#chef souffle

[friendlyfatbee]

10th Hottest Ghost: Chef Soufflé

HON HON HON BONSOIR, this guy is… not hot. But he could be!

Looks: I based Chef Soufflé on mid-19th century beauty standards because the white chef uniform everyone is familiar with was popularized by Marie-Antoine Carême (a famous French chef). This time period, men typically aimed to have a pinched-waist look and appear more feminine (source, warning this source has nude Greek statues when discussing beauty standards before the 19th century.) Chef Soufflé clearly is the exact OPPOSITE of this appearance, appearing portly, stout, and fat. While this wouldn’t be inherently all bad, his unkempt appearance with his messy moustache and stained uniform (which can be explained by cooking, but not his moustache) leads to a deduction of points. The only saving grace here is his uniform being worn properly.

Personality: There is… a lot to unpack here. He enjoys his job and takes it with pride, but seems to struggle with interacting with others, especially with his own failures. See, he’s quick to anger when Luigi throws him off mentally with an unexpected appearance and he messes up his own dish, and experiencing high stress in the cooking industry isn’t all uncommon! However, Soufflé is taking his leisurely time cooking and smelling the fish he’s searing, so to go from 1 to 10 anger wise seems to allude to something more. There’s also some other strange attitudes such as hitting himself with his frying pan if he fails to land an attack on Luigi. What I’ve seen no one else talk about, however, is when Soufflé gets vacuumed up. While it seems plain visually, if you listen closely… Soufflé whimpers. While others before Soufflé’s boss fight grab their hat or yell for help in hopes someone else hears… he quietly whimpers to himself. Soufflé seems to suffer a lot from something unseen, and would definitely benefit from some form of therapy to help with his internalized issues. The score is somewhat alleviated by the possibility of gaining better coping skills, but is ultimately penalized for this current state now.

Survival Rate: this was fairly average and set in the middle. While a hit to the head from a cast-iron frying pan would do IMMENSE damage, he appears to not have any attacks not involving his frying pan. His frying pan is easy to knock from his hands or he pulled from such, hence a middle-most score.

Niceness Rate: Nope. As for now at least, but we are currently focusing on Chef Soufflé in the present. Like Dr. Potter, he focuses on his craft and has very little positive reactions with Luigi. Unlike Dr. Potter, Soufflé only acts shocked at Luigi’s appearance and only gets angry when he drops his dish, not already holding negative feelings against Luigi beforehand.

Overall, I feel Chef Soufflé could benefit from therapy and love himself first before all else! Though if he does learn to cope, and maybe clean his hair, he could easily get to someone’s heart through their stomach!

[fbombshell]

Chef John's Asparagus Souffle Recipe The vibrant color and robust flavors of this savory souffle are provided by fresh asparagus and sharp white Cheddar cheese.

[zeropointzerotwo]

Chef John's Chocolate Souffl Two exquisitely flavored, airy, fluffy, and visually stunning souffls are produced by Chef John's chocolate souffl recipe, which you can share with your special someone. 4.5 tablespoons cold milk, 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour, 2 ounces 70% dark chocolate broken into pieces, 1 pinch salt, 2 large egg whites, 1 tablespoon white sugar divided, 1 large egg yolk, 2 tablespoons white sugar, 1 teaspoon melted butter or as needed, 1 pinch cream of tartar, 1 tablespoon butter, 1 pinch cayenne pepper

[micaelachase]

Dark Chocolate - Chef John's Chocolate Souffl Two exquisitely flavored, airy, fluffy, and visually stunning souffls are produced by Chef John's chocolate souffl recipe, which you can share with your special someone.

[superrecordings]

Recipe for Chef John's Chocolate Souffl

Chef John's chocolate souffl recipe makes two delicately flavored, light, fluffy, and visually stunning souffls to share with your special someone.

[mesalivre]

Chef John's Chocolate Souffl Two exquisitely flavored, airy, fluffy, and visually stunning souffls are produced by Chef John's chocolate souffl recipe, which you can share with your special someone.

[dreamwritesimagines]

The Eye of the Hurricane [7] - On Edge

A.N: Here’s the new chapter my loves! ❤️ Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback, you made my day! ❤️I hope you’ll like this chapter as well and please don’t forget to tell me what you think! ❤️

Summary: New enemies can complicate everything.

