . . . About sixty? Seventy?"

"We have sixty-six items on the menu."

"Sixty-six ideas, then."

Bard pushes down a splutter and nods. "All right, then. Would you be willing to share?"

"No. Given your rudeness, I've a mind to—" Sebastian then takes another look at Bard, gaze lingering on his golden hair, his strong jawline, the muscles barely visible under his white shirt, even more handsome than Google Images had suggested— "actually, what the hell. Phoenix is closed tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Yes . . ."

"Perfect. I'll cook dinner."

The next evening, Bard opens up the Phoenix kitchen just for the two of them. Sebastian is already waiting at the door, a large black bag slung on each shoulder.

"What's in those?"

"Seasonings in this one. Knives in that."

"Get a guy who can do both," Bard jokes.

"Oh—" he gives a wolfish grin— "you have no idea."

Bard shivers, yet not quite with fear.

"Grab a menu," Sebastian orders, striding into the restaurant as if he owns the place, "and give me your order."

"You're making my dishes?"

"I will make the dishes on your menu how they ought to be made." He raises an eyebrow as Bard mutters under his breath. "I have strong opinions on food, and I do not intend to apologize."

"Yeah, yeah," Bard says. "Let's do the fish tacos, I guess."

Bard watches skeptically as Sebastian paws through half his refrigerator before finally selecting a fish. His expression morphs into one of horror as Sebastian takes out a large, thick knife and starts sawing the meat apart—

"Hey, have some respect!"

Sebastian halts mid-cleave. "Excuse me?"

"You're just hacking it to pieces, you've got to look and feel where you're cutting—"

With a few more expert slices— sure and swift— Sebastian lays out the fish in pearl-white, clean-edged slices, with bones and other inedible parts piled neatly on the side. "You were saying?"

Bard marvels— he's seen worse work from experts, done at half the speed. "Are you a sushi chef? Trained in Japan or something?"

"Of course," Sebastian smirks. "And France, and Mexico, and Cuba, and Singapore, and we can't forget that little stint in Szechuan."

Bard starts to laugh before realizing that might not have been a joke.

Now Sebastian is preparing the batter, with more ice water than Bard would ever use in a recipe. He bites his tongue, yet Sebastian notices his quizzical look and takes pity on him. "The chill makes the tempura thinner," he explains.

"Ah."

"Your fish is so high-quality—"

"Thanks."

"— that the way you were drowning it in batter was utterly disgraceful."

He crooks an eyebrow as Bard just shakes his head, chuckles and keeps watching. After flicking an egg against the rim of a bowl, Sebastian violently crushes it in his fist, yet he doesn't drop a single shard of shell in with the yolk. Then he briefly combines his batter using a pair of chopsticks he draws from somewhere— perhaps his sweatshirt? Perhaps one of the bags? Despite being in an unfamiliar kitchen, he whirls about and chooses tools and ingredients with dizzying, near mechanical speed.

Bard realizes he is in the presence of master, perhaps a magician.

Even as Sebastian pours fresh oil into a pan and lights the stove and lays down the battered fish with his right hand, his left hand speeds almost to a blur as it slices tropical fruit and equally vivid habaneros and onions and cilantro, sprinkling on spices, pouring the whole mixture into a nearby blender. Bard stares, hypnotized, as Sebastian simultaneously fries the fish and pulses, fusing the salsa's ingredients together.

"How'd you end up here, in the middle of nowhere?" The question sneaks out before Bard can stop it.

"New York City got boring," comes the answer.

"Didn't think that was possible."

Though Sebastian is facing away from him, Bard sees him tense up, shoulders tightening as he draws his spine up even straighter than usual. "Never mind, it's not important."

"No, Sebastian muses, "in the scheme of things, it's really not."

There is silence then, only the crackling of the oil.

"I was a sous chef," he murmurs, "in an underground restaurant on 9th and 50th— literally underground, hidden behind a curtain in a basement, and also unknown, except by those who knew everything about the city and recognized, invariably, that we were the best." He snorts.

"What's the name? Maybe I'll check it out, next time I head that far south—"

"It closed," Sebastian mutters, "permanently. Not so long after I left."

"You saw it was going down?"

"I saw I was going down, and bringing him with me." He sighs. "'He' was the head chef. Brilliant gastronomist, or he would have been if he quit over-sweetening everything."

"So what went wrong?"

Sebastian flips out the last portion of fish, steaming hot, folded in a translucent layer of gold batter. He contemplates his answer while folding each piece in a tortilla with a fat slice of avocado garnished with lime and pouring the salsa into a crescent-shaped side dish.

"He couldn't take the heat, so I got out of the kitchen," he finally shrugs. "I don't stay where I'm not wante— where I'm not appreciated."

He places the dish before Bard, then plucks a cube of ice yet unmelted from a measuring cup, positioning it between his nails— painted black, Bard realizes— smoothing it over his lips like chapstick.

Bard takes a bite, and heat bursts on his tongue— the thin, crisp tempura, the fresh, soft white fish, the rich, solid avocado. He gives a thumbs-up, impressed, though not utterly blown away. "So why'd you end up up north?"

"It's cheap. A good base for traveling."

"So you'll be heading right out again," Bard says, alarmed to hear a note of disappointment in his voice.

"Depends on whether you give me a job at Phoenix."

"What?" Bard exclaims with a mouth full of taco. He swallows and continues, "But you don't like a single dish on our menu . . ."

"True, but I can fix every dish on your menu. What's more, I have a soft spot for hopeless causes."

"What do you mean, hopeless—"

"You're attempting to provide the boldest variety of flavors I've ever seen on the American East Coast in rural New England, a place with somewhat limited supplies and extraordinarily limited palettes— and I can say that, I spent most of my childhood in this food hell. Your restaurant then proceeds to burn down in a fire that your insurance refused in large part to cover, and then you got burned a second time by a newspaper review that I designed specifically to test you, and still . . . you're here. Cooking. In an objectively preposterous quest to teach these people what food really means." He smiles, lips quirked up on one side yet seeming gentler than Bard's ever seen. "And I happen to enjoy futility."

"What does food 'really mean,' huh?"

"Try the salsa."

Ecstasy.

There is no other word for the explosion of spice, of pure flame currently scorching his tongue, forcing Bard to gasp for air, cheeks flushed red as a ripe mango's skin . . .

"I'm dying," he croaks, eyes filling with tears.

"Are you?" Sebastian purrs in return, strolling over to his side, perching on the counter, long legs dangling. "And here I was, worried you wouldn't even notice the heat. After all, it's just two habaneros, quite mundane— I have that many every morning for breakfast, simply sliced and sprinkled on a bagel with some cheese . . ."

Bard grabs Sebastian and kisses him.

His lips are soft. Glazed with newly-melted ice water. Cooling the fire in Bard's mouth, yet fanning an entirely different sort of spark.

Bard eventually pulls away, as Sebastian begins chuckling low in his throat. "If only we could make your aioli taste that good . . ."

He pops another ice cube between Bard's lips, now bitten red by the pepper, then entwines his hands in the chef's golden hair and tugs him forward once again.

"So—" he moans as Bard pushes him further back onto the hard counter and presses frenzied kisses to his luscious neck and chin and his fingers, so clever with a knife— "I assume I have a job."

"Hell, you can have my soul for a sauce like that!"

"Oh, now, that's not necessary—" Sebastian's eyes sizzle— "I take checks too."

Thus their fire bursts to life.