Sizzle

The water was bluer than his beloved Gulf of Mexico but the scent of salt in the air reminded him of home. There were production assistants in the house when they arrived. And they were all directed where to go in the eight-bedroom house. They’d be sharing two to a room to begin with and the producers had already assigned them into pairs. Remy was in a room overlooking the ocean with Quinn Lyon.

“Dude, do you mind if I take this bed?” Quinn asked.

Remy shrugged. “That’s fine. Where are you from?”

“Seattle. I’m the executive chef at Poisson … one guess what our specialty is?”

Remy smiled. There was an easy-going nature about Quinn and he reminded Remy of one of his Cajun uncles who was a shrimper. “Fish, right?”

“Hell, yes. Your accent says you’re from the south—where?”

“Nawlins’,” he said.

“Where do you work?”

“Currently, I’m between jobs,” he said. It was sort of the truth since he’d taken a leave of absence from Gastrophile.

“That’s cool. I saw you working today, you keep a neat station,” Quinn said.

“I began cooking with my dad and he’s a tyrant in the kitchen.”

Quinn laughed. “My old man was a logger, didn’t know anything about food.”

“How’d you come to be a chef?”

“Dropped out of high school,” Quinn said. “Started as a dishwasher and worked my way up. I never thought I’d be a chef when I was a kid. I mean, girls cooked where I came from, you know?”

“No, I don’t. The women in my family can cook but the kitchen has always been filled with men. I can’t remember a time when anyone thought I’d be anything but a chef.”

“What’s your family think of you being unemployed?” he asked.

“Not too fond of that. But getting on this show will probably help ease their minds,” he said. The truth was his parents didn’t know where he was right now. But he figured that Remy Stephens’s family would be happy that he was cooking with the chance of employment at the end of the show. “What about your family?”

“My wife’s great. My dad moved to Alaska so he’s not that involved with my day-to-day life,” Quinn said. “I don’t know if I should unpack or not.”

“I am,” Remy said. “My grandmère is superstitious and she’s always said that if you believe you’ll succeed you will and vice versa.”

“Ah, that’s confidence not superstition,” Quinn said, unzipping his suitcase and starting to unpack. “But I think you’re right. Better to act like I’m here for the long haul.”

“Definitely,” Remy said.

Quinn had a picture of his wife and one of him with his dad holding up the biggest fish that Remy had ever seen. Quinn kept up a quiet conversation while he moved around the room and Remy learned the other man was thirty-eight and was contemplating an offer to become the chef owner of Poisson. Something he wasn’t too sure he wanted to do.

Remy didn’t give the other man any advice. He’d learned that decisions that significant had to be made intuitively. Otherwise doubt and resentment followed.

Quinn’s cell phone rang and he smiled. “It’s the wife.”

“I’ll leave you alone,” offered Remy.

The bedrooms were all on the second floor of the house, which sat, nestled on a cliff overlooking the Pacific ocean. Remy went downstairs and saw that several contestants were on the balcony smoking. But he didn’t see Cupcake Girl. He wasn’t looking for her, he thought, but part of him knew he was.

She’d been good in the kitchen today and he was happy enough that her direction had resulted in a win, but there could only be one winner of Premier Chef—The Professionals and he needed to be that winner.

His future hinged on it in his mind. He envied Quinn and his easy relationship with his father. The older Lyon hadn’t pressured and bullied Quinn into cooking. In his early twenties, Remy would have been happier to make up his own mind and to find his own path. Instead, it had been done for him. Hence his doubts now.

Remy headed toward the kitchen for a bottle of water. Quinn would be tough to beat in any seafood challenge but Remy had grown up on the Gulf so he wasn’t too worried, but he wanted to get an idea of what else he was up against.

“You smoke?” a heavily tattooed man with a Jersey accent asked him as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

“No,” Remy said.

“Good. So far everyone who’s come downstairs is a smoker. I’m Tony. Tony Montea,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Remy Stephens,” he said shaking the other man’s hand. “I’m guessing you’re from New York or Jersey.”

“Jersey—born and bred. But I work in Manhattan. You’d think I’d cook Italian but my grandmother is French.”

“Mine too … well, French Creole,” Remy admitted.

“Cool. Did she cook?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yours?”

“Yeah. She’s the one that taught me to cook. But you can only go so far in a home kitchen,” Tony said.

“True. Do you have any formal training?”

“CIA,” he said with a smile. “This might be the only place where I don’t have to explain that it’s the Culinary Institute of America not the Central Intelligence Agency. Though to be honest there are a few from my hood that think I’m with the government.”

Remy laughed. “Where do you work?”

“Dans La Jardin,” he replied, naming one of the most popular French restaurants in the city.

“Head chef?”

“Nah, junior, but I’m hoping to learn some skills here that will give me a leg up when I get back home.”

“Not here to win?” Remy asked.

“Sure I want to win, but I have heard of some of these other chefs,” Tony said. “They might be hard to beat.”

“They might be,” Remy agreed, writing Tony off as a nice guy but not much competition. Anyone who was more concerned about what would happen when he got home versus what needed to happen here wasn’t going to win it. And Remy was definitely here to win.

“You’re not worried?” Tony asked.

“Nah, but I have been around celebrated chefs before,” Remy said.

“Me, too,” a tall thin girl with skin the color of cappuccino said, joining them. “I’m Vivian Johns.”