Burglar

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It was heavy but I pushed the unlatched window open, just enough for me to slip in. I landed on my toes, careful not to make a sound. It was really dark but by sliding alongside the walls I found the light switches with ease. It took my eyes a second to adjust to the light but when they did, I saw Mr Brundy's kitchen in all its splendor. The stainless steel counters were smooth and speck free, the knives shone on their stand, sharp as ever. And the pantry, Oh the pantry. Wow.

I walked in to shelves filled with ingredients. Bags of flour and jars of chocolate. Bottles of spices and crates of fruit. I brushed my fingers on the glass containers and stared in awe at everything. In a corner, lay a pile of books. I carefully picked up the top book and laid it flat open on the counter. The pages were yellowing and crumbly, with the occasional stain here and there. "Let's start with this one," I whispered to myself smiling as I devoured the cook book from cover to cover.

A feeling of excitement and disappointment came over me as I realized, today I would read my last cookbook. Over the past 2 weeks I had come in here every night, read a book and scuttled out unnoticed. I had read the entire pile, today I would finish the final book.

As usual I pushed the window open and slipped in. Now navigating from memory I located the lightswitch without aid from the walls. I spun around to go to the pantry but instead bumped into something. Rather, someone.

Even as Mr. Brundy slipped the key into the lock of his patisserie that night, he knew something felt out of place. He had always paid great attention to detail and that reflected in his intricate cake designs. He never went to a fancy culinary school but his shop was famous all around, with tourists coming to town just to have a taste of his pastries. His deliciously sweet confections made up for his salty attitude. At first glance, one would think him to be a butcher, a wrestler, even a tattoo artist; He was well built. Like, REALLY well built. He was huge, and his arms were tough and muscled from all that dough kneading.

And now he stood before me. Completely blocking out the light bulb that hung from the ceiling.

"Hey there... Mr. Brundy." I stuttered out.

He looked down at me from his 6-feet-7 height. He began to walk, more like waddle, towards me forcing me back against the counter.

"I was just..just I was just going by here and saw the light open and thought there was a burglar and I thought I should do something, Mr Brundy's kitchen is being robbed and I need to help as a responsible citizen of this town I need to help right so I walked in and surprised the burglar with um with um that pan and I was just about to head out so, yeah thats thats why I'm here." I explained.

"There was a burglar?" he asked calmly.

"Yes Sir."

"And you came in and surprised him?"

"Yes Sir."

"And he ran away?"

"Yes Sir."

"And you were going to head out?"

"Yes sir."

"And I look like an idiot to you?"

"Yes- Uh No no no no no noo sir, not at all sir, you are a really smart man and Im..."

"Why are you in my bakery."

"Sir I just told you there was a burglar and..."

I stopped when I saw Mr. Brundy staring at me. I had messed up big time.

"I wanted to read your cookbooks." I said.

He didn't say anything, just kept looking at me; He was waiting for further explanation so I told him. I told him all about my super rich parents and how they say the kitchen is a place for servants. I told him about how I absolutely love food and want to learn to cook, to be a chef and have a restaurant.

His glare softens but he doesn't lift his eyes off me. The room is still and silent until he booms, "What can you cook?"

"Anything from those cookbooks sir, I have all the recipes in my head from 'Angel cake' to 'Zuccata'." I answer, confident.

"Make me an omelette."

An omelette. AN. Omelette. Easy as pie.

I go to the pantry and retrieve an egg. Mr. Brundy hands me a pan and shows me to the stove. I take a bowl and a knife, pick up the egg and... I don't know how to crack an egg. I've read it in the book, but I've never really tried any of the recipes. I hit the egg with the knife but nothing happens. So I hit harder, and this time the egg explodes, with yolk dripping all over my hands, the knife slips and almost impales my foot as I jump away, slip and land on the hardwood, face first. The room is silent, except for the warbling of the knife that is sticking out of the wood.

"Anything from the cookbooks. HaHa. can't even crack an egg." he mutters as he walks to the sink. He throws a cloth down at me and I start to wipe my mess.

Once the counter top is clean, I throw the rag into the sink and wash my hands. I turn to see Mr, Brundy pointing at the door. "Out of my kitchen" He says.

"Sir, please..."

"No."

"You can teach me I want to learn, I-"

"I said no."

"Please."

"NO!"

"Sir-"

...

"Crack the egg then."

"I don't know how to, the book doesn't say and-"

"I will show you one time."

He walks over and brings another egg out. He keeps a bowl on the counter and positions the knife right at the centre of the egg. He lifts his hand and strikes, hard but gentle. Swift but slow. The shell cracks and he puts his thumb into the fissure, pulling the shell apart gently, with his hand, letting it slide down into the bowl. He dumps the shell and turns to me with a 'voilá' on his face.

He hands me an egg and I hold it tight, horizontally. I grip the knife and breath in. And I strike the egg. I feel it split open and I twist my hand to let the contents slide out, directly into the bowl below. I dump the shells and look back at him, "Voilá."

"You got a shell in it." He says observing my bowl. Then he looks up at my terrified face and says, "Shop opens at 5am. I won't pay you."

"Thank you, thank you so much Mr Brundy."

"What's your name?"

"Ralph sir."

Then he pushes me out of the shop and surveys the kitchen. When he sees everything is in order, he locks the door and says, "No more breaking in."

"Yes Sir."

"Yes, Chef." he corrects me.

"Yes, Chef."

.

.

.

Its been eleven years since that night. Mr Brundy passed away last week. 

I pull down mt Restaurant's metal shutter and stand back. When he passed he left me his patisserie. I look up at its new signboard now and smile as a tear rolls down my cheek. 

                                                          'CHEF BRUNDY'S COOKING SCHOOL'


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