[FIC] The Art of Love and Cooking : Chapter One : Échauder : Part 1/2 - Puck/Kurt (ENG)
Title: The Art of Love and Cooking
Author: sevenswells
Beta: drgaellon
Rating: R for language?
Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Puck/Kurt (and a little Top Chef season 2 too) (yeah, I know)
Warnings/Spoilers: None, really. It's Alternate Universe, in which glee club never happened (no Mr Schue, yay!). I don't think I'll include the baby drama either. Well, I haven't quite made up my mind about it yet. Also, this fic is a slow-building one, I'm sorry about that. Well, not too slow, hopefully. Lots of OCs, sorry about that too. There will be sex, there will be drama, but mainly, there will be FOOD, and a lot of talk about food because I'm an obsessive glutton.
Comments: The story comes originally from an incredible prompt I found on the puckurt comm; I kinda took the idea and ran away with it, though, so it's not exactly like the original prompt, even if the general idea is the same. Thanks to chavelaprincess for this awesome prompt that is currently ruining my life since I really don't have the time to write this but doing it anyway.
Word count: 3 770 T______T
CHAPTER ONE : ÉCHAUDER (1/2)
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Tweed-New Haven Airport. Local time is 11:20 and the temperature is 81 degrees Farenheit.
On behalf of US Airways and the entire crew, I'd like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we are looking forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Have a nice day."
About fucking time. Puck groaned deep in his throat as he mechanically rubbed at his eyelids with the heels of his hands, and grimaced. He tried to move his pasty tongue just to see if it could feel again, but it seemed to be fossilized inside the dryness of his mouth. Not a good thing, he decided grimly, he still needed it for work.
He'd never liked planes. Even if travelling first class was a big improvement from the first time he took an economy class seat in a plane flying out of Ohio to New York and then from New York to Paris, his big frame never really fit; he always felt too cramped and crowded. The air conditioning was torture, too; it dried him from inside out and left him with a thirst that could not be quenched, no matter how many times he called on the (fuckable, but weren't they all?) stewardess to bring him something to drink.
Then there was the food.
Puck tried not to be too much of a snob, most of the time. He'd eaten the most magnificent foods in the world and still tasted some earth-shattering, revolutionary dishes sometimes, so of course day-to-day couldn't really compare, but he would never spit on it either. There was still an all-American jock somewhere inside him who didn't care about fancy food and allowed him to enjoy, from time to time, a simple burger or mac and cheese without any fuss. He would be a hypocrite if he tried to erase from his record the time when the only cooking technique he knew was pouring hot water into a Cup-O-Noodles. After all, one of the most important things he learned in cooking class was that every single thing you ate in your life, even the bad stuff, was part of your experience as a chef.
He also knew he couldn't ask too much from airplane meals, but then again, he couldn't help it : dry, rubbery omelets were just plain irritating, no matter the circumstances. The croissant had remained untouched, hadn't even been looked at : croissants that weren't perfectly fresh, crispy and light to the teeth on the outside, fluffy as a cloud on the inside, still warm from the oven, could very likely be considered a crime against humanity in his book. The only breakfast item that had found favour with him had been the fresh fruit: thank God they hadn't done anything more to it than cut it into pieces. He was even surprised they hadn't managed to find a way to fuck up something as simple as cutting up a fruit.
Okay, so, usually, he wasn't so pissy. But it had been a long night, and he truly felt like shit : the bad food had merely been adding insult to injury.
Speaking of which, he was starving now. Luckily, it was almost lunch hour in Connecticut; he hoped his client had that covered at least. It would be great if the meeting took place at a local restaurant, as he was curious to test the quality of the tables there.
He took the file he'd barely read out of the attaché case again and reviewed it as the other passengers were gathering their belongings and starting to queue out. "Aurélien Marlowe and Evan J. Andrews", he read on the invitation that Gill had fixed with a paperclip on the file's cover. The Marlowe kid was a senator's son, according to Marcel. Yalie, law graduate, seasoned cricket player, the whole WASP nine yards... and a raging homo. His affected black-and-white portrait, probably taken by a professional photographer, said it all. Mother a French model, which explained the good looks and the ridiculous name from a Harlequin novel.
Evan J. Andrews was more of a mystery, though. Well, not in the gay department, at least : famous Broadway singer, tenor, had a thing for onstage cross-dressing, but he was known for being very discreet outside the stage. Very few public appearances, even fewer photos that actually showed his face in a recognizable way.
Gill had included a copy of some arts magazine in the file, featuring a long article about the guy but it had only one photo, picturing him onstage, in costume (Puck had had to squint a bit at the photo for several minutes before he could recognize Andrews was dressed as some sort of witch), most likely taken from a spectator's seat, and a little blurry on top of that. The guy's PRs had to be totally ninja to manage controlling his image like that.