Word Count: 3200

Pairing: MobBoss!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Violence, death, guns, crime, blood, explicit language, drinking. This is an AU, friendly reminder that I don’t condone any of the actions depicted on this story and please read with care.

Series Masterlist

You had to admit; your therapist had many good ideas but this?

You weren't so sure this was one of those good ideas.

You pulled the souffle out of the oven and took a look at it, then grabbed a toothpick and put it through the center, only to pull it out completely dry.

“God damn it!” you exclaimed, putting it next to the other five failed attempts, and grabbed the bowl again. “This fucking…”

“What are you doing?”

Your head shot up and you looked over your shoulder. “What the—go away, why are you here?”

Bucky raised his brows.

“Hello to you too Charm,” he said, putting his hands into his pockets, his eyes darting around the kitchen. Even you had to admit that the sight of you in the kitchen was unfamiliar, considering that you barely knew how to make eggs but seeing him in your kitchen was equally strange. Your chef would normally be in the kitchen at this time but you were pretty sure he wasn’t here to see her.

“Who told you I was here?”

“The maid,” he said and motioned at the bowl you were holding. “What is this?”

“Why are you here?”

“I asked first.”

You heaved a sigh and put the bowl back on the counter, then crossed your arms.

“I’m baking,” you said as if there was nothing out of the ordinary with that statement, and Bucky frowned slightly.

“Why?” he asked. “What is this, your plan to play house with your civilian boyfriend?”

You rolled your eyes at him.

“My therapist seems to think it’s a good idea,” you said. “She says I should do things like these to relax my mind.”

“Right, you sounded very relaxed when I walked in.”

“It’s because these fucking souffles refuse to have chocolatey center!” you snapped and Bucky blinked a couple of times.

“You’ve never baked once in your life and you decided to start with one of the hardest things to bake in the world?”

“Go big or go home.”

“I’m right with you on that but when it comes to baking, people usually start with cookies.”

“I already baked cookies, they weren’t challenging enough,” you said, motioning at the plate on the kitchen island and he walked to it to get a cookie.

“Did you poison these?”

“Yeah,” you said and he shrugged, then took a bite of it, a look of surprise crossing his face as he chewed on it.

“This is actually good,” he said. “Is this cinnamon?”

“It’s arsenic,” you deadpanned and he nodded his head.

“You know, if you ever decide to go into it professionally, we can get you a bakery.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m serious, we’d put it in the neutral territory if it makes you feel any better, it could work—”

“Why are you here?” you cut him off and he popped the rest of the cookie in his mouth, then leaned back to the island.

“I’ve been summoned,” he said. “So has everyone else.”

Your eyes widened. “Everyone else? What do you mean, everyone else?”

“All the bosses in the city.”

“What the—why?” you asked, lowering your voice and he shot you a smirk.

“How long have you been here?”

“Bucky!” you hissed and he grabbed another cookie.

 “There’s been an attack.”

“An attack?” you asked, your heart skipping a beat. “From a family?”

“Not from a family,” he answered. “An outsider, or so it seems.”

“What outsider?” you asked and he chewed on his bite.

“No seriously, if I paid you, would you make more of these for me?”

You smacked his arm and snatched the cookie out of his hand.

“Hey!”

“What outsider?”

“It happened in Stark’s territory,” he said, eyeing the cookie. “He knows more than I do, he and your father had a talk I heard but we will all be informed in the meeting.”

You arched a brow. “And?”

“I swear to you, that’s all I know. Can I get it back now?”

You heaved a sigh and handed him the cookie, making him shoot you a happy smile.

“Thank you.”

“Do you think they’re the same people who were involved in the shootout?”

Bucky clenched his jaw, then cleared his throat.

“Who knows?” he said. “So did you think about my proposal?”

You threw your head back in frustration, then jumped to sit on the island, crossing your legs.

“I did,” you said, leaning slightly back, resting your palms on the island and pretending to be in deep thought. “And you know what, it kind of makes sense to use a marriage for my benefit and rise to power.”

If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought he was holding his breath, a hopeful light glimmering in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah so, Steve or Sam?” you asked airily and he frowned.

“What?”

“Yeah, I mean Romanoff is with Banner, Barton is married, so is Stark…”

A groan left his lips. “Charm…”

“So that leaves us Steve or Sam.”

“They’re my best friends.”

You shrugged your shoulders. “I know that. So what?”

“They would never.”

“Why not?” you asked. “Because you called dibs on me or something?”

