Perhaps against his best judgment, Em agreed to return to Chef Marchant's class for their second lesson of the week; he tried to tell himself it had nothing to do with the extremely hot chef with the sexy French accent that was conducting the course. Taking their customary places at their table, Em leaned over to his friend to ask, "I wonder what we'll be making tonight? And Baby, please tell me that mischief isn't going to be the first course on the menu."
"Who, me?" Justin responded innocently. "Why would you think that?"
"Oh, maybe it has something to do with yesterday's lesson….you know, the one with the chicken dance and the flour war?"
Grinning openly now, Justin said, "Come on, Em. You have to admit it was fun. I haven't had THIS much fun since Brian put that E in Lindsey's punch at the party for her parents. Lighten up a little," he urged the taller man.
"Justin! You know I can party down with the best of them….but I want to learn Chef Marchant's techniques! It'll help me so much with my catering. Can't you try and be on your best behavior….please?" he pleaded, slate blue eyes beseeching.
"Oh, fuck, he's really got you snookered," Justin teased accusingly. "Must be the big cock that matches his big ego – it CERTAINLY can't be the guy's charm."
"Well, it's probably just due to a cultural difference or something," Em countered in defense.
"Uh, huh. Somehow I think the word "asshole" means the same thing in English AND French."
Smiling a little awkwardly, Em didn't get a chance to respond, before the object of their discussion strode into the classroom at precisely 6:58 p.m. Tonight, the chef was dressed impeccably in a dark blue, long-sleeved cashmere sweater and dark navy pinstripe pants that were perfectly tailored to accentuate his fairly impressive cock. The man oozed confidence, sure of his looks as well as the effect he was having on at least MOST of the students in attendance as a hush fell over the room while he entered.
Smiling indulgently at the students raptly peering at him, he said smoothly, "Good Evening, Class," in his sexist French-accented tenor voice. "Are we ready for our next lesson?" he asked, producing a collective sigh from the majority of the awe-struck students in the room.
Clapping his hands to get everyone's attention, he continued, "Listen up, Students! We must start on time tonight to make sure our recipe is finished before the end of class." As the students quieted down sufficiently, he continued, "Tonight I will be demonstrating the preparation of a classic dish with a little twist. We will be making a Dark Chocolate Soufflé. I need for you to pre-set your oven to 375⁰," he instructed them.
"Ooh – dessert!" Em clapped enthusiastically, while Justin smiled, trying to think of a proper way to commemorate Day 2 of Tormenting the French Chef. At least we'll get to eat something with chocolate in it, the blond thought. Frowning a little, though, he said quietly to Em, "I heard those things can be hard to make."
"Don't worry, Baby," Emmett assured his friend. "I'm sure Gaston can guide us through the correct way to make them."
"Gaston, huh?" Justin observed. "I didn't realize you and Pepe Le Pew were on a first-name basis now."
Before Emmett had an opportunity to respond, the unexpected clearing of a throat nearby roused both of them from their conversation. "Is there a problem down there, Monsieur Taylor?" Marchant asked in a clipped, irritated voice. The chef actually appeared to smile arrogantly as he looked at the blond staring back at him and thought, let's see how smug you look when you find out the results of my little ingredient substitution.
Looking up at the aggravated master chef, Justin replied easily, "No, no problem, Pep…..Chef Marchant. We were just waiting for your latest epicurean words of wisdom."
"I see. Perhaps if the two of you did not try to talk over my words of wisdom, the rest of the class could also participate, yes?"
"I am SO sorry, Chef," Emmett replied sincerely, subtly elbowing Justin in the ribs at the same time. "Hey!" the blond whispered, scowling, before he decided it might be beneficial to shut up for the time being before Emmett injured some other more important part of his anatomy.
"As I was saying, Class, before I was interrupted," Marchant continued, as he walked back toward the center of the stage, not appearing to give the insolent blonde another thought. Speaking from a small microphone clipped to his chest, he announced, "We will be preparing a dark chocolate soufflé this evening, so it is important you follow my instructions precisely, as this dish can be quite temperamental if not handled properly."
"Yeah, tell me about," Justin muttered under his breath.
"Now, Class, as with last night, to save time with preparation, the ingredients you will need for the soufflé have been preassembled for you. The first step is to take your stick of butter and generously coat the soufflé dish located directly under the cabinet. Please proceed with this step as I do the same," he instructed, taking his dish and, with long, toned hands encased in latex gloves, he dipped his fingers in the butter and thoroughly coated the dish on all sides.
