Chapter 2
"Hello there, is this place not yet taken?" asked a voice from behind Joe –a female voice, low and smooth with an alluring accent he couldn't quite place.
He spun around quickly.
Dark, kohl-rimmed eyes met his –eyes in a pale face with cut-glass cheekbones and dark red lips. Smooth black chin-length hair and bangs framed her face.
Joe stared…
"I regret I have arrived late. I am Myrtle."
This was Myrtle? She was wearing a sleek ensemble of sleeveless black turtleneck and black leather pants, she was tall and lithe, and she couldn't have been much more than 25 years old. But her badge confirmed her name.
She extended a hand in greeting. Her fingernails were dark red too.
Joe wrested himself from his surprised stupor to shake her hand. Her eyes roved his face and shirt.
"Hi," he replied, "I'm…" Crap.
Her gaze fixed on his badge.
"Fern –short for Fernando. Like that ABBA song," he blurted out.
"I like that song," she said calmly, and proceeded to take her place at the island's other cooking station, humming to herself and appraising everything with a critical eye.
"Yes," she said, "This will do. Everything necessary is here, and is top quality. We would expect no less from Julian Wilde, no?"
He had to know.
"So… you've done a lot of cooking?"
"Oh yes," replied Myrtle matter-of-factly, studying the label on a bottle of wine she'd pulled from a rack, "I am very good. And you?"
"Well," said Joe, trying not to let his desperation show, "When it comes to cooking, I'm more of a beginner. I'm here because it's a good cause –for charity and all."
"Ah," she said, smiling at him, "I am sure you have other talents," she added, with a suggestive raise of one eyebrow.
He smiled back. "Yes, I do."
She opened the wine and even procured two glasses from the depths of a cupboard.
"Then I am sure we can make a… mutually satisfying arrangement," she purred, handing him some wine, "I will help you cook."
She didn't say what she wanted in return but she drew close to him, languidly draping an arm over his shoulder to toy with the collar of his shirt while clinking her glass briefly against his. This was better than words.
"To us, then," said Joe, raising his glass and taking a sip.
"Yes," said Myrtle, "And to victory!"
This, thought Joe, as he and Myrtle shared a significant look, might turn out to be a very, very good day after all. He put his arm lightly around her waist.
"Now that we're all here, let us begin!" announced Chef Julian, his voice cutting through the din of entrants' clatter and conversation. Silence fell and Myrtle unwound herself from Joe and glided to her station.
Joe turned to face the front of the room again, and glanced briefly to his left.
Ken was staring right at him, looking appalled.
Hah! Joe took another sip of wine and smirked at Ken. Ken could have Jessica all to himself. He much preferred Myrtle anyway –it was like comparing a pink Corvette to a black Lamborghini.
And Myrtle was going to win. He was sure of it.
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Pâte Sucrée
200 grams (7 ounces) flour
30 grams (1 ounce) sugar
5 grams (¼ teaspoon) salt
100 grams (7 tablespoons) butter
1 egg mixed with 5 milliliters (1 teaspoon) of water
Joe looked at the recipe that was on the large screen directly behind Chef Julian. He guessed that it must be for pie crust but he had no clue what to actually do with the ingredients. He glanced over at Myrtle, who merely shrugged.
"It is a basic recipe," she said, "Not hard."
"Crafting fine pastry dough," declared Chef Julian, "requires mastering the delicate balance between the gluten, the fat, and the water. The pastry's strength comes from the flour's gluten and its tenderness from the fat in the butter but the moisture level in the flour, the type of butter used, how the two are mixed together, even the level of humidity in the air – all these things affect the balance."
Joe swallowed. This sure didn't sound easy.
"The water is crucial! It enables the formation of the gluten molecules," continued Chef Julian, parading back and forth at his cooking station and apparently admiring the changing views of his own face on the large screens around the room, "Too much, the dough will be dry and hard; too little and it will be crumbly and unworkable…"
Eventually he stopped lecturing and told everyone to combine their dry ingredients.
"Do not use a bowl," whispered Myrtle, "See what Julian is doing up there? Sift them together directly on the counter –like I am doing."
