Bad Stereotypes - 14. Saturday 22nd June 2013 (later)

Dale had been more than happy for me to start late at the bar. When I’d asked him, I was expecting to need to fight about it, but I was surprised when Dale looked up from the accounts (I was counting up coins for the bank) in delight.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your hours.” Dale grinned, “Oh don’t looked so worried Bay. I gave you too many. You’re over worked.”

“I am?”

“Bay, you’re doing ten hours four days a week and two days on five hours.” Dale motioned for me to sit at the other chair, “not to mention all of the office stuff. You need time to have a life too.”

“OK.”

“So who is he?” Dale arched an eyebrow at me, “Bay, I know you can’t cook. Who is making you lunch?”

“Issac Daneil. He’s the chef at The Fish and Antlers.”

“Cute?”

“D!” I hid my blush in my hands, “I can’t talk to you about that.”

“Why not?” Dale leant back in his chair, looking pleased with himself, “I want to know if my favourite Godson is happy.”

“I’m your only Godson.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t be my favourite. Tell you what, do full shifts Tuesday, Friday, Saturday and start at eight on Wednesday and Thursday’s yeah?”

“I get until eight?”

“Yup. So go and have a shower kiddo. You need to look nice for your date.”

I wore my best black and red checked shirt with dark stone washed blue jeans and my nice shoes. I growled at my hair, pushed it back and wished I had the time to get it cut, it was getting too long in the back, and I didn’t like that so much.

The Fish and Antlers turned out to be a mid-sized and beautifully presented restaurant in the fashionable arty district of the city. The frontage was pale dove grey, superimposed with a battleship grey logo of a salmon with moose antlers. The name was written in heavy sleek lettering over the door. There was a young guy setting tables went I knocked gently on the glass.

“We’re not open yet.” He gestured to the opening hours etched on the glass door.

“I’m Bay.”

“Oh!” the smart looking young man left his table and walked over to the door, once unlocked he grinned at me, “Chef said you were coming. Welcome to The Fish and Antlers sir.”

No one had ever called me ‘sir’ before, and it was really odd to be led through the beautiful, pristine restaurant, half the tables set for evening service having been cleared down once after lunch, by a man older than me who treated me like a paying customer. Until we got to the swing door by the kitchen.

“Chef!”

The kitchen was white and stainless steel and bustling. I scanned the room for Issac and spotted at least four chefs before I saw him smiling at me. There was produce, meat and vegetables everywhere, but the chaos seemed organised, and all the chef’s moved with purpose around the room. It was also loud, and Issac and another chef had clearly been interrupted doing an air guitar rendition of ‘Sweet Child o’Mine.’

“Your guest is here chef.”

“Thank you Micky.”

Micky bowed himself out back to the front of house, and Issac left his station and came towards me, wiping hands on his white chef’s jacket. I couldn’t help but wonder if he wore a shirt underneath it.

“Hi… Chef.” I smiled, I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I didn’t dare.

“Bay, call me Issac. Only they have to call me chef. You have a nice day?”

“Yeah. I got more hours off work.”

“Really? “ Issac brushed my shoulder with one hand, “So how long have I got you for?” Issac grinned like an excited child, and before I could say anything he had his hand on my hips and had lifted me onto a surface at the side of the kitchen. I yelped, not realising I was that light, or that he was that strong, and not especially liking being handled like a child.

“Until eight. How was lunch?”

“Busy, we did good service.”

“Well…” one of the chef’s muttered as he went past and Issac clipped him with a dish cloth as he went by, lightning quick.

“Don’t dwell on the mistakes Barny. Just learn from them and move on.” Issac began to gather things from around the kitchen and I watched, fascinated, as he took the bag of groceries from the market and began to do things to them with a speed that made me concerned for his fingers. “So how was the rest of your morning Bay?”

I shrugged.

“It was good. What are doing then?”

Issac smiled at me, rubbed a hand through his hair and showed me the things he hand laid out. The little lamb joint had been studded with garlic and marinated in olive oil and mint. It smelled so good I want to eat it right away. But apparently that was sacrilege to good lamb. After watching Issac dissect the lizard-like cauliflower in less than ten seconds, I kept my fingers off the chopping board. Eventually he handed me one of the stripy beetroots and a small finger sized knife while he peeled the carrots.

