(no subject)
There's a certain amount of love that goes into each dish a chef prepares. Sure, there's the usual desire, longing, absolute need to get as much of it as you can before it's out of your life, but the thing is, for good food, we'll do a lot to find it and then keep it in our lives. And to please people with good food, well...there's just no letting go of that.
He's been prepping for the full day and considering he's only seating one turn, Jack's freaking out, he is freaking out. He's had to check everything about a dozen times and he wishes Steven were there to slap him or do the work for him because really, the fact that Jack's done all the prep himself is incredible.
It does just mean that the people are getting food touched by a demi-god. Or a half-god. Whichever of those is more.
He's got his little servers and after nodding to them and insisting on more cleavage -- hey, the guys too, what's a little arm-muscle porn? -- he's started to push out the meals when everyone's seated.
The amuse bouche is perfect, the tuna sushi wrapped in seaweed, drizzled on the side with a vinaigrette with just the slightest hint of tartness and lemon zest within it. One roll apiece is all people get and if he hears the first word of complaint, someone's getting a chef's knife in their jugular.
The first course is one of Jack's favorite, considering how much time and effort he's put into the gnocchi, which, as he drills into the waiters' heads is "Homemade. Fresh! Incredibly delicious!" and laid out carefully on a bed of perfectly-calibrated spinach.
The thing is...okay, so the thing is that presentation's a little worse than usual, but only because this place doesn't have the plates Jack needs to really razzle-dazzle the crowds.
By the second course, he's in his prime, the timing is perfect, nothing's leaving the elements cold and it's smooth sailing, it's a party, it's just about time to feed the chicken. The next plate that goes out is the papaya risotto and each plate is made perfect with a caramelized side of mango slices. God, Jack is good. He knows it, but seeing it out there. He's good.
The pear sorbets out, fast, fast, fast as you can, and Jack's on a roll, he's living off the adrenaline.
The rabbits are his crowning victory, his jewel of the meal. He'd managed to get up the cojones took an axe and...well, there they are braised on a plate and served atop polenta, coated in a rich strawberry jus and then there's the small rosebud's worth of twice-baked potato, infused with pumpkin and just barely drizzled in a hint of cheese.
"Alright, people, we're rocking!" he announces to an empty kitchen while plating the cheese platter, with a slice of pasteurized sheep's milk cheese and one of pasteurized goat's milk with three sweetened honey-breadsticks in the midst of it and a sliced strawberry in the corner, drizzled with cinnamon.
By the time the bananas flambe with vanilla ice creme is out there (which, also, from scratch!), Jack's ready to collapse and sweet Jesus, but he's done. He's made it and he's done and with service over, he nearly skips his way over to the doorway of the rec room to watch people polish off their meals.
"I'm good," he announces to himself, chef's coat smudged with everything you could name, but god, did it smell like victory to Jack.
[See slated post for details! Please keep in mind that this is closed-invitation and if you were not on the list the other day, you will not be eating the dinner.]
He's been prepping for the full day and considering he's only seating one turn, Jack's freaking out, he is freaking out. He's had to check everything about a dozen times and he wishes Steven were there to slap him or do the work for him because really, the fact that Jack's done all the prep himself is incredible.
It does just mean that the people are getting food touched by a demi-god. Or a half-god. Whichever of those is more.
He's got his little servers and after nodding to them and insisting on more cleavage -- hey, the guys too, what's a little arm-muscle porn? -- he's started to push out the meals when everyone's seated.
The amuse bouche is perfect, the tuna sushi wrapped in seaweed, drizzled on the side with a vinaigrette with just the slightest hint of tartness and lemon zest within it. One roll apiece is all people get and if he hears the first word of complaint, someone's getting a chef's knife in their jugular.
The first course is one of Jack's favorite, considering how much time and effort he's put into the gnocchi, which, as he drills into the waiters' heads is "Homemade. Fresh! Incredibly delicious!" and laid out carefully on a bed of perfectly-calibrated spinach.
The thing is...okay, so the thing is that presentation's a little worse than usual, but only because this place doesn't have the plates Jack needs to really razzle-dazzle the crowds.
By the second course, he's in his prime, the timing is perfect, nothing's leaving the elements cold and it's smooth sailing, it's a party, it's just about time to feed the chicken. The next plate that goes out is the papaya risotto and each plate is made perfect with a caramelized side of mango slices. God, Jack is good. He knows it, but seeing it out there. He's good.
The pear sorbets out, fast, fast, fast as you can, and Jack's on a roll, he's living off the adrenaline.
The rabbits are his crowning victory, his jewel of the meal. He'd managed to get up the cojones took an axe and...well, there they are braised on a plate and served atop polenta, coated in a rich strawberry jus and then there's the small rosebud's worth of twice-baked potato, infused with pumpkin and just barely drizzled in a hint of cheese.
"Alright, people, we're rocking!" he announces to an empty kitchen while plating the cheese platter, with a slice of pasteurized sheep's milk cheese and one of pasteurized goat's milk with three sweetened honey-breadsticks in the midst of it and a sliced strawberry in the corner, drizzled with cinnamon.
By the time the bananas flambe with vanilla ice creme is out there (which, also, from scratch!), Jack's ready to collapse and sweet Jesus, but he's done. He's made it and he's done and with service over, he nearly skips his way over to the doorway of the rec room to watch people polish off their meals.
"I'm good," he announces to himself, chef's coat smudged with everything you could name, but god, did it smell like victory to Jack.
[See slated post for details! Please keep in mind that this is closed-invitation and if you were not on the list the other day, you will not be eating the dinner.]