So that was why Marcel had said that this was going to be a huge gig: big media-driven event coupled with what was likely to be a political coup. Marcel would have rather done it himself but the client had specifically asked for traditional French cuisine, and even Marcel had to recognize that was definitely Puck's forte.
Puck still remembered the heated (and very drunk) argument about molecular and classical cuisine that had started off their friendship, the first time he'd met the former Top Chef finalist, at a dinner after some cooking competition they were both invited to in Vegas. At first Marcel had been a little defiant and very unwilling to strike up a conversation with anybody present, in fear of spending an uncomfortable moment having to justify himself for having been on TV. Puck hadn't particularly wanted to bother, but he'd been bored; plus, there hadn't been really anybody else to talk to, so he'd kept trying to make the other young chef talk. After a few glasses of wine though, things had started to get out of control.
"Don't get me started on Ferran Adrià, man, the guy's a crook," Puck had said, drunkenly banging on the table with his fist. "Why would anyone want to do molecular cuisine anyway?"
"Because it's fun, innovative! Molecular's a true revolution, come on!"
"Mere fashion, all this, just for show. The product, man. When you guys grow up you'll realize cuisine should be all about the product. Even Bocuse..."
"Wha..." stammered Marcel.
"Lemme finish -- even Bocuse dropped Nouvelle Cuisine and went back to basics, to terroir -- shut up -- that guy, he's like, I dunno, Mr Miyagi combined with Obi Wan, you know? So far ahead of us, and he's, like, understood it all, like everything, man. Shut up, lemme speak. What I'm saying is... It all comes down to this. Simplicity. Taste. Product. Bocuse, dude." (Puck finished his glass of Côtes-du-Rhône in one gulp) "Bocuse."
"Bocuse? You cannot be serious! Bocuse is a fucking blimp, who's clinging to his past glory and regularly bribing the Michelin critiques just to hold on to his miserable stars and meaningless title. Now, Robuchon, on the other hand, he didn't hesitate to tell them to go fuck themselves. That guy doesn't need stars. Best fucking chef in the universe is what he is. Always putting himself in danger..."
"Just what the fuck are you talking about? Robuchon doesn't even have one restaurant running in the whole of France! He's flooding the US and Japan with fucking tapas bars, I mean what is the point? France is where gastronomy really matters, dude. There's no 'danger' anywhere else. You can't compare fighting crocodiles in the Amazonian and a friggin' walk in the park, seriously."
"You know what? You're so full of shit I don't even know where to start..."
And so it went.
But then after a few more glasses of excellent wine, they'd finally agreed to disagree and had been all bromacing over each other by the end of the evening. Puck had told Marcel that he totally should have won Top Chef, and that that Ilan dude was just a jackass that deserved a good punch in the face. Marcel had told Puck he'd been considering starting a catering business and he needed a business partner.
A few days later, sobered up, Puck had gone back to Los Angeles for a one-on-one cook-off with Marcel, to see if their collaboration could work.
Their cooking styles couldn't have been more different; nevertheless, even though the theme hadn't been fixed, they'd both gone for fish.
Puck had made crunchy sardine with thyme purée, quick-pickled lemon, tapenade and an oven-baked tomato stuffed with ground wheat, inspired by his broke culinary student days, when he could only eat cheap food like oil-canned sardines. The general direction of the dish didn't digress much from traditional Provençale cuisine, but that was his style after all: conservative, direct and simple, no tweaks, no tricks. The flavour was raw, uncompromising, the ground wheat and the herbs brought an earthy flavour to the dish. Either you liked it or you didn't, but there was no beating around the bush.
Marcel, he, had made a variation around oyster: oyster meringue, oyster caught in jelly and iodine long cake with caviar, fried shallots, diced daikon and beet as garnish. It was all there, the innovation and the fun Marcel had told Puck about : the play on the textures was constant, and Puck had kept eating the different components of the dish in shuffle mode, tasting one, then two together, then back to the first one, since they all complimented one another exquisitely. There was a softer echo of the flash-freezed meringue in the espuma that topped the jelly and the cake was a beautiful contrast in its tangibility against the elusive, airy espuma, and the watery nature of the jelly. It was almost reminiscent of Japanese cuisine, the subtlety with which it was all put together and the fact that it was less about the taste, which was, mainly, iodine, than about the texture.
Puck had realized then that not only were Marcel's cooking style and his own different, they were practically polar opposites.
"It's good, this," Marcel had said. "Not crazy about the tapenade but you seem to know your stuff. I honestly never thought sardine could taste so, well, high-end. You took risks, and I respect that."
