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I can already taste the financial stress paying a professional like him would put me in if I hired him for
good, but I’m already thinking of ways to foot the bill. I still need to give Anton time to prove himself, but
if
he does, I know I want him to stay. And I think everyone else does, too.
Even Karl, maybe.
“Anton, you promised me a cooking lesson. How about now?” I ask, leaning against the counter and
trying
not to seem too eager.
He looks up, his eyes twinkling. “Ah, Abby, I was hoping you’d remember,” he says in that signature
accent of his. There’s a newfound sense of excitement in him, and I can tell that the kitchen is really his
home. “Yes, yes, of course!”
Enter title…
Within moments, he’s setting up the ingredients on a clean countertop: farro mafaldine pasta, assorted
mushrooms, various cheeses and spices, and of course the coveted black truffles.
Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇt“So, watch closely. First, you want to get the water boiling like it’s a hot spring in Iceland,” Anton
instructs,
setting a large pot on the stove.
“Icelandic hot springs, got it,” I nod, not really sure where Iceland comes into the picture, but willing to
go
with it.
We move through the steps. Anton’s hands are precise, his instructions detailed yet straightforward,
and
also oddly couched in every metaphor and analogy possible. I can see John and Karl peeping over
from
their stations, curious but not wanting to intrude. They pretend to be absorbed in their tasks but I can
tell
that they’re eavesdropping.
“A touch of salt in the water,” Anton says as he sprinkles it into the pot, “makes it as salty as the sea. Or
at
least, that’s what my grandma used to say. She drowned in a freshwater lake, which I always found
ironic.”
My eyes widen. “Anton…”
“Kidding, kidding,” he says, flicking another pinch of salt into the water with a flourish. Behind me, I can
hear John stifle a laugh, and it comes out like he’s being choked.
After we add the pasta, Anton guides me through the delicate process of making the sauce. He
sautees
the mushrooms carefully. “Treat them like you would a first date, gentle yet with intent,” he says, and
now
I’m the one who can’t contain my laugh.
“How many first dates have you had with mushrooms?”
“Ah, a gentleman never tells.”
Finally, it’s time to add the part that I’ve most been dreading: the black truffle butter. After carefully
simmering almost microscopic pieces of black truffles with lard, Anton slices a small piece, letting it
melt
Follow on Novᴇl-Onlinᴇ.cᴏminto the pan, and the aroma is heavenly.
“So you use lard instead of butter,” I murmur, jotting on my notepad.
Anton nods. “Lard has so much more flavor. Just pray that none of the judges for your competition are
vegetarians. Ha!”
After the truffle butter has melted, we combine the pasta with the sauce, stirring it gently until it looks as
mouth watering as any dish I’ve seen prepared in this kitchen.
“Et voila! It’s done. Go on, plate it.” Anton steps back, handing me the reins now.
My hands are slightly shaky, the anticipation mingling with a tiny stream of self-doubt. What if I ruin it at
the last step? I glance over at John and Karl; they’ve put down their tools now, their full attention on
me.
No pressure, right?
I take a deep breath, spoon some pasta onto a dish, and top it off with a sprinkle of parmesan cheese
and
a sprig of basil. Anton hands me a fork with a nod.
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