Little Chefs
A compilation of one-shots and short stories related to our beloved chefs before they entered high school. No ships – as most characters are too young for this. But will not disregard certain bonds and affiliations.
As always …
English is not – and, according to its definition – will never be my native language.
So be warned.
Other things you should be informed about: Description of violence and abuse.
A sick chef and an insufferable little Miss know-it-all
Ryō knew that he was coming down with something.
His head felt dizzy, his limbs ached, and he had a soar throat. And given his burning forehead and how hot his skin felt against the cool linen of his bedsheets, he was probably also running a fever.
Still, taking a break to rest and recover was no option for Ryō. He had to run the pub.
Tired, he turned in his bed and craned his neck around to glance at the beaten alarm clock ticking on his nightstand. It was almost noon.
Ryō groaned, the sound muffled by his pillow. He was already running late. Even though the pub did not open before evening was setting in, there were still plenty of things to be finished beforehand. Pot, pans, and plates had to be polished, vegetables to be cut, and fish to be disemboweled.
So, Ryō heaved himself out of his bed. With his head still throbbing painfully and the world spinning around him, he dragged himself towards the door and tumbled out on the corridor. As he passed the living room, he paused momentarily, listening to the sounds emitting from behind the closed door. He heard shouts, grunts, and pounding noises. Either his parents had a fight … or sex. The difference was impossible to tell. Maybe it was both.
Without bothering to investigate his parents' current activities further, he went on, trudging down the flight of stairs that led to the pub. There was no reason to inform his parents about his current health condition. He wasn't a weakling. He could handle a cold. And they wouldn't care, anyway.
He reached the ground-floor landing, tripped over the last step, and literally fell through the parlor door, crashing on the wooden floorboards, face first.
A dark chuckle reached his ears.
"What's up, boss? Grabbed the wrong bottle again?"
Ryō rolled his eyes. That had only happened one time.
Growling, he looked up and saw Frederick, one of his lackeys, standing over him. Frederick was a hulk of a man, beer-bellied with a craggy face, bushy brows, and a grizzled beard. A checkered kitchen towel was slung over his shoulder, and he carried an empty crate.
Ryō made a deep, guttural sound in the back of his throat. A warning. Frederick just laughed it off. He wasn't easily intimidated.
"No need to worry, boss," he said jovially as he headed towards the swing door to the kitchen. "Your little girlfriend's got everything under control." He disappeared.
"She is not my girlfriend," Ryō croaked after him, heat rising to the tips of his ears. "She is just a-" Wait, what?!
He stared at the door swinging in its hinges, wide-eyed.
She didn't, did she?
But now, he could hear it. A familiar clattering was originating from the kitchens.
Hastily, Ryō scrambled to his feet, lept forward, flung the door open …and was greeted by the usual hustle and bustle.
The kitchen was teeming with cooks. His men were swarming around the place, all of them busy with prepping the ingredients for today's meals.
Fish innards kept on piling up on stainless steel trails, bowls of sliced vegetables and mushrooms were lined up along the kitchen counters, loaves of dough were put in the oven, and chopped onions sizzled in a sauté pan.
And the pivot of this organized chaos was Alice Nakiri.
Clad from head to toe in a white chef's attire, white hair shining in the artificial light of the kitchen, Alice Nakiri looked very much like the personification of the Snow Queen, the eponymous queen of the Danish fairytale. And she also behaved very much like her. The posh girl was dancing around the workstations, issuing out orders, supervising his men's actions, reprimanding them if something was not to her liking.
"Found something, Milady," said Frederick as he approached the dancing girl. "This should help." He turned the crate and placed it upside-down on the ground.
Alice batted her eyelashes at him. "Thank you," she chirped, then jumped on the crate, doing a pirouette like a prima ballerina.
Ryō lost it. "Nakiri!"
Alice stopped twirling on her toes and turned. When she spotted him, a wicked smile stretched across her face.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," she announced in an ear-piercing sing-song. "Although, it's already past lunchtime."
Ryō ignored her statement. "What do you think you're doing here?" he stormed as he hurtled towards her, apoplectic with rage and fury.
Alice didn't back off, her smile still intact. She shot him a look of superiority. "Your job, essentially." However, as she studied him, her expression suddenly shifted. A look of mild concern entered her face. She frowned.
"Are you sick?"
"Hell no," he shot back, ignoring the pain in his throat.
Alice seemed unfazed, though. She surveyed him calmly, then jumped from the crate, reached out, and touched his forehand. Ryō almost yelped. Her pale hand felt pleasantly cool against his scorching hot skin. He almost sighed contently at the touch, and he wished for nothing but to lean into it.