"Yours is good too," Puck had gruffly recognized. "I still think espuma is prissy BS, but wow, that cake... Is there... what, is that chicken in there?"
"Turkey, yeah, that I've mixed with oysters."
"Wow. Good call, man."
Then Marcel had offered his open hand to a very dumbfounded Puck and said, "So. Wanna be partners in crime?"
Puck had hesitated, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.
"I... I'm sorry, Marcel: I thought what I did today would carry the message clearly enough. Your dish was great, I'll give you that, but it doesn't mean I'm ever gonna go molecular. It's just not my style. The dish I made today represents everything I will ever stand for, and as much as it would be great to work with you, I'm afraid that's final."
"Yeah, I got that. But maybe that's what I'm looking for. Maybe I need someone to counterbalance my own style, and our difference will be our strength. Or... something along those lines. You know, I wasn't looking for someone exactly like me. Well, to be perfectly honest, I didn't even know what kind of partner I was looking for in the first place, but after tasting your dish, I think you might be the man for the job. So what do you say, Puckerman? Shall we give it a try?"
Puck had finally shook Marcel's hand, saying, "Call me Puck," and that was that. Indeed, with their styles so different, they covered a lot of ground, so maybe that's why they started to acquire a reputation so fast in the business. Of course, the name "Marcel Vigneron" might have had a hand in that, too. Thank reality TV for small favours.
In the airport, Puck picked up his luggage and guitar case off the baggage carrousel and looked for the exit.
This deal, however, catering for a senator's son's gay wedding with a big name Broadway singer, was the first of real importance of all the contracts they'd had up until then. Massive importance, in fact.
"This is going to be your Vaux-le-Vicomte inauguration," Marcel had said.
"You mean I'll commit suicide before the end of the gig?"
"You do that, and I'll find a way to bring you back from Jew Hell for a special session of ass kicking, believe me. Let's say your Sistine Chapel, if you prefer, and by the way, François Vatel committed suicide at Chantilly, not Vaux-le-Vicomte. Whatever. My point is, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Screw this up, and I swear they'll never find your body. Am I clear?"
"Your threats have no teeth, monsieur Vigneron, I know my mother will avenge me in blood. My studies have cost her way too much to let it go to waste."
(Which wasn't entirely true, but Marcel didn't need to know that, did he?)
"Cut the bullshit for a few seconds and listen, Puck, I'm serious, here : if we score this, it will open all kinds of doors for us, and I'm talking ebony doors with handles of pure gold. Supposedly, we're as good as hired, but they want to meet you first, so they can be sure -- you know how emotional people can be about every single thing when wedding's on the line, and, obviously, food is a crucial matter. Swear to me you'll do whatever is humanly possible and even more to bring this deal home. We need it. Swear."
"You know me, man. I'll reel this baby in, no prob. Yeah, I swear."
A young woman in a severe navy blue suit and bright acid-yellow high-heeled shoes was waiting for him in the airport hall, holding a board announcing his full name. As Puck got closer, he judged her to be attractive, but it seemed she ferociously wanted people to forget about that: her blonde hair was pulled in an extreme ponytail that also slightly pulled her features back, so she looked a little like an alien that had stolen human skin to use it as a disguise, only the skin was a size too small. She was the type of woman who wanted to look efficient and not to be fucked with - in any sense of the expression. Her make-up had obviously been applied in a utilitarian way, no more, no less. Finally, her stilettos were shaped in a form that made Puck instinctively fear for his crotch.
"Chef Puckerman?" she said, shooting her hand right up in front of his chest in a bold, energetic move. It was so tiny and yet had such a steely grip that Puck felt his eyes water. "Beatrix Lonsdale, pleasure to meet you. I'm the planner."
She eyed the guitar case slung on his shoulder.
"You play the guitar?"
"That's an assault rifle, actually," he smiled.
He forced himself not to look down to check on the remaining distance between her pointy pumps and his genitals after the look she returned him.
"Our car is waiting. Follow me, please," she said icily and turned, stilettos clicking hard against linoleum.
Puck obeyed sheepishly, wishing he really had an gun instead of a stupid guitar in case he had to defend himself, and thinking "Beatrix" sure rhymed with a very specific word that fitted the girl like a glove.
In the ninety minute ride from the airport to the 52-acre estate located in the town of New Canaan where the wedding was supposed to take place, she filled him in on the details of the job.
Puck knew from the file Gill had prepared for him that it would in fact last full two weeks, and if Puck's hiring was confirmed, he was to remain on the premises to cater not only for the wedding itself, but also to provide his services for any meal of the day, small numbers or not, and for the various parties the couple will be hosting, since prestigious guests and members of the extensive family were expected, but were not all available at the same time. The main events would be the official engagement ceremony that would start off the festivities, the rehearsal dinner and, of course, the wedding dinner itself, which would be attended by 400 guests.