"Hmmph!" Justin huffed. "He gets to prevent dishpan hands while we wind up with Parkay between our fingernails," noticing that none of the students were given any gloves like Marchant was wearing. He mockingly sing-songed, "I simply can't have my long, manicured hands touching any oily stuff, you understand, unless it's some expensive massage oil shit or maybe hair gel to keep my naturally wavy locks in place, oui?" Justin pantomimed, giggling as he brushed his hair back melodramatically, exclaiming, "Not a hair out of place."
Emmett scolded his friend softly, whispering, "You said you'd behave," he reminded the younger man, but he couldn't help smiling a little at the other man's playfulness, despite his wish to try and not annoy their instructor.
"Now, class, if you have adequately buttered your dish, it is time to melt 3 additional tablespoons of the butter in medium heat in the 2-quart saucepan. Does everyone know what the saucepan looks like?" he inquired in a patronizing voice.
"Does this guy think he's teaching a fucking kindergarten?" Justin growled in a low voice. "Does everyone know what the saucepan looks like?" Justin parroted to himself. "Maybe a pan that you melt sauce in?" he said sarcastically, as he watched Emmett swirling the butter around with a wooden spoon in the pan while it quickly melted.
"Now, class, once the butter is COMPLETELY melted, you need to place the 3 tablespoons of flour in the pan, stirring it in until it is smooth and bubbly." Emmett watched apprehensively as Justin picked up the small bowl of flour, waiting to see what his friend would do with it – hand it to him or fling it at him in an effort to resume their "war" from the night before. He was relieved to see that the younger man was actually behaving himself as he simply handed it to Emmett, an innocent look on his face. Maybe a little TOO innocent, he thought warily.
"Okay, class…..now that the butter has melted, take your milk and pour it into the pan," the chef stated, as he deftly poured the cup of milk into the saucepan. Keep stirring the pan so it doesn't burn or stick," he admonished them. "The sauce should boil and thicken in about two minutes. Once that occurs, take the pan off the burner to remove it from the heat."
"Baby, can you stir for me? My hand's getting a harder workout than when I used to jerk off for Ted's website," Emmett announced, handing the wooden spoon to Justin to take over for him. Giggling, Justin obediently dipped the spoon back into the pan, incanting softly to himself, "Bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble. Justin needs a Jim Beam double," as he continually stirred the pan for the next couple of minutes.
"Everybody with me?" Marchant inquired, looking out over the class to make sure everyone was finished with the last step. "Okay. Now you need to stir in the chopped dark chocolate until it is completely smooth." Clapping, he urged them, "Quickly! While the mixture is still warm!"
"Chop! Chop, Em! Put that chocolate in quickly!" Justin whispered urgently to his friend, speaking with a distinct, overly-accented French voice. Emmett smacked his friend on the arm as he quickly scraped the bowl of dark chocolate into the saucepan as Justin rapidly stirred it into the mixture.
"Now, Class – once the chocolate is smooth, mix in the egg yolks and rum until they are completely mixed, blended and smooth."
"NOW we're getting to the GOOD ingredients," Justin replied, stopping to take a quick swig of the rum before pouring a little of it into the pan as he passed it to Em, who to his surprise, unexpectedly joined him. "What the hell," Em explained, shrugging his shoulders.
"Monsieur Taylor!" Marchant instantly called out to the pair, causing Emmett to almost drop the bottle. "WHAT do you think you're doing?" the man asked, hands on his slim hips as he glared especially at the blond. He noticed for the first time that the pair were wearing aprons they had apparently brought with them. The taller man's brown one read, Some Things are Better Rich – Coffee, Chocolate, Men, while he observed Taylor's royal blue apron was emblazoned with the motto, Serve it Up Hot – Grill Naked.
"The rum is NOT for consumption!" he reprimanded the pair, paying particular attention to the blond.
"We were just drinking a toast to your superiority," Justin replied, as he lofted the bottle in a token tribute before taking one more swig; he could hear several other students issuing a collective gasp at his boldness. "Besides, I'm sure the rum is as cheap as the wine we used last night," he added. "Wouldn't want to waste any of the good stuff on us heathens."
Voice dripping with disapproval, the chef replied, "Well, we can drink a toast to your arrogance later."
That would certainly fit, Justin thought dryly.