"You are sick."
Ryō shoved her hand aside.
"I'm not sick."
Alice scoffed. "Oh, please, I could use your forehead as a stove if we were running out of gas."
"Get lost!"
"Not gonna happen."
Ryō huffed and tried to elbow Alice out of his way.
But Alice didn't move.
"No, no, no," she said in a reproachful voice. She lifted an admonitory finger and waggled it in front of Ryō's eyes. "No cooking when being sick. That's a big no-no."
Ryō flared his nostrils, his teeth bared. "Don't boss me around, Nakiri."
Alice quirked a brow. "I think I've told you to address me properly," she said coolly, her eyes locked on him in a ruthless way. After a while, she shrugged it off, though. "But since you're running a fever, I will forgive you … eventually."
"I don't need your forgiveness," spat Ryō. "Or pity."
"I am not pitying you," stated Alice simply. "It's a matter of fact. A sick chef is a danger to his assistants, his guests … and himself …" She paused, addressing a long, hard look at him, which made Ryō flinch. "And you, of all people, should know this."
Ryō took a step backward, shying away from her ever so slightly.
He did.
Deep down, Ryō knew that he shouldn't be here. When being sick, the kitchen was strictly taboo. And violating such a taboo wasn't just bad behavior; it would showcase a complete disregard for his professional ethics.
Endangering the health of his fellow workers and his guests was a sacrilege.
Ryō gritted his teeth, and his hands clenched into fists. "And what do you suggest, you insufferable little Miss know-it-all? Who's gonna run this place if I can't?"
Alice suddenly beamed at him and placed a hand on her chest. "I will, of course."
Ryō let out a scornful snort. "You're as good as dead," he retorted. "Those sailors, fishermen, and drunkards are no saints. They are riffraff. If you waver, they will skin you alive and-"
"Well, then it is a good thing that I do not intend to waver," Alice replied in a clipped tone, clucking. "I can kick your ass, so I can kick theirs too."
As if to prove her point, she looked around, searching for a random victim to bully around, and her red eyes landed upon an assistant chef.
"You," she said to the unlucky bastard, who jumped. He was a bulky guy, twice the size of Alice, yet he seemed to shrink under her gaze as Alice planted herself in front of him.
"You … pork … mince meat do … globes … looping and centrifuge," she told him in her broken Danish; it was so utterly terrible, Ryō wished his ears would fall off.
The man just stared at her, flabbergasted. No doubt, the poor soul had failed to understand a single word of her command.
Alice's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Now."
The man clicked his heels and saluted. "Aye, aye, Sir … err … Miss!" Then he staggered away, presumably to ask one of his fellows about what he was supposed to do.
Alice stuck up her nose in triumph.
"See," she said haughtily. "Child's play."
"That's Ole," deadpanned Ryō. "He's a pussy."
Alice ignored his statement, waving it away with a motion of her hand.
"So, while you are taking a day off today," she said, and suddenly she was standing behind him, pushing him towards the exit with surprising strength. "I will take the reins of this kitchen."
"But-"
"No buts," she said as she ushered him out of his territory, "I will personally ensure that nobody is going to starve. Actually …" She paused, and a smug expression crept on her face. "I assume your customers will be delighted about the change. They will finally get a chance to indulge in some real food."
Which was when Ryō snapped out of his bewilderment. He spun around, pointed an accusing finger at her, and opened his mouth, poised to hurl an entire storehouse of insults at her. Because her cooking wasn't that impressive, and there was no guarantee that she would beat him in their next cook-off … although the history of their matches spoke volumes about the possible outcome. He has yet to obtain a victory over the spoiled Nakiri brat. But this fact did not impair his confidence, not in the slightest.
However, those words he had intended to throw at Alice died in his throat when a strong hand grabbed his shoulder.
"Don't," warned a dark voice, and the hand squeezed his shoulder gently, pulling him away.
Ryō tensed at once.
The grip wasn't strong, but it was enough.
The panic arrived within seconds. Ryō felt it descending upon him with all its might, unstoppable and inescapable. His thorax tightened, his heart rate sped up, palpitating wildly in his chest. His mouth went dry, and his breathing became ragged and unsteady as his throat constricted with fear. Vivid images started filtering in; memories kept flashing through his mind, making him relive the most terrible moments of his life.