“You left handed? Hold the knife like this, put you thumb on the other size of the root, it’ll protect it. Just peel down slowly and don’t cut yourself.”

“Easy for you to say.” I kept the vegetable close to my chest as chef’s moved around the kitchen at high speed with hot or sharp things, and peeled carefully until Issac took the beetroot, sliced it into stripy rings and tossed it along with the others in some oil and spices. Watching Issac cook was interesting, like watching a play or an opera in a foreign language, fascinating but incomprehensible. He explained what he was doing, but I didn’t really follow it, too distracted by the shape of his lips when he spoke, the fluid movements of his hands and the graceful lines of his body as he moved around the kitchen.

“We ready for lunch people?”

“Yes chef!” the reply in a multitude of voices made me grin, and after being beckoned by Issac I hopped off the surface and followed Issac and the chefs to a long table near the back of the kitchen which was set for ten.

“This is the chef’s table,” Issac grinned over his shoulder to me as he walked, “Sometimes we have guests come and eat in here to see how we work.”

“Yeah, it’s was such a great idea.” One of the chefs rolled his eyes and grinned, his teeth very white against his black skin, “Issac doesn’t half love to throw us for a loop.”

Someone threw something at him, and he sat down. Issac sat me in the chair at the head of the table and I passed him a stack of bowls. Somehow, the things I’d bought had been turned into a thick dark stew, rich with the flashing colours of the vegetables, and the aroma made my mouth water. Issac served me first, then passed bowls around the table for his chefs. Micky from the front of house joined us and was introduced to me as the new maitre’D of the restaurant. Micky sat next to me on my other side and grinned.

“So Issac tells us we have your influence to thank for our lunch?”

I blushed crimson and looked at Issac, who made an encouraging noise and ate another piece of meat.

“I have no idea really. I went for things that looked shiny. I have no idea how he made it into this.”

“Your new boy is a bit of a magpie Chef.” The speaker was Barny, who Issac had clipped before with the cloth. He was pink and brown and sort of non-descript looking. I didn’t like his tone. Micky threw a spoon at him, “Oi! What’d I say?”

“Remind me why I kept you on?” Issac grunted, and then he turned back to me, “Don’t mind them. You want to stick around for a bit when service starts? It is kinda boring but…”

“Sure.” I stopped, not wanting to appear too needy, “I have time.”

“Good.” Issac smiled, and turned back to his food. There was a menu lying on the table so I picked it up, decided that it was useful cover to be able to watch him more closely while ‘reading.’ The menu was crisp and beautiful, just like the restaurant, and contained no prices. It was that sort of restaurant apparently.

Seeing Issac in his natural environment was somehow different, and it made me look at him differently too. He was calm and confident, and oozed sex appeal like there was no tomorrow. I wondered quickly if any of his chefs fancied him, but the thought flew away along with loads of other when he stood, drained his drink, grabbed my hand and hauled me upright.

“Gents.” Issac nodded to his staff, and I was helpless to do anything but follow. We passed through the empty kitchen and through a latched metal door into a cool walk in storage full of produce and cheese. It was not cold enough to be annoying, just pleasantly chill. “Sorry.”

“Why?”

Issac placed a smooth hand on my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, and I stilled instantly.

“Because I did want you sitting there a moment longer licking your lips if I didn’t know what they tasted like.”

I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but Issac leant in and placed his lips over mine. He tasted like mint and oil, garlic and sweet things, and his lips were soft and chiselled around the edges. Perfect. I moaned, opened myself up to him and pressed my body against his own, running fingers down his sides, tugging the hen of his jacket out of his apron and pressing my palms against his torso. He was hard and perfect, flat planes of muscle guarded by spare hairs which I tickled until his breath hitched. When Issac broke the kiss we were both panting.

“Whoa, slow down Bay.”

I made a grumpy noise.

“We got time kid, go slow.”

“OK.”

“Don’t pout.” Issac touched my lip with his thumb, “Here.” He kissed me again, short, chaste, really sexy, “I didn’t say we had to stop completely.”

So until Issac got called away to finished prep for service, we didn’t.