Arthur's green eyes watched over the Spaniard's movements carefully. He was amazed by how graceful Antonio looked while cooking. The way Antonio moved made him seem as if he was dancing. His hips would sway to a beat only he could hear, and whatever song that was it was a good one. Antonio had a passion for what he was doing, and he used that passion well.
No, Arthur was not admiring the sexy tomato-lover from afar like a little school girl with a crush. Antonio had yet again eaten what he was supposed to cook (this has happened four times), so Mr. Maahir made him cook a meal for him and the class while they watched. Arthur wasn't quite sure of what it was but he knew it was going to taste fantastic.
"Done!" Antonio smiled broadly as he wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. "Here you go," He then handed a plate to Mr. Maahir.
The class grew silent as they watched the teacher slowly pick up his fork. Someone gasped when he took the first bite. Mr. Maahir's expression was normal, but he took another bite and waved to the class to take some.
"What is it?" Arthur asked as he took a small plate.
"Paella!" The chef smiled. "It's a mixture of rice and chicken with some surprises of seafood!" Antonio then sighed. "Although, I wish I could have added more seafood, it's lacking the amount I usually put in."
Arthur shrugged and took his first bite. Him, along with others, had this collective moment of delight. The spices were strong, but also blended nicely giving each one it's own chance to shine. Some were spicy, others were tangy, and there probably was some that were sweet. Arthur savored it as much as he could, making each fork full count.
"You're doing that wrong," A French voice sung.
"Will you be quiet you cheese lover," Arthur replied back while dicing an onion.
"Artie!" Mr. Maahir stood in between Arthur and Francis.
"Arthur," He corrected him.
"Arthur..." The teacher sighed. "Is that anyway to talk to a classmate who was helping you? Your dicing is far too large."
"You're doing that wrong," Francis smiled.
"No I'm not," Arthur sighed.
"Artie! You're burning the sauce!" Mr. Maahir ran over.
"You're doing that wrong."
"No."
"And that."
"Nope."
"You can't cook can you?" Francis crossed his arms.
"Artie!" Mr. Maahir grabbed the spices from Arthur's hands. "I said a pinch! Not a handful!"
"Arthur," The British "cook" rubbed his forehead. "And I'm sorry."
"You're doing that wrong." That is all poor Arthur could hear. The dreadful words spun around in his head and flashed in his eyelids. Nothing he did was right. Every move turned out to be a mistake. Each and every dish was burned, too seasoned, or no seasoning at all. He tried following the directions word by word, but something always ruined it. What could he do?
He looked out the window of his bedroom. The sky was dark with rain pouring down against the glass. Arthur gazed out across the city's skyline which could be only seen due to the bright lights. His small crappy flat, despite all its flaws, had a great view of London. His dream was never to become a great chef or work for a Michelin-starred restaurant. His dream was to live his life here, and to be apart of the busy city. Becoming a chef seemed like a good outlet, even if it was working for a small tea house. This is what kept him going.