… a dimly lit room … a bare brick wall … a draft of air coming in from under the door … a naked light bulb swaying back and forth … fragments of broken bottles on the ground … he, sitting in a corner, hugging his knees … the fabric of his bandana wrapped around his wrist. His eyes followed the swinging light source with grim determination. Suddenly, there was a screeching noise … a current of cold air … the reek of tobacco and cheap vodka reaching his nose and a bulky shadow appearing in the doorway … a hand blocking his sight, reaching out for him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. A blood-curdling scream rent the air as he was lifted up. He squirmed, but he couldn't fight back. He was too weak, too helpless, like a puppy. Then he saw the cigarette glinting in the darkness, and his eyes flew open. He screamed out again, at first in fear … then in pain.
Suddenly, the hand shifted. It moved away from his shoulder, and Ryō cringed when it was placed on his head. He was petrified by the prospect of what was about to follow next.
To his surprise, nothing really happened. The hand just stayed in place.
With a mixture of dread and hope, heart still throbbing painfully in his chest, Ryō forced himself to look up.
Sōe Nakiri, Alice's father, was towering over him. Compared with his daughter and his wife and their unpredictable antics, he was a surprisingly uptight and stoic man, always wearing a pair of square glasses, a bespoke suit, and a grim expression on his face.
"There is no point in talking to her," he stated matter-of-factly. "My daughter won't stop, not when a friend of hers is in dire need."
He looked down at Ryō, studied him for a long while with that unreadable expression of his that let the hairs on Ryō's neck stand on edge. Suddenly his lips curved into a broad grin, and a gleam of paternal pride entered his eyes.
"She is so considerate and headstrong – just like her mother." he gushed. Happy tears were welling up in his eyes. And then, in a display of paternal affection, the hand resting on his head shifted and ruffled his hair. "So you better watch out, boy. She will run a tight ship and won't tolerate any disobedience."
Sōe Nakiri laughed and winked at him, a twinkle of mischief and knowing in his eyes.
But Ryō could only gawk at him, dumbfounded and bewildered. His mouth hung open, but he found himself unable to articulate any response. Apparently, his brain had just shut down.
The reaction – or rather the lack of any – elicited a chuckle from Sōe Nakiri. He withdrew his hand and placed it encouragingly on Ryō's upper back.
"Since there is no reason for us to overcrowd this place any longer, let's go outside, shall we?" he suggested. "My wife is waiting in the taproom, and I believe she will be delighted if you could provide her with some company. Leonora always enjoys having a good chat in her native language. She rarely has a chance to practice her Danish." He raised his free hand to shield his next words from his daughter's curious ears. "Between ourselves, my family isn't very proficient in picking up foreign language skills, and I-"
"Mou, Father, you're mean!" Alice barged in from behind, ears obviously as sharp as her kitchen knives. A ridiculously stern expression marred her features as she stared at her father. "Good very my Danish be."
"Of course, my dear." Sōe Nakiri bent forward and affectionately patted his daughter's head, although his smile seemed to have faltered a little bit as it appeared somewhat stiff and fixed. "You're Daddy's perfect little angel."
Alice gave a simpering, little laugh. "I know!"
Obviously pleased with herself, Alice spun around and headed back for the kitchen, eager to give the men living hell.
At the same time, Sōe Nakiri straightened his back and shifted his attention back to Ryō.
"Well, time to leave, son."
He gave Ryō a gentle push and steered him in the direction of the kitchen's exit.
And Ryō didn't fight back any longer. He surrendered.
Without resistance, he let himself be maneuvered out of his territory into the adjacent barroom, where Leonora Nakiri immediately swooped down on him. She fussed over him as if he was going to keel over any minute, even touching his forehead to check his temperature before forcing him into a random seat while simultaneously sending her husband out on errands to fetch warm blankets and damp towels.
And again, Ryō allowed it to happen.
Instead of arguing with Alice's mother about this unnecessary treatment, he leaned back, settling himself into his chair. He suddenly felt tired, and his eyelids were beginning to droop.
Next to him, Leonora made herself comfortable. She began babbling away in Danish. A constant stream of words was flowing from her mouth, spoken in a warm, reassuring tone; it almost felt like a foreign language to Ryō's ears. And then there was a hand again. It gently touched his mob of uncombed black hair, tenderly caressing his head, and lulling Ryō into a state of content and inner peace.
For the first time in a long while, Ryō was filled with a wave of warm fuzzies – a sensation entirely unrelated to the fever he was running.
He closed his eyes and was out like a light in seconds.
I know, I know … it is a common headcanon that Alice is fluent in Danish.
But I disagree with that. I picture her language skills being as bad as those of her mother. But nobody ever dared to point out the truth. And so she believes her Danish is flawless.