"Now, if we can PLEASE proceed with the soufflé?" he asked, receiving a fake smile and sweep of the hand from Justin in reply.
"Okay, class…Now this part may be difficult for those of you who are amateurs….You must place your egg whites with the cream of tartar on HIGH speed in the mixer provided to you. You want to get the egg whites foamy. Once that occurs, you must slowly fold in the sugar until short, stiff, and moist, wet peaks form."
At the chef's last words, Justin's libido couldn't help going into overdrive as he thought of someone ELSE'S "short, stiff, and moist wet peaks" standing at attention while he licked and sucked them. Brian, where ARE you when I NEED you? he complained silently, as Emmett took over with the next part of the chef's instructions.
"Now, Class, take your flexible spatula, take a third of the chocolate sauce and fold it into the egg whites until they are well-blended." Demonstrating to the class, Marchant adroitly flipped the mixture over and into the chocolate sauce. "Then you do the same to other two-thirds of the sauce."
"Sweetie, can you pass me the spatula?" Em asked his friend, holding out his hand.
"Sure thing, Em," Justin responded, not being able to help giving Em a quick slap on one of his butt cheeks before handing him the spatula. Fortunately, this time the chef didn't notice his latest escapade, even when Em reacted by emitting a short yelp.
"Listen up, Class!" The chef urged. "We're ready to place the mixture into your baking dish. However, to make the soufflé look impressive, you only want to fill the dish ¾ of the way full. Now CAREFULLY place your mixture into the dish." He looked out over the tables, nodding in satisfaction that everyone was progressing now at the same pace. He surprisingly noted that even his pair of juvenile delinquents was following along with the rest of the students. What a shame all that effort will be for naught, he thought to himself smugly. Amazing what a difference there is between all-purpose and self-rising flour.
Aloud, he continued, "Okay. Now everyone set your timer for precisely 20 minutes. You do not want to over bake your dish," he cautioned them. "You will need to keep an eye on them, so make sure you turn the oven light on so you can monitor them."
He turned, walking to the side of the stage where the steps were located to enter the lower level in a pretense of personally observing each group's success so far. Starting at the opposite end of Justin and Emmett's table, he pretended to display an interest in each pair's progress; in reality, however, Marchant was finding the whole experience boring and tedious. The ONLY good thing about this fucking class so far is the week's worth of easy money for putting up with these simpletons, he thought, as he accepted the unadorned devotion of the men and women in the class, a condescending smile plastered on his face.
He finally arrived at Taylor's and Honeycutt's table, noticing the same, nervous but excited expression on the taller man's face he had come to expect from all of the other admirers he constantly encountered. He noticed to his chagrin, however, that the younger blond was not buying into any kind of the customary idol worship he had always enjoyed; instead, the man was staring at him almost challengingly, a look of stubbornness on his face. Now that he could observe Taylor more closely, he was struck by the distinct, unusual color of his blue eyes and the full lips that hd been constantly challenging him; he noticed how the soft, blond hair positively shone in the glow of the fluorescent lights overhead.
Shaking his head slightly to try and wipe those thoughts from his head, he turned instead to the taller brunet, who was continuing to stare at him enraptured. Conjuring up his softest, most seductive French accent, the chef inquired politely, "And how did your dish turn out, Monsieur Honeycutt?"
Emmett could initially only eke out an unintelligible "huh?" before Justin nudged him in the side to try and jar him from his stupor. "Oh! Just fine," he finally said, smiling dreamily at the chef while Justin rolled his eyes in disgust; the action was not lost on the chef, who nonetheless tried to pretend he hadn't noticed. He peered, instead, at the pair's end result and commented, "It looks acceptable so far," before turning to walk back onto the stage and speak to the entire class.
"Now, Students, place your dish directly on the MIDDLE rack of the oven and set your timer at precisely 20 minutes. And don't forget to watch your dish closely when it gets toward the end of the baking time," he warned them.
Justin and Emmett sat on the tall classroom stools as they waited for their dish to bake. "At least we look cleaner than we looked last night," Em observed, smiling at his friend. "But you're still not playing very nice, Baby" he scolded his friend, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows.
Justin shrugged. "I tried, Em, really," he maintained, receiving a somewhat skeptical look from the brunet. "But, I'm sorry – despite what you think, I STILL say he's an arrogant prick who is so full of himself, I don't think even DYNAMITE would take care of his fucking ego problem," he joked to his friend. "But, hey, at least we get to take CHOCOLATE home with us," Justin stated, eyes lighting up as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
"Yeah," Emmett agreed, pointing to his apron. "RICH chocolate," he pointed out, receiving a warm smile from his friend.