And a few minutes later, when Chef Julian told them to begin working in the butter she added "Here, use some of my butter. I have kept it in the freezer awhile and it is very cold now. Julian did not say –he is testing us- but it is better that way. Be quick and light with your hands too, see? Do not let them melt the butter."
Soon, Joe was relieved to see that his mixture –thanks to Myrtle's advice and example- was suitably "sandy" in texture and contained no large bits of butter.
But next, Chef Julian instructed them to form a "well" in their mixture, add the egg-and-water to it, and then blend it all together.
"I have prepared ice water too," whispered Myrtle as she handed him a small pitcher she'd pulled from the refrigerator, "Use this water with your egg –colder is better."
Chef Julian was now strutting up and down the room, past all the cooking stations, and evaluating all the pastry efforts. He was dimly aware that many entrants were receiving less-than-gentle critiques from him, though he was clearly restraining himself because they'd ponied up ten grand to be here. Joe kept a close eye on Myrtle's hands and tried to do what she was doing. She added a tiny splash more of ice water to her mixture, glanced at his and whispered "You just need a few extra drops." A moment later she told him "Stop now –yours is good. It is a mistake to overwork dough –that makes it tough."
Joe stepped back and sighed, stretching his neck side to side before washing and drying his hands. He hadn't realized how absorbed he'd been in his efforts. Myrtle poured some more wine in his glass.
Chef Julian strolled by and paused for a moment to examine his and Myrtle's pastry (and Myrtle). "Well done," he said, sounding genuinely impressed. As the Chef moved on, he and Myrtle shared a congratulatory smirk and she showed him how to wrap his dough in plastic to chill in the refrigerator.
Ken's and Jessica's pastry, however, each only merited a neutral "hmm," from the Chef.
Hah!
"I'm afraid I don't have the experience that comes with age," remarked Jessica, ostensibly to Ken but rather louder than necessary
Myrtle rolled her eyes.
"So tell me," said Joe, now lounging against the counter and gazing admiringly at his ass-saving pastry mentor, "Where did you learn how to do all that? Did you attend the Cordon Bleu?"
She laughed a low, smoky laugh. "I have been many places and learned many things," she said, with a mysterious little tilt of her head, "I get bored easily, and ever want… new experiences." She was moving her gaze slowly down Joe's body as she spoke, stirring a response of anticipation within him.
"You can tell a lot about a man, I find," she said, "By watching him cook. Cooking is, in essence, an art meant to create sensual pleasure."
"Oh?" said Joe warmly.
"Yes, a man who will take the time to prepare and share a finely made meal is a man who…" She let her words trail off, but her gaze was intense.
"I was watching you," she continued, "and you say you are new to cooking, but you are good. True cooking is not learned from a book –it is all about using your hands and relying on instincts. You learn it by immersing yourself in it and living it. I sense that you have much potential to be… superb."
"Attention, everyone!" blared Chef Julian's voice, interrupting a conversation whose direction Joe was liking very much.
Smiling to herself, Myrtle now turned her attention to the front of the room.
"While everyone's pastry is chilling," continued Chef Julian, "we will prepare the 'apple' part of the apple pie, or should I say, 'tarte aux pommes.'" New information appeared on the screen behind him.
For the apple compote:
1 kilogram (2¼ pounds) Golden Delicious apples
½ lemon
50 grams (1½ ounces) sugar
30 milliliters (2 tablespoons) water
For the garnish:
800 grams (1¾ pounds) Golden Delicious apples
½ lemon
50 grams (3 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon) melted butter
For the glaze:
100 grams (3½ ounces) apricot jam, puréed
20 milliliters (1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon) water
"You will naturally need to begin with the apples themselves," added the Chef.
With Myrtle at his side, Joe had no doubt he'd get through this part of the recipe just fine too. And, he was very skilled with knives. He had several apples immaculately peeled in little more than a minute.
And Myrtle, with a deft whack-whack-whack of her knife –at a speed that would cost many people a finger or two- produced neat and uniform apple slices.
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He and Myrtle had each placed their pies -as appealing to look at as he was sure they would be to eat, with perfectly rolled and shaped pastry and open-topped spiral designs of thinly and precisely sliced apple- into the oven to bake.
His first-ever pie, he thought, feeling oddly relaxed and happy. Who knew that cooking could be so enjoyable?
