MISE-EN-PLACE

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Amuse-Bouche

An amuse-bouche [ah-myooze boosh] or amuse-gueule [ah-myooze goole] is a single, bite-sized hors d'œuvre. Amuse-bouches are different from appetizers in that they are not ordered from a menu by patrons, but, when served, are done so for free and according to the chef's selection alone. These, often accompanied by a complementing wine, are served both to prepare the guest for the meal and to offer a glimpse into the chef's approach to cooking.

Roasted Olives with Fennel and Lemon

8 ounces imported black olives, such as Kalamata

4 garlic cloves, peeled and sliced

1/2 lemon, scrubbed and thinly sliced

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

1 teaspoon fennel seeds

Pinch of crushed red pepper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. In a 8-inch baking pan, spread the olives, garlic slices, and lemon slices. Drizzle with the olive oil and sprinkle with the fennel seeds and red pepper. Bake for 45 minutes, stirring the olives at least 3 times. Remove from oven and store in the refrigerator.

M-e-P

"So… what are you doing, again?"

Edward was sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island, watching me cook. He'd been doing so almost every day in the week since begged me to come back to work for him. Sometimes he worked on his laptop, others he read an endless pile of scripts. One afternoon he laughed with me while I talked shit about the "cheftestants"—and the judges—on Chopped.

"I'm roasting olives for you to snack on, so the next time you're craving salt, you don't get into the Lays and blow your workout for that day."

"Oh, come on, that was one time!"

"Mmhmm, it was a fourteen-ounce bag," I said, and paused. I added, "Edward."

I had a half sheet pan out, covered in a silicone mat. I laid down the base of aromatics, and reached for the quart-size container of black olives, not looking at him. The flush was too evident on my cheeks, and I had no overheated kitchen to explain it away. That reminds me—I moved to preheat the oven.

"I don't think I've ever had roasted olives before," he said after a moment.

"Yeah. I actually don't like olives very much when they're just like this," I said, holding up the takeout container, "just marinated. There's a… bitterness to them that I don't like."

I drained off the little bit of marinating liquid. The quiet wasn't comfortable, something new for us. Then again, he never watched me in the kitchen before, either.

"Roasting them develops the sugars in the olives, and mellows the salt. So the bitterness backs off, in terms of your palate. It's a more balanced, nuanced taste. The savory flavors are more prominent, and if I get the timing right, a little browning will make them sweet, which counters the tang of the vinegar. I, uh, I'm making a double batch, so I can make tapenade later, for your meeting with your agent. That's a spread you, you know, spread on bread. Which I'll make, too. The bread."

Finally, finally I made myself shut up. Way to dazzle him with your sparkling wit and culinary rapport.

"Why'd you become a chef, Bella?"

"Huh?" My hand jerked in surprise, and a few olives went rolling across the counter. I swore and went after them before they fell on the floor. I popped one in my mouth. I looked up at Edward, and he was watching me attentively. Slowly, I walked over to him and held out my hand, offering him the escaped olives. My posture was probably not unlike that of a small child approaching a horse for the first time, or an elephant. An animal that, despite your parents' assurances that it's tame, still has the ability to trample you.

He took the olives from my opened palm and brought them to his mouth. The scene was surreal. Edward was a movie star for a reason—he exuded that "it" quality that those industry types talk about. Magnetism, or charisma. Of course he was incredibly handsome, all angles and hard masculine lines, but more than that. He had a presence and it was commanding. It was fucking sexy, is what it was.

But here we were, sitting in his kitchen, sharing this incredibly domestic, ordinary moment.

"Bella?" he asked, after swallowing. I looked into his eyes, green like fennel, and couldn't deny him.

"I've told you a little about my mom, right? She was… flighty, I suppose is the word," I said, walking back to the pan of olives. I drizzled some extra-virgin olive oil over top. I reached for the red pepper flakes, and had an idea.

"Or, depending on who you ask, borderline negligent," I added, reaching into the cabinet and searching for what I wanted. Triumphant, I held up a container with striking black kanji on the label. I held it up to Edward for approval.

"Seven-spice powder?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes. Shichimi tōgarashi. Some oomph for you, I know you like it hot. You're such a guy," I laughed, but he didn't join. He looked a little shocked. Maybe I misread the new playful mood?

"Um, so, anyways. From a young age, I did all the cooking. To be honest, I didn't really enjoy it. It was another burden, like the laundry or paying the bills, which I did, too." I eased the lid off the tin and carefully shook out a couple tablespoons' worth of the spicy seasoning over the olives. I pulled open the oven door and bending over, slid the tray in. Edward was muttering behind me, and I guessed he was getting impatient to hear the rest of my story.

"My mom would make these really bizarre combinations—she'd cook a whole meal without tasting a thing. I think the worst was chicken with canned prunes and instant oatmeal. I don't… I can't even begin to explain that." Turning to lean against the counter, facing him, I wiped my hands on the tea towel over my shoulder.

"Ew!" Edward shuddered theatrically.

"You're such a hack. Or maybe 'ham' is a better term for this conversation?"

"Very punny."

I rolled my eyes and shoved off the counter. I reached for the bowl of bread dough I had proofing, checking to see if it had risen enough. My head rolled back on my shoulders, and I tried to let the kinks from working over a counter all day fall out of my muscles.

"But one day, just a few weeks before I was supposed to leave for Charlie's, she came in the living room and handed me a bowl of ice cream. I didn't know she'd made… additions to it."

"Cod liver oil and radishes?"

"Ha ha, no. She put curry powder and golden raisins on chocolate ice cream. It was delicious." I turned to look at him again. "You'd never think it'd work, right? It shouldn't have been good, but it was. And I mean, the execution was off, with the dry powder and cold ice cream, but the idea… I thought it was genius. I couldn't stop thinking about it, how it tasted. My mind spun with different flavor combinations, different recipes and possibilities, things to try.

"You have to understand, Edward," I said, looking down, "that until that point, I hadn't created a damn thing. I lived my life largely in my imagination, and in the pages of my favorite books. I never wrote anything, or made anything, though. I knew I wanted to.

"So when I saw that Charlie couldn't cook either, I gladly took on the task. I looked at it like an opportunity, a chance to explore this new thing I maybe loved. And I did love it. I went to work at a restaurant—the only restaurant—in Forks. It was a hard sell, but I managed to convince Charlie to let me apply to culinary school instead of 'real' college. And… that was it."

Feeling vulnerable, I turned once more and pulled the dampish towel off the proofing bread dough. I started punching it down; the bowl rattled against the counter as I worked the dough. My punches made dull, thwacky sounds, like a meathead getting his ass beat in a B action movie. To make this naked feeling go away, I needed a little reciprocity.

"Why did you become an actor?"

"Well, sometimes it's easier being other people when you don't know who you are, or… what you want."

His stool scraped against the tile floor, and I heard his bare feet slap softly against the travertine as he left the room. I kept punching the dough.