He averted his gaze from you and you sat up straighter, pulling your brows together.

“Bucky,” you growled. “You have exactly three seconds to tell me you didn’t call dibs on me as if I’m a cookie because we’re standing in a kitchen full of knives—”

“I didn’t!” he said. “They just…they won’t, okay?”

“Well then that plan is not going to work because I’d never marry you—” you started but heard a knock by the door, making you turn your head to look at Steve.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” you said. “Bucky was just leaving.”

Steve glanced around the kitchen with his brows raised. “Since when do you bake?”

“It’s very good for mental health!” your defensive answer came almost too fast and he held up his hands.

“Alright then.”

“It does calm you down,” Bucky said solemnly and you narrowed your eyes at him.

“I’m going to take your cookie back.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Steve eyed the cookies. “Can I have one too?”

“See? He asks for permission,” you told Bucky. “Perfect marriage material there.”

“Excuse me, what?” Steve asked, gawking at you before Bucky grabbed a cookie from the plate and tossed it to Steve who caught it mid-air, then he turned to you.

“You know where to find me.”

“Yeah, between some woman’s legs,” you retorted, making him roll his eyes as Steve chuckled.

“I’ll see you around Charm,” he said and walked out of the kitchen with Steve following him. You nibbled on your lip, then grabbed a cookie and laid down on the island, keeping your eyes on the ceiling.

“So relaxed,” you murmured as you bit into the cookie. "I'm so very relaxed."

                                            *

That meeting took hours to be finished and even though you wanted to stick around in the house, you still had plans with Ethan for lunch. You were at the end of your wits from curiosity so by the time Ethan got there, you were still glued to your phone, waiting for a text from Becca.

“Hey,” he said, pressing a kiss on your cheek and you smiled up at him.

“Hey,” you said and took out the small container out of your handbag to put it in front of him, making him tilt his head.

“What is this?”

“Cookies,” you said, taking a sip of your coffee. “I made them today.”

Ethan stared at you. “You made cookies?”

“Why does everyone sound so shocked about it?” you asked back and Ethan chuckled.

“Y/N, while we were dating, you tried to make toast in the microwave.”

“It’s not my fault if microwaves aren’t that advanced yet,” you told him and he chuckled.

“Of course,” he played along, opening the container to take out a cookie. “What brought on this sudden interest in baking?”

“My psychiatrist,” you said as he took a careful bite and his eyes widened.

“You made this?”

You gasped in a dramatic manner and pushed at his boot with your heel. “I take your disbelief as a compliment.”

“You should, it’s amazing!” he said. “So your psychiatrist told you to bake cookies?”

“Well not just bake but more like…you know, relaxing stuff,” you said. “I started with baking because it sounded more interesting than the other options. And more delicious as well.”

“I think you unlocked a talent there,” he said and you hummed.

“Eh, maybe. My souffles disagree.”

“You made souffles?”

“I started for souffles but now I have muffins,” you said. “You know, not much of a difference there.”

“Muffins are better than souffles anyway,” he told you, grabbing another cookie as the waiter brought his coffee. “Thank you.”

“So I was going to ask you,” you said, turning your phone in your hand. “Where is your apartment exactly?”

“Between 33rd and 34th street right across from the bank, downstairs there’s a cute—”

“Drawing supplies store,” you finished his sentence for him and he blinked a couple of times.

“Do you have a map in your mind or something?”

“My father made me basically memorize the whole city so yeah,” you said and heaved a sigh. “Great. Stark’s territory.”

He pulled his brows together. “Is that bad?”

“Not necessarily,” you said, running a hand over your face. “So hypothetically speaking—”

“Jesus, we’re back to that?” he teased you and you shook your head slightly.

“No I’m serious,” you said. “Hypothetically speaking, it wouldn’t be a good idea to wander around there late in the evening nowadays.”

His frown deepened.

“Is this related to that attack there earlier today?”

Your eyes shot up to his. “You were there?”

“No no, not very close at least,” he said. “It’s just—there was terrible traffic and I heard the police cards and the ambulance, and people were saying there was an attack.”

“At who? Or what?”

“I really don’t know,” he said, shooting you an apologetic look. “Sorry, I didn’t really think much of it. So is this related?”

You pursed your lips together and shrugged your shoulders.

“I’m not sure but as my dad says, you can never be too careful,” you said. “Alright, here’s the thing. I’ll hire someone to keep an eye around your apartment just in case—”

“Wait, what?”