Beatrix explained that it would take place in the open, under a marquee, since the estate possessed an open meadow with a nearby waterfall and late-spring weather in Connecticut was usually perfect for this kind of occasion.
Puck's head was starting to spin, and that wasn't just because he was so famished he was ready to munch on the leather seats of the car. He wasn't intimidated, so to speak, but he was now learning full measure of what was expected of him as a chef for this occasion. His mind was already buzzing with the menus he was planning on doing. He felt truly excited, because that might be his chance to get completely wild with food. Yes, Beatrix told him, the budget was unlimited. No, he wouldn't have carte blanche on the menus, they would have to be discussed and approved first by the spouses-to-be. Yes, the kitchen in the main house was fully equipped, but there were additional kitchens too, in fact, there were two caretaker guest houses on the grounds of the estate, and Puck would be accommodated in one of them during the job. Although if he ever thought that that wouldn't be enough because the number of guests was significant indeed, there was the possibility of renting the kitchen of a nearby French restaurant called La Vie de Bohème, for preparations.
At some point the car took a turn through a pine forest, and soon, where the dusty road turned paved, they were approaching the main house, which Beatrix told him was really a French-style château, reminiscent of those of the Loire Valley in France. It was the first time Puck saw her express some kind of emotion, when she told him about the grand staircase inside. Chicks, he scoffed mentally, even though he might himself have gaped a little when he'd laid eyes on the building. He'd been in France for a long time, but he'd never visited the châteaux in the Loire Valley. Maybe those in France were more impressive or legit, but Puck thought this one did a pretty good job at being romantic and picturesque. White brick walls and grey roof tiles, and many large windows were what he noticed first, then when he stepped out of the car he could admire the pure, simple lines of the architecture without any flourish, brought out by the subtly landscaped surroundings. He knew nothing about construction, but he felt kinship with this one, based on his philosophy of cooking, what he was striving to achieve as a chef: purpose, conciseness, as well as maintaining the highest standards of simplicity.
Inside, the woodwork was as beautiful as the facade, and the furniture revealed taste and restraint, precious woods with no shine, only patina, which probably came with the privilege of being an old rich family in Fairfield County. Anything new in this place would probably stick out like a sore thumb. Puck had never been to a house with porcelain plates hung on the walls alongside oil-painted individual family portraits before, and flower arrangements upon corner tables made of stone and metal. He also noticed an old colourless flag torn into shreds attached to a trumpet, and a rusty sabre, both nailed above the chimney in the foyer, souvenirs from the Civil War, no doubt, as if the other ornaments all around weren't proof enough of this family's antiquity. Everything reeked of history and dignity, loaded with centuries and dust.
As they moved further into the foyer, they met a man of late middle-age with a graying beard and temples, clad in an expensive suit, on his way out. Beatrix took immediate control of the situation by presenting them to each other.
"Senator Marlowe, this is Chef Noah Puckerman. Chef Puckerman, meet Senator David Marlowe, the father of Aurélien."
"It's a pleasure, sir, " said Puck.
"The pleasure is all mine, Chef."
The senator's handshake was confident and practiced, and his smile was measured, not over-friendly, not condescending. A bonafide, pedigreed politician. He added, "So I gather it's Kurt who insisted on having you doing the catering for the wedding?"
With that Puck froze in his tracks. He hadn't heard that particular name in a very long time. Not since high school in fact. It wasn't a common name, not if you didn't live in a musical from the sixties. Yet, he knew such coincidences simply were impossible, so he shrugged the bad feeling away and politely asked, "I'm sorry, sir, who's Kurt?"
Mild surprise showed on Senator Marlowe's face.
"Ah," he said, so you haven't met him then. Here I was convinced you two knew each other. He's in the living room right now. Aurélien will join you in a few minutes. As for me, I'm afraid I can't attend to this particular matter just now, so I'm leaving everything to Miss Lonsdale here and the boys. They're the ones who get the last word, after all. I'll see you around, Chef."
When he mentioned Beatrix's name on his way past them, his hand had darted to pat on the young woman's shoulder. She'd shuddered almost imperceptibly, and the hand had lingered a second too long. From where he stood, Puck had had the utter conviction the old dirty bastard was totally banging the wedding planner. Interesting. Or not. Rich politicians, he thought, jaded. And chicks, he added mentally when he caught the fleeting look of longing that was out of place on the young woman's face, and quickly replaced with her much more conventional type-A mask.
When Puck entered the living room accompanied by Beatrix, and discovered who was waiting there for him, once the initial shock wore off, he was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to kick himself, violently. He should have known.
"Well," he said slowly, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. "Fuck me in the Ozarks." He heard Beatrix behind him faintly gasp at the profanity. "Kurt Hummel."