He was gazing at Myrtle as she gracefully wended her way through the rows of cooking stations, like a model on a catwalk, towards the ladies room…
Somebody behind him smacked his arm –and rather hard too! He turned quickly.
Ken. And an angry looking Ken, at that.
A hasty glance around revealed that Jessica was up at the front of the room, engrossed once more in sucking up to Chef Julian –not that it was going to do her any good, Joe was certain now that his Myrtle would triumph here today.
"What do you think you're doing, Joe?" demanded Ken in a piercing whisper.
"That's 'Fern,' to you!" said Joe, also trying to keep his voice low.
"That woman," said Ken, gesturing in the direction Myrtle had gone, "Who is she?"
"She's Myrtle Vlach –who the hell else would she be?"
"She could be the very person that I'm protecting Princess Jessica from –with no help from you, I might add!"
"What? You think Myrtle's an assassin? No way!"
"So where does she live then? What kind of job does she have? Has she told you anything like that?"
"No," admitted Joe, "But that's hardly proof that Myrtle's here to kill Princess Jessica!"
"She's as much a 'Myrtle' as you are a 'Fern,' but she sure has you fooled, doesn't she?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" hissed Joe.
"I'm trying to do a job –our job- of protecting the Princess and staying vigilant but I have to watch you over here swilling wine and playing some little seduction game with a woman who's got 'Galactor' written all over her!"
Ken's earlier words, "You're a magnet for disaster," came back to him, along with a rush of anger.
"Yeah, right. I understand, Ken –and Jessica is an annoying ditz, isn't she? Why don't you admit that you're just jealous that I'm actually enjoying myself here? Hell, that I'm actually capable of enjoying myself?"
"You like her, and she's all over you!" snapped Ken, "That's all the proof I need that this 'Myrtle' is up to no good!" With that, Ken turned and stalked back to his cooking station.
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Joe studied the newest recipe on the large screen at the front of the room, while, once again, Chef Julian made his rounds as all the entrants' "tartes aux pommes" emerged hot from the ovens. Once again, his and Myrtle's pies (and Myrtle herself) received especially approving looks from the Chef. The actual taste test, though, wouldn't happen till the end of the day.
Boeuf Bourguignon
6-ounce chunk of unsmoked, unsalted lean pork belly
Olive oil
3 lbs. lean stewing beef, cut into 2-3 inch chunks
3 cups full-bodied, young red wine
2 cups beef bouillon
1 tablespoon tomato paste
2 to 3 cloves of mashed garlic
½ teaspoon of thyme
1 bay leaf
Salt
For the garniture:
1 lb. fresh mushrooms
½ tablespoon oil
1½ tablespoon butter
¼ teaspoon salt
18 to 24 small white onions
1 tablespoon butter
½ teaspoon salt
Water
"We didn't drink all the wine, did we?" asked Joe, as Chef Julian headed back to the front of the room.
"No," said Myrtle, amused, "There is plenty left for this." She proceeded to open a new bottle, and splashed a little in his glass.
He cast a quick glance over at Jessica. Ken was standing near her and so far no one had tried to kill her today. In all likelihood, no one would –that message the ISO intercepted could have meant anything, or nothing. No, he didn't really need to bother watching Princess Jessica.
He much preferred watching Myrtle chopping beef into chunks anyway.
Now she was showing him just how to lightly brown lardons (pork belly cut into 1x1¼ inch sticks, she'd explained) in a pan with a little oil.
"Render out the fat," Chef Julian had instructed, "You will use it for browning the beef."
Browning the beef entailed putting the fat into a skillet –"enough to 'film' the skillet, no more," Myrtle said- and getting it hot –"but not so it smokes, that is too hot."
Browning the beef chunks in the skillet was a fairly straight forward process, aided by Myrtle's whispered hints, "a few at a time, do not crowd the skillet" and "keep turning them, frequently."
Then, it wasn't too hard to arrange the browned pieces of beef in a casserole dish, to pour the browning fat out of the skillet and to instead add the wine.
"Scrape up all the brown bits from the skillet into the wine –they are most flavorful."
Next the wine too was added to the casserole dish, along with the lardons and some bouillon ("just enough so all the beef is covered"), and the tomato paste, garlic, thyme, bay leaf and salt.