“Just as a precaution.”

“Y/N, I’m a civilian,” he said with a small laugh. “You said civilians don’t get involved—”

“They don’t, it’s a just precaution,” you repeated, taking another sip of your coffee. “I’m sure nothing is going to happen, but it’s good to be careful.”

He leaned back in his chair, deep in thought.

“I’m not gonna have a bodyguard following my every move, right?”

“No they do that with me, not you,” you said, a smile curling your lips. “I assure you, you won’t even notice they’re around.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Not really, I don’t hire amateurs.”

A small chuckle climbed up his throat and he shook his head.

“This is insane.”

“You wanted excitement,” you pointed out. “I’m just making sure that excitement doesn’t turn into actual danger, that’s all.”

He popped another cookie in his mouth. “Did you bring me these so that I would feel more relaxed?”

You shot him a mischievous grin. “Maybe. Is it working?”

“I feel better about it than I would have with zero cookies,” he joked, coaxing out a giggle from you. “So wait, you wanted to let me know first?”

“Yeah because I don’t want to be the psycho ex who puts people in your tail in secret.”

“No, just the ex who has the ability to pull something like that and bake cookies at the same time.”

“I’m nothing if not versatile,” you stated, making him laugh.

“Oh trust me,” he said. “I’m well aware of that.”

You mirrored his smile and held his gaze, biting at your lip before sitting up straighter.

“So,” you said. “Enough about me. How’s everything at the office?”

                                            *

When you got back home, the meeting was mostly over but apparently Bucky and Sam had stayed for a short talk with your father. Even Ian was sent out of the room which gave you a strange satisfaction but it didn’t last very long when you saw him smirking while talking on the phone in the living room. You stepped inside and flung yourself on the couch, crossing your arms while waiting for him to finish.

“Yeah no, because I said—that’s what I’m saying, just be prepared for anything, we don’t know whose territory it might be next. If it’s ours…”

You checked your nails, humming a song just so that you could get on his nerves and Ian stole a look at you.

“I’ll call you later,” he said and hung up, then put his phone into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Y/N.”

“Ian,” you said. “They kicked you out while the real bosses speak then?”

“I had to step outside to make some calls,” he said and you hummed.

“Before or after they kicked you out?”

“Better than not being invited in at all,” he stated, making your jaw clench. “I half expected to see you eavesdropping in the hallway, you surprised me.”

You clicked your tongue, then shot him a fake smile.

“Do they ask you to bring them coffee?” you asked. “While they talk? Like an assistant.”

“I know you find this hard to accept, but I hold a very important part in those meetings,” he said. “Seeing that I’m the heir.”

“Are you though?” you asked. “Father didn’t officially announce you.”

“And he certainly won’t announce you,” he said and you crossed your legs, trying to seem calm and collected.

“So what is going to happen if our territory is next?” you asked him airily and he sat down on the couch across from yours.

“We are going to retaliate.”

“And you hope our territory is next,” you stated and he shrugged his shoulders.

“Not at all but if it is, we will handle it.”

“And the rest of the city?” you asked. “The other territories?”

He rolled his eyes. “You might want to check your priorities there, Y/N.”

“Do you seriously think our territory can just survive on its own?” you asked back. “Do you think if it somehow leads to a war, if any of the other territories get affected, we will still be fine? That will affect the truce and if the peace—”

“That’s the difference between you and me,” Ian cut you off. “The exact reason why uncle chose me as his heir over you. I don’t care much for peace.”

You stared at him, your heart beating in your ears because of the fury spreading through you over his words but before you could say anything, you heard Bucky’s voice in the foyer. You shot up from the couch, rushed to the foyer to see Bucky and Sam, your heels echoing on the marble floor.

“Hi Sam, nice to see you,” you said without even stopping, and grabbed Bucky’s arm to drag him towards the spiral stairs. “You’re coming with me.”

“What, it’s not good to see me?” Bucky asked but followed you without so much as an argument. You made your way through the hallway after you reached the top of the stairs, then pushed him into your room and slammed the door behind you.

“Charm if you wanted me in your bedroom, all you had to do was ask—”

“Keep dreaming,” you snapped at him and he shot you a mischievous grin.

“Hi.”

“What did you all talk about?”

