Recipe for Romance: A Bucky Barnes Story

1: Sir, Yes, Sir

"Order up!"

The crackle of a soufflé flame bursts beside my ear. A pan filled with charred salmon remains is thrown into a sink of soapy water—the suds pillowing into the air. Pits of amber colored grease scream when breaded calamari and asparagus logs get tossed together. They drown in the pool of bubbling oils before being strained out and carefully stacked across white porcelain plates.

One of those plates is slid across the metal counter towards me. My hands, small but able, grab the dish before it can skitter to the floor (where my head would surely be rolling if I was to drop a precious order). Pastry brush in hand, I swipe a delicate smear of Chef Dupont's famous pesto around the rim of the dish. I pluck and place the garnish leaves to the music of a deafening kitchen. The noises of metal against metal and flames whirling towards the vents are all but drowned out by our chef's unrelenting screams. None of the dozen staffers blink twice at his intense tone.

"Where the fuck are my risotto 'shrooms?" Chef Dupont wails. I hear the familiar pounding of his boots against the linoleum floor. Momentarily my breath hitches as I imagine he's coming for me. I'm already preparing for a verbal smack-down before seeing Dupont stop at the side of one of the sous chefs. Snatching the bowl from the young man's hand, Dupont's throat lets out an unpleasant growl. "What the fucking hell is this?"

"It's—it's the béchamel for table twelve, Chef."

Dupont dunks two meaty fingers into the bowl of white sauce. The kitchen seems to have quieted. Everyone, from the dishwasher girl to the men delivering today's fresh catch, pauses to see what Dupont will do next.

The popping noise that comes from Dupont sucking on his fingers has me cringing. I avert my eyes as his young, naked-shaved face is overtaken by a snarl.

"Béchamel? It tastes like you fucked your girlfriend and put the goddamn mess into this bowl," Dupont screams. He turns and chucks the sauce—the bowl included—into the open trash. "That is not my béchamel. Do it again, and do it fucking right!"

Pity for the poor fool makes my stomach weak. The sous chef, a meek ginger named Finn, avoids looking away from the stovetop into anyone's face. He scurries to remake the sauce for a third time now. I've been watching him from my prep station in the corner.

Biting down on my lower lip, I see that Dupont is making for the door. He storms out into the dining hall before quickly collecting himself on the other side. Through the steam clouded window I see him smiling charismatically at two very wealthy customers. His hand lingers on the small of the woman's back as he helps her into a seat.

"Hey, Katie?"

The blonde woman a few feet to my right doesn't turn her head, but she hums to acknowledge the beckoning.

I reach down to tighten the big white bow of my apron. "You good here for a minute?"

Katie, now intrigued by what I've said, tilts her head my way. "What are you going to do now, Sadie?"

I smirk. Shrugging with feigned innocence, I begin to back away from our crowded corner. "Don't worry 'bout it. I'll be back in five minutes, tops."

Katie's lips part far enough for her to let a little huff of air through. "You're going to get yourself fired one of these days, girl." She goes back to plating the dishes before sliding them onto the hot shelf. She doesn't pay me any attention now; probably assuming that what I'm doing will get me in trouble.

"Well, it's a damn good thing I'm not getting paid then," I mutter to myself. Swiping my hands down the front of my apron, I make my way towards Finn.