"Bring it all to a simmer on top of the stove," directed Chef Julian, "And then cover it and keep it simmering in the oven for at least a couple hours."
"Until the beef is tender," whispered Myrtle, "You test it with a fork."
Chef Julian was making rounds again. A woman ahead of him got chided for burning her beef, someone else for adding too much bouillon, a man at the station behind him for forgetting to add the garlic.
His and Myrtle's efforts had received approving looks. Ken's and Jessica's apparently passed muster. But the competition element of this whole event was receding in importance to him now. He was leaning over his stove, sniffing appreciatively as the casserole dish's contents began simmering.
Mmmm, delicious. And somehow even… comforting? Out of necessity –he lived in a trailer, after all- he'd always pretty much regarded food as no more than the necessary fuel to keep his body doing what he needed it to do: fighting Galactor.
But now, the savory aromas of a real, well-prepared meal wafted into the dark recesses of his mind and stirred up unfamiliar, vague feelings of…
Of peace, of safety…
Things he had lost, so many years ago. But there was more…
He was a Science Ninja, committed to the defeat of Galactor, and that entailed sacrifice, a soldier's lifestyle that was in many ways bleak and spartan.
But deep within him, some part of him had always craved the fullest and richest experiences that life had to offer. He knew that every new day could easily be the one that ended with him dead.
He'd sought ways to feel more intensely alive, to reassure himself that if today really was the end for him, then he'd lived as much as he could have; the heart-thumping chaos of the racetrack, tires squealing, careening around bends at the very edge of losing all control; the feel of a woman's body in his arms, sharing passion, sating a primal hunger.
Feeling free, even though his job was defending the entire world.
But it was a revelation to him now that the chore he'd no time for, the mundane act of cooking, could in fact elevate mere eating into an experience that enhanced the very act of living, another kind of sensual satiety.
A hand on his, caressing softly; it was Myrtle's. A warm look in her dark eyes as she stared into his, saying nothing; she really understood –he could tell.
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He'd heated the butter and oil in a skillet ("until the butter foam begins to subside") and he was tossing the chopped, fresh mushrooms lightly, letting them brown –but not too much.
He was really getting the hang of this, he thought.
Next were all the little onions. Myrtle showed him how dropping them all briefly in boiling water made them a whole lot easier to peel.
"Pierce them with a knife in their root ends too, about a quarter inch deep," Myrtle advised him quietly, "Then they will not burst during cooking."
Joe laughed, moving closer to her. "Is there anything you don't know about cooking? How did you learn all this?" he asked.
She merely smiled mysteriously.
"No really," Joe said, realizing then just how much he wanted a real answer, "Where do you live? What do you do?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Where do you live? What do you do?"
Crap! What to say…
"Because," she added, raising an eyebrow, "I do not think you write romance novels, Fern."
He froze. Playfully, she threw an onion at him. He managed, barely, to dodge it and it hit the man at the station behind him –a man who scowled fiercely at Myrtle, thick brows drawn together, but stayed silent.
"Ah," she said, frowning slightly, "So we both have our secrets, then."
He didn't reply; he turned away and occupied himself with listening to Chef Julian tell them all to put the onions in a saucepan with butter, salt and water to simmer until tender.
As much as he hated the notion, could Ken, in fact, be right about Myrtle? Ken did have, he admitted, an annoying tendency to be right.
No, he told himself, not this time. A man's luck could change.
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1 tablespoon butter
¼ cup onion, finely diced
¼ cup celery, finely diced
¼ cup carrot, finely diced
15 ounces tomatoes, cut up in pieces
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 pound shrimp in the shell
5 cups seafood stock
1 cup dry vermouth
4 tablespoons raw rice
2 tablespoons butter
½ cup heavy cream
Salt and pepper
A new list of ingredients appeared on the screen behind Chef Julian.
"Your garnitures will need to simmer for at least 30 minutes," announced Chef Julian from the front of the room, "In the meantime, direct your attention to the other screens and watch me as I demonstrate my famous –and hitherto secret- recipe for Bisque aux Crevettes!"
"His shrimp bisque," said Myrtle, "This actually could be quite interesting."
"Those of you who wish to watch me up here are welcome to gather around," he added.