He looked around the room as if trying to take it in as much as he could, and you followed his gaze as it fell on the fireplace and to your reading corner by the window, then to the antique mirror and your vanity before he approached your bed to sit down on it.

“Lovely room,” he commented and you crossed your arms.

“Tell me.”

“This relationship is starting to feel very one-sided—”

“That’s because it is,” you cut him off. “What is going on?”

He heaved a sigh and ran his vibranium hand through his hair.

“Well, at least now we have a name,” he said. “One of the men Stark captured, he said something.”

You arched a brow. “What did he say?”

“Hydra.”

You pulled your brows together, deep in thought.

“Doesn’t sound familiar,” you said. “What, are they new or something?”

Bucky scoffed a laugh and shook his head.

“Not at all,” he said. “We’re still gathering more information about them but they’re not new, that’s for sure.”

You clicked your tongue.

“And let me guess,” you said. “They’re not just a couple of people?”

Bucky shook his head again and you closed your eyes for a moment, letting out a breath as you opened them.

“Fuck.”

Bucky shot you a dry smile. “My reaction exactly.”

“But either way, if all families are working together against them,” you thought out loud. “It means—where did they attack in Stark’s territory, by the way? One of his places?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“A café.”

“Stark doesn’t own a café.”

“No he doesn’t.”

Your stomach did a painful flip as you stared at him.

“Civilians?” you asked, your voice hoarse. “They’re attacking civilians?”

“They’re attacking everyone including civilians,” Bucky answered and you pursed your lips together.

“So no code then,” you murmured. “They’ll create chaos and…”

“We will stop them before they do that,” Bucky assured you as he stood up from the bed. “But Charm, listen to me. From now on, nowhere in the city is one hundred percent safe, no matter whose territory it is. That whole bullshit you keep pulling with no bodyguards—”

“I don’t have a death wish,” you cut him off. “I know how dangerous it can get in a situation like this. I grew up with the same stories as you, remember?”

Bucky’s phone started vibrating and he checked the caller ID, then put it back in his pocket again.

“I gotta go,” he said. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“To repeat, I—”

“Charm,” he interrupted you as if he didn’t have the time for nonsense, his tone completely serious. “Promise me. Please.”

You frowned slightly, then shrugged your shoulders.

“Yeah sure,” you said and he nodded to himself, then walked to the door but stop when he heard you say his name.

“Bucky?”

He turned to you. “Yeah?”

“This whole thing, it won’t lead to the truce breaking, will it?” you asked, desperately trying to convince yourself. “Between the families?”

Bucky shot you an almost reprimanding look like he could see right through you.

“I’ll lie to you if you want me to but we did grow up with the same stories Charm,” he reminded you. “It will lead to something, and you know it as well as I do.”

With that, he walked out of your room and you sat down on the armchair across from the fireplace with a sigh, your heart slamming against your ribcage. You gritted your teeth together and leaned your head back, then pressed your palms on your eyes.

 “Oh,” you said. “God damn it.”

Chapter 8

[ultramassivecollectorcupcakeblr]

M: Did you get a reservation for tonight at that place I like?

A: Your favorite table in the back is reserved.

M: Did you order the Grand Dame champagne iced?

A: Yes, and the seafood tower you love.

M: Dessert?

A: Chef promised to make his pistachio souffle with the lemon sauce even though it's not on the menu tonight.

M: Roy will pick you up at 7:30pm. But make no mistake, you'll be dessert when we get home.

A: I love date night.

[balsee]

(For @starlightbelle, I tried my best with this, and while I'm not totally satisfied with it, I hope you enjoy it! 💗)

Never Too Much; you spend a late night in the kitchen with Sanji.

When you walk into the kitchen in the middle of the night, the first thing you’re greeted with is Sanji’s boyish, brilliant smile. 

“You’re here!”

“I said I would be,” you reply softly, despite the fact that nobody is awake. It’s just the two of you under a waxy moon and a million stars. “You know, you don’t have to cook something every time we meet up like this. I’d be fine with just a glass of water or some tea.” 

“I know,” Sanji says, a tray balanced in one hand as he brings it to the table. “But I can’t help myself, a beautiful lady like yourself deserves a good late night snack.” he places the tray down and hurries to pull out your seat despite your protests. You couldn’t help the way your heart began to thrum every time Sanji rushed to accommodate or dote on you, and since he was always going out of his way to cater to your every need, you were in a constant state of near cardiac arrest. Without skipping a beat, Sanji placed a dessert in front of you, a chocolate souffle topped with whipped cream, and a china cup of fragrant smelling tea. 

