The Art of Love Read Online Free

my places. You will be my temporary,” he stabs his finger in the air with a flourish, “chef de cuisine.”
    I am thrilled. I am beyond thrilled. To be chef de cuisine, to be in charge of running the entire kitchen, even temporarily, is a huge deal. It’s actually quite the honor. “ Me? Really!” I exclaim. I know I sound like a teenage girl that’s been unexpectedly crowned prom queen, but there’s no way I can stop myself. “You want me to be the chef de cuisine? That's...” I can’t even think what it is. “That's wonderful!”
    Bouche itself isn’t open for breakfast or lunch. Those two meals are served by the Bocca Café on the second floor, which is really just a glorified coffee shop that serves bagels, croissants, sandwiches, and other easily transportable food so business people can cram something in their faces before dashing off to their next meeting and tourists don’t have to kill an hour before they return to exploring the wonders of Chicago. So I wouldn’t be handling the smaller meals, but still, being chef de cuisine on top of my regular duties during Escoffier’s absence means I’ll be in charge of absolutely everything in the back half of the restaurant. I’ll do the ordering; I’ll do the menu planning; I’ll manage the staff; I’ll be practically living at the restaurant. This thought gives me pause, and I screw up my courage to ask, “ It does mean a lot more work and a lot more hours.” I can practically feel myself flinching as I dare to ask, “Does it come with any kind of pay increase?”
    Chef Escoffier’s eyes bulge, and his complexion goes red, so I immediately amend my question to, “ I mean, a temporary one?”
    But it is too late; I’ve launched Escoffier into a tirade. “ I come to you,” he begins. “I give you zhis honaire, and all you can sink about is monay?” His face has gone from red to practically magenta, and I know I’ve really put my foot in it this time. Escoffier hops to his feet, even though it’s obvious that it causes him great pain, and bangs the table with his open palm proclaiming, “I am offended!”
    I am pretty much mortified. I can’t stand when Escoffier yells at me, especially when it’s one of his full-blown tantrums. Plus, I really do want to be the temporary chef de cuisine. It is a huge honor and will be good for my career. But I know if I don’t say something quick, Escoffier will take it back and bestow the honor on someone he views as less money grubbing. “No, no, no! Don't be offended!” I plead. “It was a stupid question. I would love to be the temporary chef de cuisine while you're resting.”
    Escoffier calms down slightly, his face fading to just a brilliant pink. “ Zhat is bettaire.” He reseats himself and eases his bandaged foot back onto the desk. “Do I need to train you?” He narrows his eyes at me. “Or can I trust zhat you have zee training already?”
    Saying I need any training would be the end of my chances to run Bouche, so I hasten to assure him, “You’re a wonderful teacher, Chef. Just observing you is like a crash course in culinary management.” This is a total lie. Observing Escoffier is like a crash course in work avoidance through bullying and temper tantrums, but I’m obviously not going to say that. “I’m sure I can figure out anything I don’t already know.”
    “Bon,” he says. His face is now almost a normal color. “You will start immediately. I leave for zee treatments tomorrow morning.”
    I gulp. It seems like he could have given me more than a day’s notice, but it’s pretty typical that he hasn’t. Of course, I say nothing. I’m not going to re-aggravate the lion after just getting it settled down with a gazelle to gnaw on.
    Escoffier shifts a little in his chair to show that something is still bothering him. I rack my brain trying to figure out what it could be. Finally, he says, “You may zhank me now.”
    “Thank you,” I blurt, feeling embarrassed that I