Chapter One part 2/2
Author: sevenswells
Beta: drgaellon
Rating: R for language?
Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Puck/Kurt (and a little Top Chef season 2 too) (yeah, I know)
Warnings/Spoilers: None, really. It's Alternate Universe, in which glee club never happened (no Mr Schue, yay!). I don't think I'll include the baby drama either. Well, I haven't quite made up my mind about it yet. Also, this fic is a slow-building one, I'm sorry about that. Well, not too slow, hopefully. Lots of OCs, sorry about that too. There will be sex, there will be drama, but mainly, there will be FOOD, and a lot of talk about food because I'm an obsessive glutton.
Comments: The story comes originally from an incredible prompt I found on the puckurt comm; I kinda took the idea and ran away with it, though, so it's not exactly like the original prompt, even if the general idea is the same. Thanks to chavelaprincess for this awesome prompt that is currently ruining my life since I really don't have the time to write this but doing it anyway.
Word count: 3 770 T______T
CHAPTER ONE : ÉCHAUDER (1/2)
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Tweed-New Haven Airport. Local time is 11:20 and the temperature is 81 degrees Farenheit.
On behalf of US Airways and the entire crew, I'd like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we are looking forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Have a nice day."
About fucking time. Puck groaned deep in his throat as he mechanically rubbed at his eyelids with the heels of his hands, and grimaced. He tried to move his pasty tongue just to see if it could feel again, but it seemed to be fossilized inside the dryness of his mouth. Not a good thing, he decided grimly, he still needed it for work.
He'd never liked planes. Even if travelling first class was a big improvement from the first time he took an economy class seat in a plane flying out of Ohio to New York and then from New York to Paris, his big frame never really fit; he always felt too cramped and crowded. The air conditioning was torture, too; it dried him from inside out and left him with a thirst that could not be quenched, no matter how many times he called on the (fuckable, but weren't they all?) stewardess to bring him something to drink.
Then there was the food.
Puck tried not to be too much of a snob, most of the time. He'd eaten the most magnificent foods in the world and still tasted some earth-shattering, revolutionary dishes sometimes, so of course day-to-day couldn't really compare, but he would never spit on it either. There was still an all-American jock somewhere inside him who didn't care about fancy food and allowed him to enjoy, from time to time, a simple burger or mac and cheese without any fuss. He would be a hypocrite if he tried to erase from his record the time when the only cooking technique he knew was pouring hot water into a Cup-O-Noodles. After all, one of the most important things he learned in cooking class was that every single thing you ate in your life, even the bad stuff, was part of your experience as a chef.
He also knew he couldn't ask too much from airplane meals, but then again, he couldn't help it : dry, rubbery omelets were just plain irritating, no matter the circumstances. The croissant had remained untouched, hadn't even been looked at : croissants that weren't perfectly fresh, crispy and light to the teeth on the outside, fluffy as a cloud on the inside, still warm from the oven, could very likely be considered a crime against humanity in his book. The only breakfast item that had found favour with him had been the fresh fruit: thank God they hadn't done anything more to it than cut it into pieces. He was even surprised they hadn't managed to find a way to fuck up something as simple as cutting up a fruit.
Okay, so, usually, he wasn't so pissy. But it had been a long night, and he truly felt like shit : the bad food had merely been adding insult to injury.
Speaking of which, he was starving now. Luckily, it was almost lunch hour in Connecticut; he hoped his client had that covered at least. It would be great if the meeting took place at a local restaurant, as he was curious to test the quality of the tables there.
He took the file he'd barely read out of the attaché case again and reviewed it as the other passengers were gathering their belongings and starting to queue out. "Aurélien Marlowe and Evan J. Andrews", he read on the invitation that Gill had fixed with a paperclip on the file's cover. The Marlowe kid was a senator's son, according to Marcel. Yalie, law graduate, seasoned cricket player, the whole WASP nine yards... and a raging homo. His affected black-and-white portrait, probably taken by a professional photographer, said it all. Mother a French model, which explained the good looks and the ridiculous name from a Harlequin novel.
Evan J. Andrews was more of a mystery, though. Well, not in the gay department, at least : famous Broadway singer, tenor, had a thing for onstage cross-dressing, but he was known for being very discreet outside the stage. Very few public appearances, even fewer photos that actually showed his face in a recognizable way.
Gill had included a copy of some arts magazine in the file, featuring a long article about the guy but it had only one photo, picturing him onstage, in costume (Puck had had to squint a bit at the photo for several minutes before he could recognize Andrews was dressed as some sort of witch), most likely taken from a spectator's seat, and a little blurry on top of that. The guy's PRs had to be totally ninja to manage controlling his image like that.