Of all the things in the world he could’ve made, he makes you a souffle. A souffle. Granted, it wasn’t a complicated dessert by any means for a chef of his skill, but still. You felt a little undeserving of something like this, but Sanji is looking at you so expectantly that you don’t have the heart to comment. 

Plus, it smelled amazing. 

“Thank you,” you smile at him, and you can actually see his face physically morph into something lovestricken. He’s practically glowing. 

“Of course, dearest, of course.” he replies, his voice soft and low; intimate in a way you’ve never heard before. It’s as if a thousand flowers have suddenly taken bloom inside your stomach, and you long to hear him sound like that again. But any attempt to prolong the conversation is stuck inside your throat, you don’t know what else to say. Instead, you pick up your spoon and dig in, hoping that he doesn’t notice the brilliant heat that’s creeping up your neck. 

The souffle is rich and warm, and you hum in delight. 

“Good?” Sanji asks, using his spoon to cut into his own dessert. 

“Wonderful.” you reply sincerely, and he laughs. “Like you didn’t know!” 

“Ah, well, compliments always mean something more coming from you.” 

You huff, fighting down a blush, and continue to eat without a word. A few moments of peaceful silence goes by between the two of you, and you relish the opportunity to just sit and exist with Sanji; with nothing but the ticking of the kitchen clock to interrupt you two. Your little late night get-togethers with Sanji happened exactly one week prior, when he caught you rifling through the cabinets for some chocolate covered pretzels you kept carefully hidden behind an assortment of jars and cans. He had flung the door open, thinking it was Luffy trying to sneak food from the fridge like usual, causing you to jump nearly a foot in the air. He apologized for scaring you, and to make up for it, had diced up some fruit and suggested you eat together (the pretzels, unfortunately, were nowhere to be found). And that's how it started. 

Each night brought a different dessert. A different story, and a new revelation that allowed you to see different facets of Sanji previously unknown. You found out that he sampled cigarettes from each new island they came across one night over chocolate chip cookies. You also discovered that he still cooks dishes from Alabasta while sharing a slice of leftover carrot cake. The thrill never fully went away, and you ate as slowly as possible, wanting to savor every moment you could with him.

“I haven’t made souffle since my time on the Baratie.” Sanji remarks, pouring himself a cup of tea.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I was twelve the first time I tried it, and I somehow managed to burn and undercook it. The old man gave me shit for years until I was able to perfect it.” he grins around his cigarette, pausing briefly to flick ash into a nearby ashtray. “He’ll be happy to know that I still use his chocolate souffle recipe, and that it satisfies a pretty lady such as yourself.” 

You can’t fight a good-natured groan. “Sanji…”

He laughs, not unkindly, and you blush all the harder. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“...looking back on it now, she was kind of a snob,” Sanji says. Twenty minutes have gone by. The souffle is gone, and your cups hold the dregs of a now cold tea. Sanji is on his second cigarette, regaling you with a story about his first crush, and he takes one last pull of his cigarette before stubbing it into his ashtray. “But I was fifteen at the time and totally in love. Her father was involved with the Marines, so they’d come for dinner often, and I always insisted on making her any dish she asked for; even if I didn’t have a clue about what I was doing yet. She had this thick black hair in these big curls, and she always wore a white ribbon in her hair and smelled like jasmine. Tulips were her favorite, so I tried to give her one each time she left the restaurant.”

You picture a fifteen year old Sanji, long-legged and awkward but with his same kind smile and you can’t help but coo.

“Aw, Sanji, that’s adorable!”

“Yeah, I guess.” He leans back in his chair. “Patti and the other cooks made fun of me, but they must’ve known that she wasn’t very nice from the beginning, because when she rejected me in public, they got me piss drunk to try and forget about it.”

You can’t stop your mouth from falling open. “Sanji, that’s terrible! They gave you alcohol when you were that young?!”

“Yup, Zeff was furious when he found out, and he spent the next day trying to nurse my hangover, I swear I thought I was going to die. I never felt so shitty.” At your wide-eyed expression, Sanji smiles, a little flimsy. “Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve gone through worse at a much younger age.”

***

When the dishes are cleared, cleaned and put away, Sanji insists on walking you back to your room. You both creep quietly out of the kitchen, and when you’re both standing outside the bedroom you share with Nami and Robin, you gather up the last of your courage to face him. 