Several people did. Jessica hightailed it to the front of the room too –probably still hoping to ingratiate herself with Chef Julian, Joe thought. Ken, looking less enthusiastic, followed her. It must have been dawning on him that no one was going to attack Jessica at this event, but he was ever diligent. He and Myrtle stayed where they were. She poured him some more wine…
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"Now you, and you alone know just how to prepare my personal version of Bisque aux Crevettes –a dish that won me the Prix d'Or in the soup category at last year's Institut du Monde Culinaire competition!" declared Chef Julian grandly, "And everyone will get a chance to taste it after it has simmered for a little while."
Everyone seemed to be excited about that, and Joe realized that he was looking forward to it too. In fact, he was wondering if Jun would let him use the kitchen at the Snack J to try making it himself sometime…
"But now, as your stews still need more time in the ovens, everyone who has not already done so -set your garnitures aside. I direct you all now to the room just through those doors over there. It's a small theatre, equipped with very comfortable chairs, and you can all relax for a little while and enjoy an exclusive, premiere showing of a documentary film of the tour I did last year, exploring the most exotic foreign cuisines the world has to offer."
It had been a long day, as he and Ken had left Utoland on a very early flight that morning. It felt good to settle into a cushy chair in the back row of the theatre and stretch his legs out in front of him, Myrtle at his side. Ken and Jessica were in the front row.
He'd had, he realized, probably a little more wine than he ought to have had –he'd lost track of how often she'd added to his glass. The theatre was very dark, now that the film had started, and he was feeling a little drowsy.
The documentary might even have been interesting, but his thoughts were drifting…
He was glad he'd come here today, even though he'd gotten nowhere with Princess Jessica (and frankly, no longer wanted to) and even though it didn't look like he'd be thwarting any Galactor attacks against her. Still, he did feel a twinge of guilt for pretty much leaving all the guard duty to Ken.
But Ken was more than capable of handling it all himself.
And Myrtle was so…
He moved his arm to put it around her shoulders –but she wasn't there. When had she gotten up and left? Surely he hadn't been so sleepy as to not notice that?
But apparently he had been. In the darkness, a tall, slim form outlined against the screen walked in front of him now and then settled into the chair beside his.
"Come with me," she whispered in his ear. He could feel her hair brushing against his face, but especially her hand on his thigh.
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An office of some kind, cluttered with cooking paraphernalia –once the door closed behind them he could barely see in the faint light emitted by a digital clock on the desk. But that didn't matter; he could still feel.
He could feel Myrtle's closeness, her hands on his arms urging him across the room and into the chair; he could feel her leather-clad thighs sliding sleekly over his. The chair tilted back. She was astride him, undulating softly against him as her hands slid across his chest, along his shoulders and neck and then entwined themselves in his hair, stroking. He could feel her breath as the contours of her face moved lightly over his, feel even the slight brush of her eyelashes, and then the warm, supple wetness that was her mouth on his, seeking. Asking…
He shouldn't be doing this. He was supposed to be on duty, guarding the Princess.
But surely he could leave all that to Ken.
He couldn't not do this. Every day could be his last and he needed to live; he needed this.
He'd been holding her around her waist, but now his hands found their way beneath her shirt, touching her skin, as he answered her tentative kiss with one far more hungry, his lips pressing against hers, his tongue seeking entry.
Neither of them spoke at all; words weren't necessary. Hands, lips, bodies caressed, stroked and explored as shed garments accrued on the floor…
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"I was right about you," she murmured, kissing his shoulder, "Superb."
Their bodies still one, he responded by pulling her even closer against his chest, as the rise and fall of her breathing joined and gradually slowed in time with his own.
He knew they had to get out of here –back to reality- and soon, but first, one last kiss…
The door flew open. Light flooded in.
Joe could see past Myrtle, see that the intruder was the thick-browed man from the cooking station behind his own.
"Hey!" said Joe, fully expecting the man to react with shocked embarrassment and to flee, as Myrtle craned her neck around and gasped.
Instead he looked outraged and –what the hell?- he didn't leave. He just put his hands in his pockets and-
It all happened so damned fast.
Myrtle grabbed something from the desk, twisted her torso, flung her arm out.
The man collapsed to the floor, a kitchen knife embedded in his chest.
What the hell?!
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