So that was why Marcel had said that this was going to be a huge gig: big media-driven event coupled with what was likely to be a political coup. Marcel would have rather done it himself but the client had specifically asked for traditional French cuisine, and even Marcel had to recognize that was definitely Puck's forte.
Puck still remembered the heated (and very drunk) argument about molecular and classical cuisine that had started off their friendship, the first time he'd met the former Top Chef finalist, at a dinner after some cooking competition they were both invited to in Vegas. At first Marcel had been a little defiant and very unwilling to strike up a conversation with anybody present, in fear of spending an uncomfortable moment having to justify himself for having been on TV. Puck hadn't particularly wanted to bother, but he'd been bored; plus, there hadn't been really anybody else to talk to, so he'd kept trying to make the other young chef talk. After a few glasses of wine though, things had started to get out of control.
"Don't get me started on Ferran Adrià, man, the guy's a crook," Puck had said, drunkenly banging on the table with his fist. "Why would anyone want to do molecular cuisine anyway?"
"Because it's fun, innovative! Molecular's a true revolution, come on!"
"Mere fashion, all this, just for show. The product, man. When you guys grow up you'll realize cuisine should be all about the product. Even Bocuse..."
"Wha..." stammered Marcel.
"Lemme finish -- even Bocuse dropped Nouvelle Cuisine and went back to basics, to terroir -- shut up -- that guy, he's like, I dunno, Mr Miyagi combined with Obi Wan, you know? So far ahead of us, and he's, like, understood it all, like everything, man. Shut up, lemme speak. What I'm saying is... It all comes down to this. Simplicity. Taste. Product. Bocuse, dude." (Puck finished his glass of Côtes-du-Rhône in one gulp) "Bocuse."
"Bocuse? You cannot be serious! Bocuse is a fucking blimp, who's clinging to his past glory and regularly bribing the Michelin critiques just to hold on to his miserable stars and meaningless title. Now, Robuchon, on the other hand, he didn't hesitate to tell them to go fuck themselves. That guy doesn't need stars. Best fucking chef in the universe is what he is. Always putting himself in danger..."
"Just what the fuck are you talking about? Robuchon doesn't even have one restaurant running in the whole of France! He's flooding the US and Japan with fucking tapas bars, I mean what is the point? France is where gastronomy really matters, dude. There's no 'danger' anywhere else. You can't compare fighting crocodiles in the Amazonian and a friggin' walk in the park, seriously."
"You know what? You're so full of shit I don't even know where to start..."
And so it went.
But then after a few more glasses of excellent wine, they'd finally agreed to disagree and had been all bromacing over each other by the end of the evening. Puck had told Marcel that he totally should have won Top Chef, and that that Ilan dude was just a jackass that deserved a good punch in the face. Marcel had told Puck he'd been considering starting a catering business and he needed a business partner.
A few days later, sobered up, Puck had gone back to Los Angeles for a one-on-one cook-off with Marcel, to see if their collaboration could work.
Their cooking styles couldn't have been more different; nevertheless, even though the theme hadn't been fixed, they'd both gone for fish.
Puck had made crunchy sardine with thyme purée, quick-pickled lemon, tapenade and an oven-baked tomato stuffed with ground wheat, inspired by his broke culinary student days, when he could only eat cheap food like oil-canned sardines. The general direction of the dish didn't digress much from traditional Provençale cuisine, but that was his style after all: conservative, direct and simple, no tweaks, no tricks. The flavour was raw, uncompromising, the ground wheat and the herbs brought an earthy flavour to the dish. Either you liked it or you didn't, but there was no beating around the bush.
Marcel, he, had made a variation around oyster: oyster meringue, oyster caught in jelly and iodine long cake with caviar, fried shallots, diced daikon and beet as garnish. It was all there, the innovation and the fun Marcel had told Puck about : the play on the textures was constant, and Puck had kept eating the different components of the dish in shuffle mode, tasting one, then two together, then back to the first one, since they all complimented one another exquisitely. There was a softer echo of the flash-freezed meringue in the espuma that topped the jelly and the cake was a beautiful contrast in its tangibility against the elusive, airy espuma, and the watery nature of the jelly. It was almost reminiscent of Japanese cuisine, the subtlety with which it was all put together and the fact that it was less about the taste, which was, mainly, iodine, than about the texture.
Puck had realized then that not only were Marcel's cooking style and his own different, they were practically polar opposites.
"It's good, this," Marcel had said. "Not crazy about the tapenade but you seem to know your stuff. I honestly never thought sardine could taste so, well, high-end. You took risks, and I respect that."
"Yours is good too," Puck had gruffly recognized. "I still think espuma is prissy BS, but wow, that cake... Is there... what, is that chicken in there?"
