The Taste of Home

Chapter 8

Over the next few weeks, Miguel became accustomed to working in the kitchen. Each day he'd help with the prep work before focusing on caring for and sending out the live prey, sometimes helping out with one of the other stations if a particular dish was in high demand that evening. He still wasn't experienced enough to man a station on his own, but he was comfortable with the basic steps of the recipes and where everything in the kitchen was located.

He wished he could say the same about dealing with Yolanda.

"Get out of my way," she said as she pushed past Miguel to unload a dish full of aspic from the freezer. The thick meat-filled gelatin was their most ordered dessert and was especially popular with customers whose venom had weakened due to age or illness. That wasn't saying much since, despite how it melted in the mouth, the gelatin's cool temperature made it off-putting enough that it was rarely ordered except out of necessity.

Miguel steadied himself against the counter with a wince before returning his attention to the blood cakes he'd pulled out of the oven. The aroma of the duck fat and garlic complemented the pig's blood in a savory symphony, but the recipe wasn't finished yet.

Next, he sprinkled the cakes with coriander and peanut powder. The blood's rich scent faded under the spices, but as long as he kept it to a light dusting they wouldn't be overpowering.

Unfortunately, Yolanda had other plans.

"You call that a coating?" She yanked the spices out of his hands and threw fistfuls onto the blood cakes. "This is a coating."

An uneven one that left dark brown blotches of blood peeking through the layer of seasoning, but he didn't dare say that out loud. At least Mr. Kaminski had finally talked her out of drowning the cakes in sauce too, although that would have at least hidden her sloppy presentation.

Miguel hid a hiss of annoyance behind the thud of the oven door before retreating to gather the evening's first cages of mice. With Alejandro out of town helping his parents move into a new house, the prey room was Miguel's only respite from Yolanda's constant critiques.

He quickly lost himself in the rhythm of caring for his charges. Each cage needed fresh water and food, whether that was pellets for the mice, crickets for the scorpions, or leaves for the grasshoppers. Their familiar skittering soothed his nerves as he took long, slow breaths of the grassy-smelling air. If he closed his eyes, he could almost forget he was in the restaurant and not out in the pasture with his pack.

Yet, as relaxing as it was to be surrounded by these familiar sounds, it was also lonely because in their presence he felt his pack's absence that much more keenly. There were no flashes of green scales here save his own, and no slit-pupiled eyes stared back at him through the cool dimness of the prey room.

Each trip to deliver prey to the pass brought a blast of chatter to his ears. "Two chapulines, two sausage platters, and one aspic," a waiter called out.

"Heard!" The response resounded through the kitchen as if it had been spoken by a single voice.

They were not just individual chefs. They were a pack. Not his pack, but a pack all the same.

With little more than a quick quality check from Ralph, Miguel prepared a bowl full of spices as he worked on the chapulines. Next, he tossed a scoop of grasshoppers into a pan. It wasn't long before the sizzling insects were ready to be seasoned. Unlike the invasive coriander, the brilliantly red chili powder complemented the dish. Even a spicy kick couldn't hide the perfect crunch of a pan-fried grasshopper.

Nor could it hide the scent of something unmistakably fruity coming from the dessert station.

Jiggly though it was, there was no way the jello salad could be mistaken for aspic. Instead of a translucent block of fat filled with meat, hard-boiled eggs, and herbs, this misshapen monstrosity carried more fruit and sugar than Mr. Miller's house during jam season.

"Don't serve that!" Miguel yelled. He forced his spines to lie flat as the waiter cringed away from his voice. "They ordered aspic."

"Excuse me?" Yolanda marched across the kitchen and jabbed her finger into Miguel's chest. "You must not have been listening, Scales. Get those wood shavings out of your ears and go back where you belong."

"I'm pretty sure he's right." Ralph laid the last of the sausages onto the waiting platter. "Nobody's ordered that in days, and they didn't even know what jello was last time."

"Well it's my station, and I heard them order the jello salad. Send it out!"

The waiter scurried off to deliver the food.

"How dare you try to make me look bad," Yolanda hissed. Her voice was sharper than any claws as she glared at Miguel. "You should be grateful I put up with you, Scales."

"I am grateful, but—"

"But nothing! Did you go to culinary school? No. Have you worked at a Michelin-starred restaurant? No." Her lips stretched into a predatory smile. "Do us all a favor and let the real chefs do the talking."

"He's never gotten fired from a Michelin-starred restaurant either," Ralph grumbled. Yolanda must not have heard him over the bubbling pot of duck blood soup, but Miguel caught the way he rolled his eyes at her. Raising his voice for everyone to hear, he said, "Would you mind helping me out, Miguel? I could use a hand with the duck."

"On it." Although Miguel's cuts were still more uneven than he'd like, the knife had become as familiar to him as his claws, and his fingers had the callouses to prove it.

Ralph leaned over to inspect Miguel's work. "A bit less force," he said before lowering his voice. "You did the right thing. Out of all the tools in the kitchen, your voice is the most important one."

Miguel nodded, easing some of his weight off the knife.

Time passed much more quickly in the main kitchen. Instead of having little to do but tend to the prey and fill the occasional cage, Miguel found himself flowing from one task to the next. Slicing ingredients, stirring the pot, taste testing: each order from Ralph lulled him deeper into a trance until the confrontation with Yolanda faded from his mind like the steam dissipating in the air.

The waiter's frantic footsteps brought everything back into focus. "Wrong dessert," he said. "They ordered aspic."

"Sounds like somebody owes a real chef an apology," Ralph said.

"Sounds like the customer changed their mind." Yolanda slammed the fridge door so hard the aspic trembled on the plate. "Scales just got lucky."

"Miguel was actually listening to the ticket." Ralph clapped him on the back.

Pride surged in Miguel's chest. He still wasn't nearly as experienced as the other chefs, but he was finally starting to find his footing.

"Are you up for coming to Zest Fest with us tomorrow to celebrate?" Ralph asked. "From what I've heard, you appreciate spice even more than I do."

"You could say that," Miguel said with a nervous laugh. If he'd been human, he would have turned redder than the salsa he'd guzzled. "But I don't want to ruin it for you guys. People aren't always... welcoming when I'm around."

"Then I'll just have to show them another set of fangs." Ralph flexed his arm to show off his snarling tiger tattoo, the skin around it darkened by a deep purple bruise. "Besides, Alejandro will definitely be there. He's a pansy when it comes to spice, but boy does he love his carnival games."

"That does sound fun." Especially if it meant he got to spend more time with Alejandro. "Alright, I'm in!"