The chef’s blade seemed to go seventy miles an hour. The kitchen staples and house canned vegetables were the most well organized Heidi had ever seen and she had worked for a few James Beard Award winners.
“Chef,” Heidi ventured, “it’s hard to believe you’re self-taught. I’m not trying to kiss your ass–”
“Good, don’t,” Chef Connor Draitman said, with just the barest hint of a smile that let Heidi know she hadn’t said the wrong thing.
Connor grabbed another slab of meat and began the same lightning-quick process.
Heidi shook her head in awe, lifting a full stockpot from an active burner to a cooling area.
She turned.
“Chef, who was your biggest influence?”
The blade stopped in midair and Chef wiped tiny beads of sweat from his forehead with his left forearm.
“My…”
The Chef reached for a Pellegrino, and Heidi thought she saw white on his knuckles, as though he was squeezing the bottle way harder than he needed to.
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