"Turkey, yeah, that I've mixed with oysters."
"Wow. Good call, man."
Then Marcel had offered his open hand to a very dumbfounded Puck and said, "So. Wanna be partners in crime?"
Puck had hesitated, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.
"I... I'm sorry, Marcel: I thought what I did today would carry the message clearly enough. Your dish was great, I'll give you that, but it doesn't mean I'm ever gonna go molecular. It's just not my style. The dish I made today represents everything I will ever stand for, and as much as it would be great to work with you, I'm afraid that's final."
"Yeah, I got that. But maybe that's what I'm looking for. Maybe I need someone to counterbalance my own style, and our difference will be our strength. Or... something along those lines. You know, I wasn't looking for someone exactly like me. Well, to be perfectly honest, I didn't even know what kind of partner I was looking for in the first place, but after tasting your dish, I think you might be the man for the job. So what do you say, Puckerman? Shall we give it a try?"
Puck had finally shook Marcel's hand, saying, "Call me Puck," and that was that. Indeed, with their styles so different, they covered a lot of ground, so maybe that's why they started to acquire a reputation so fast in the business. Of course, the name "Marcel Vigneron" might have had a hand in that, too. Thank reality TV for small favours.
In the airport, Puck picked up his luggage and guitar case off the baggage carrousel and looked for the exit.
This deal, however, catering for a senator's son's gay wedding with a big name Broadway singer, was the first of real importance of all the contracts they'd had up until then. Massive importance, in fact.
"This is going to be your Vaux-le-Vicomte inauguration," Marcel had said.
"You mean I'll commit suicide before the end of the gig?"
"You do that, and I'll find a way to bring you back from Jew Hell for a special session of ass kicking, believe me. Let's say your Sistine Chapel, if you prefer, and by the way, François Vatel committed suicide at Chantilly, not Vaux-le-Vicomte. Whatever. My point is, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Screw this up, and I swear they'll never find your body. Am I clear?"
"Your threats have no teeth, monsieur Vigneron, I know my mother will avenge me in blood. My studies have cost her way too much to let it go to waste."
(Which wasn't entirely true, but Marcel didn't need to know that, did he?)
"Cut the bullshit for a few seconds and listen, Puck, I'm serious, here : if we score this, it will open all kinds of doors for us, and I'm talking ebony doors with handles of pure gold. Supposedly, we're as good as hired, but they want to meet you first, so they can be sure -- you know how emotional people can be about every single thing when wedding's on the line, and, obviously, food is a crucial matter. Swear to me you'll do whatever is humanly possible and even more to bring this deal home. We need it. Swear."
"You know me, man. I'll reel this baby in, no prob. Yeah, I swear."
A young woman in a severe navy blue suit and bright acid-yellow high-heeled shoes was waiting for him in the airport hall, holding a board announcing his full name. As Puck got closer, he judged her to be attractive, but it seemed she ferociously wanted people to forget about that: her blonde hair was pulled in an extreme ponytail that also slightly pulled her features back, so she looked a little like an alien that had stolen human skin to use it as a disguise, only the skin was a size too small. She was the type of woman who wanted to look efficient and not to be fucked with - in any sense of the expression. Her make-up had obviously been applied in a utilitarian way, no more, no less. Finally, her stilettos were shaped in a form that made Puck instinctively fear for his crotch.
"Chef Puckerman?" she said, shooting her hand right up in front of his chest in a bold, energetic move. It was so tiny and yet had such a steely grip that Puck felt his eyes water. "Beatrix Lonsdale, pleasure to meet you. I'm the planner."
She eyed the guitar case slung on his shoulder.
"You play the guitar?"
"That's an assault rifle, actually," he smiled.
He forced himself not to look down to check on the remaining distance between her pointy pumps and his genitals after the look she returned him.
"Our car is waiting. Follow me, please," she said icily and turned, stilettos clicking hard against linoleum.
Puck obeyed sheepishly, wishing he really had an gun instead of a stupid guitar in case he had to defend himself, and thinking "Beatrix" sure rhymed with a very specific word that fitted the girl like a glove.
In the ninety minute ride from the airport to the 52-acre estate located in the town of New Canaan where the wedding was supposed to take place, she filled him in on the details of the job.
Puck knew from the file Gill had prepared for him that it would in fact last full two weeks, and if Puck's hiring was confirmed, he was to remain on the premises to cater not only for the wedding itself, but also to provide his services for any meal of the day, small numbers or not, and for the various parties the couple will be hosting, since prestigious guests and members of the extensive family were expected, but were not all available at the same time. The main events would be the official engagement ceremony that would start off the festivities, the rehearsal dinner and, of course, the wedding dinner itself, which would be attended by 400 guests.