"Speaking of which, looks like our soufflé should be almost done," he noticed, reading the timer which showed two minutes remaining. "Can you take a look and see how it's going?" he asked the other man, who was sitting closer to the oven.
"Sure thing, Honey, I'm ready for some SERIOUS chocolate." Emmett leaned over to see how the dish was doing, and frowned. "Uh, Baby, something doesn't quite look right here."
"What do you mean?"
"It looks kind of…..flat. Flat and kind of black."
"Flat? Black?" Justin asked, puzzled.
"Yeah, flat and black, as in the proverbial record album," Em observed, peering closely into the oven.
"No way!" Justin cried. "We followed the recipe exactly," he argued.
"Well, I may not be a master French chef, but I think I know a burnt dish when I SMELL one," Em replied. "Uh, not that I ever burn any of my OWN recipes, you understand," he added.
Justin smiled slightly. "Of course not……let me see," he asked, as Em moved aside so his friend could look through the glass door at their noticeably shrunken, black glob that looked remarkably like a miniature version of the remains of an erupted volcano.
"Oh, no," Justin wailed. "What the fuck do you think happened?" he asked Em, as the blond used a nearby potholder to place the ruined dessert onto the adjacent counter.
"I know EXACTLY what happened," Justin overheard Marchant answering smugly from the stage instead, as the chef slowly walked toward them. "Someone OBVIOUSLY didn't follow instructions properly."
Justin felt everyone's eyes on them as his blood pressure started to rise. This man is unbelievable.
As the man walked down the steps and approached him, Justin turned and stood face to face with the smug chef.
"As I said, Monsieur Taylor, someone was too busy causing mayhem to heed my instructions and prepare his dish properly," the older man stated derisively. "Too bad you are not up to the challenge."
Steely blue eyes glared at narrowed green ones as Justin walked even closer to the other man, growling, "You have GOT to be the most pompous, condescending, arrogant, and conceited snob I have EVER met. And, furthermore, you know what, Pepe? You can just fucking take my burnt out, flat-as-a-pancake chocolate soufflé and stick it where the SUN DON'T SHINE!" Emmett clapped a hand to his mouth, stunned, as his friend promptly proceeded to pick up the baking dish with their not-so-stellar soufflé in it and, quickly inverting it, firmly placed it down on the chef's head.
The chef sputtered in shock as melted chocolate quickly rained down on his face; Justin abruptly turned around and headed toward the exit. "Well?" he asked Emmett, who was still standing there horrified. "Are you coming or not?" he asked his friend, who finally hurried after him as he decided it was better to get the hell out of there rather than face the chef's wrath, at least once the man recovered.
Marchant's assistant, Claude, came rushing down soon afterward with several wet towels clenched in his hands. "Chef! Are you all right?" he asked the other man, concerned, trying furiously to help wipe the chocolate off the other man's face. "The heresy and insubordination! You should sue that man!" he advised his superior angrily.
As the other students averted their eyes and rushed to stack their soiled dishes in the dishwasher, placing their finished product into carryout containers, Marchant shocked his assistant by actually beginning to laugh rather than being incensed.
"Monsieur?" The other man inquired, becoming alarmed at the other man's totally bizarre behavior. "Are you hurt?"
Still laughing as he continued to wipe off the chocolate from his face, the man finally replied, " Only my dignity. I'm fine, Claude. A little sticky, but fine."
"Monsieur?" Claude again asked, totally bewildered by the chef's behavior after he was subjected to an out-and -out assault at the hands of the impertinent student.
"I'm all right," the man repeated. "Actually, it's been a LONG time since another man stood up to me. That Taylor has, how do the Americans say it? Balls." For not the first time, Marchant thought about the student who had tormented him from the m o m e n t he had walked into his classroom . This time, though, his thoughts were focused on what he found to be more pleasant aspects of the other man. I must find out what makes you tick, Monsieur Taylor. I have underestimated you.
Aloud to his assistant, he instructed him, "Claude – I am going to go clean up. In the meantime, I want you to do something for me."
"Yes, Chef – what do you want me to do?"
"Go back to my apartment and bring me a clean set of clothes. But before you go, find for me the personnel file on Monsieur Taylor."
