Chef Saltbaker Novels & Stories

From his spiky bleached hair to his flaming skull tattoos, he looked more like he belonged in a rock band than a kitchen. "I'm Chef Blaze," he announced, his voice carrying a hint of a British accent. "And for the next three hours, I'll be teaching you how to nourish your growing family with cuisine that's both delicious and nutritious." As I scanned the room, I spotted two familiar faces that made me do a double-take. "Cathy? Melissa? What are you two doing here?" Cathy bounced over, her enthusiasm palpable. "Surprise! We couldn't let you two have all the fun. Plus, I figured I should probably learn how to cook something other than microwave popcorn."

“But I am surprised. Most wealthy men don’t usually cook because they don’t have to. They can hire someone for that.” “True. But I prefer cooking for myself when feasible. The main reason is a chef has eyes and ears and I like my privacy.” “Oh, is that why you don’t’ have a butler either?” “That’s right. But, I do have a cleaning lady who comes in three times a week.” Chelsea nodded. “Try the dish. I can’t wait to hear what you think.” Chelsea picked up a fork and stuck a ravioli. She blew on it since it was piping hot. Then she put it in her mouth. She slowly chewed to get a good taste of it. “Do I taste garlic?”

Throughout her bath, Chelsea kept me busy with her non-stood chatting about her friends and teachers. “Baby, what do you want for lunch?” I asked, going through the food stuff. “The same cupcakes, those delicious ones.” She yelled excitedly, and I laughed. “Sure, let’s get to work.” We got to the kitchen, and it surprised me to see a chef, an actual chef. He was preparing lunch, and I felt bad. “Good afternoon, sir.” I greeted, and he turned swiftly. “Oh, hello dear.” He said, and I can hear a thick British accent in his words.

She said modestly, "Mr. Zane, I only know how to make a few home-cooked dishes. I'm no professional, let alone being compared with your chef." "Home-cooked dishes are supposed to taste home-cooked. Chefs can make all types of delicious dishes, but their dishes will never taste like home." Xander's gaze fell onto Abigail; it was genuine and earnest. He continued, "Could you teach me how to make two home-cooked dishes?"

"And?" "Still excellent," she said. She reached for the salt cellar and pushed it toward him. "You're going to be a very good chef, Eli." She said it with the same warmth, the same simple register of a true thing said plainly by the person who'd known him long enough to know—long enough to have watched him burn eggs and undercook chicken and cry over a broken hollandaise, long enough to have seen him fail and fail and keep going, long enough to understand that the distance between wanting to be a chef and being one was measured in years of practice and gallons of spilled stock and the specific humility of learning the same thing over and over until your hands knew it better than your brain.

“You can cook? Since when?” Chelsea laughed. “Since I left.” “That’s impossible,” Elara said. “You were terrible at cooking. And lazy.” “I was not lazy,” Chelsea shot back. “You absolutely were.” “Well a lot of things changed after I left,” Chelsea insisted, her tone softening slightly. “I thought a lot about things and came to a few conclusions. Hector came from… a very different background. I couldn’t offer him much when we were together, so I thought… at least now I could learn to cook something he liked for the future.”

she replied casually. Ariana smiled. "Well, then you can hire a professional chef to teach you. Because I'm not a patient person. I'm not fit to instruct anyone. Especially someone who can't distinguish galangal, ginger, galangal, and turmeric," she replied sarcastically. Shelma looked at her irritably. "Your cooking isn't all that great. Just look at what's served here. You claim to be a restaurant owner, but the food you serve looks more like street food."

Before I could decide, Caleb breezed in, laden with an array of vegetables, pork, fish, and shrimp. “Can you cook for 8 people?” His casual question startled me, and I gaped at the spread before me. He winked mischievously and left me standing there, bewildered yet strangely exhilarated by the challenge. Taking a deep breath, I plunged into action. With a newfound determination, I chopped vegetables with precision, seasoned meats with care, and orchestrated the chaotic symphony of cooking for a crowd. The kitchen became my sanctuary, a place where I could channel my doubts and fears into culinary alchemy.

“That was disgusting. I swear I followed all the directions.” “I think you forgot the sugar and maybe added a bit too much salt,” Mom says. “I put in what they said. ATof salt.” “Was that a bigTor a littleT?” Mom asks. “I don’t know. What’s the difference? ATis aT.” Mom laughs. “Maybe you should think about taking some culinary classes. Or leave the cooking to Jacques,” she says, referring to the chef I’d hired. I sigh in frustration. Another failed recipe. I’m a smart, successful businesswoman. You would think I could figure out something simple like baking.

She had been the one who knew the exact temperature for a medium-rare steak; she was the one who could make a soufflé rise like a miracle. I looked at my hands, hands that had signed billion-dollar contracts, hands that had held steering wheels of Italian sports cars. They were useless in a kitchen. But I was Caleb Knight. I didn't need to be a chef. I needed to be a ghost. I grabbed the ledger again, slamming it onto the counter. “If she can play dead for five years,” I whispered, “I can play a cook for five days.” I pulled out my laptop, my fingers flying over the keys as I bypassed the security firewalls of The Silver Spoon’s employment database. It was surprisingly easy. The rich never t