Beatrix explained that it would take place in the open, under a marquee, since the estate possessed an open meadow with a nearby waterfall and late-spring weather in Connecticut was usually perfect for this kind of occasion.
Puck's head was starting to spin, and that wasn't just because he was so famished he was ready to munch on the leather seats of the car. He wasn't intimidated, so to speak, but he was now learning full measure of what was expected of him as a chef for this occasion. His mind was already buzzing with the menus he was planning on doing. He felt truly excited, because that might be his chance to get completely wild with food. Yes, Beatrix told him, the budget was unlimited. No, he wouldn't have carte blanche on the menus, they would have to be discussed and approved first by the spouses-to-be. Yes, the kitchen in the main house was fully equipped, but there were additional kitchens too, in fact, there were two caretaker guest houses on the grounds of the estate, and Puck would be accommodated in one of them during the job. Although if he ever thought that that wouldn't be enough because the number of guests was significant indeed, there was the possibility of renting the kitchen of a nearby French restaurant called La Vie de Bohème, for preparations.
At some point the car took a turn through a pine forest, and soon, where the dusty road turned paved, they were approaching the main house, which Beatrix told him was really a French-style château, reminiscent of those of the Loire Valley in France. It was the first time Puck saw her express some kind of emotion, when she told him about the grand staircase inside. Chicks, he scoffed mentally, even though he might himself have gaped a little when he'd laid eyes on the building. He'd been in France for a long time, but he'd never visited the châteaux in the Loire Valley. Maybe those in France were more impressive or legit, but Puck thought this one did a pretty good job at being romantic and picturesque. White brick walls and grey roof tiles, and many large windows were what he noticed first, then when he stepped out of the car he could admire the pure, simple lines of the architecture without any flourish, brought out by the subtly landscaped surroundings. He knew nothing about construction, but he felt kinship with this one, based on his philosophy of cooking, what he was striving to achieve as a chef: purpose, conciseness, as well as maintaining the highest standards of simplicity.
Inside, the woodwork was as beautiful as the facade, and the furniture revealed taste and restraint, precious woods with no shine, only patina, which probably came with the privilege of being an old rich family in Fairfield County. Anything new in this place would probably stick out like a sore thumb. Puck had never been to a house with porcelain plates hung on the walls alongside oil-painted individual family portraits before, and flower arrangements upon corner tables made of stone and metal. He also noticed an old colourless flag torn into shreds attached to a trumpet, and a rusty sabre, both nailed above the chimney in the foyer, souvenirs from the Civil War, no doubt, as if the other ornaments all around weren't proof enough of this family's antiquity. Everything reeked of history and dignity, loaded with centuries and dust.
As they moved further into the foyer, they met a man of late middle-age with a graying beard and temples, clad in an expensive suit, on his way out. Beatrix took immediate control of the situation by presenting them to each other.
"Senator Marlowe, this is Chef Noah Puckerman. Chef Puckerman, meet Senator David Marlowe, the father of Aurélien."
"It's a pleasure, sir, " said Puck.
"The pleasure is all mine, Chef."
The senator's handshake was confident and practiced, and his smile was measured, not over-friendly, not condescending. A bonafide, pedigreed politician. He added, "So I gather it's Kurt who insisted on having you doing the catering for the wedding?"
With that Puck froze in his tracks. He hadn't heard that particular name in a very long time. Not since high school in fact. It wasn't a common name, not if you didn't live in a musical from the sixties. Yet, he knew such coincidences simply were impossible, so he shrugged the bad feeling away and politely asked, "I'm sorry, sir, who's Kurt?"
Mild surprise showed on Senator Marlowe's face.
"Ah," he said, so you haven't met him then. Here I was convinced you two knew each other. He's in the living room right now. Aurélien will join you in a few minutes. As for me, I'm afraid I can't attend to this particular matter just now, so I'm leaving everything to Miss Lonsdale here and the boys. They're the ones who get the last word, after all. I'll see you around, Chef."
When he mentioned Beatrix's name on his way past them, his hand had darted to pat on the young woman's shoulder. She'd shuddered almost imperceptibly, and the hand had lingered a second too long. From where he stood, Puck had had the utter conviction the old dirty bastard was totally banging the wedding planner. Interesting. Or not. Rich politicians, he thought, jaded. And chicks, he added mentally when he caught the fleeting look of longing that was out of place on the young woman's face, and quickly replaced with her much more conventional type-A mask.
When Puck entered the living room accompanied by Beatrix, and discovered who was waiting there for him, once the initial shock wore off, he was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to kick himself, violently. He should have known.
"Well," he said slowly, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. "Fuck me in the Ozarks." He heard Beatrix behind him faintly gasp at the profanity. "Kurt Hummel."
Chapter One part 2/2