“Thank you for tonight,” you say, keeping your voice low. Robin was a light sleeper, and you didn’t want to wake her. “I appreciate you doing this.”

“Of course! I like this time with just the two of us, it’s nice.” A small lantern illuminated the hallway, and there was just enough light to see Sanji run a hand through his hair. “Next time I’ll make cinnamon rolls, or something, or mini cheesecakes! With strawberries and whipped cream…”

“Sanji,” you interrupt him gently, and take a step forward. “I don’t need any special desserts to spend time with you. You don’t have to go to so much trouble, just being around you is more than enough for me.”

Even in the dour lighting, you catch a glimpse of Sanji’s flustered look and you grin triumphantly; satisfied at having been the one to ruffle him for once. He manages to compose himself, however, and takes your hand. 

“Well, in that case…” he trails off and places a kiss on your knuckles, delicate and sweet and holding your gaze the entire time. Your heart jackhammers when he gently turns your hand over and places an open-mouthed kiss on your wrist, directly on your pulse point. His gaze is smoldering, and after tonight, you’re sure you’ll never sleep again. “I can’t promise I’ll stop. I adore cooking for you, dearest, it’s never trouble when it comes to you, but I’ll take what you said into consideration.” he lets go of your hand and suddenly you wish he’d never let go of you. “Goodnight, love.”

Sanji gives you one last fond smile before he retreats to his own room, and you watch as the darkness swallows him up, at last finding your voice when he is no longer present to hear it. 

“Goodnight.”

[waight-gain]

The Chef and the Critic

Chapter 1: The Tasting

The hushed murmurs filling La Cuisine's dining room parted like a curtain as Jacob Wellington, the city's most revered food critic, made his entrance. Patrons turned to admire him, their eyes lingering on his tall, elegant frame and the subtle confidence that radiated from his every movement. Jacob's sharp features, accentuated by a strong jawline and high cheekbones, seemed to have been chiseled by a master sculptor, while his deep, almost hypnotic brown eyes held an intensity that made it impossible to look away. His dark hair, styled with meticulous precision, hinted at a nature as disciplined as his lifestyle, and an exotic, spicy cologne lingered in his wake like a whispered promise.

His eyes scanned the menu, a silent predator seeking its prey. Jacob's reputation preceded him; he was known for his impeccable palate, his reviews capable of launching careers or sealing fates in the culinary world. His discerning taste and unwavering standards made him both revered and feared among chefs.

In the kitchen, the energy was palpable, a symphony of clanging pots and sizzling pans conducted by Alex Chevalier, the young, fiery chef-owner of La Cuisine. His muscular arms moved with practiced ease, chopping, stirring, and plating with an almost dance-like grace. Chestnut brown hair, tousled from hours of intense cooking, framed a face that alternated between boyish charm and the steely determination of a seasoned chef. Bright blue eyes, like the flame of a gas stove, sparked with creativity and a hint of mischief as he tasted a sauce, adjusting the seasoning with a mere pinch of salt. Alex's culinary style was an extension of his personality—bold, innovative, and unapologetically sensual. He believed in creating dishes that not only tantalized the taste buds but also evoked emotions and desires.

Tonight, Alex had a challenge—a special guest who could catapult him into the culinary elite or dash his dreams with a single, scathing review. Jacob Wellington was his target, and Alex was determined to leave him speechless.

As the first course was served, Alex's creation graced Jacob's table. It was a delicate composition of seared scallops atop a bed of citrus foam, garnished with microgreens and edible flowers. The plate was a masterpiece, each element carefully curated to dance on the palate. Jacob's eyes widened slightly, a subtle sign of appreciation, as he brought the fork to his lips.

"Impressive," Jacob whispered, his voice carrying a hint of surprise. "A delightful play of textures and flavors." He paused, savoring the dish, his eyes closing briefly to focus on the explosion of tastes. When he opened them, they met Alex's gaze through the small window overlooking the dining room. There was an unspoken acknowledgment, a spark of connection forged through the language of food.

In the kitchen, Alex wiped his hands on his apron, his heart racing as he prepared the next course. A fusion of French and Asian influences, it was a bold representation of his culinary style—a blend of classical technique and innovative creativity. He knew that each dish was a chance to prove himself, to show Jacob that he was more than just a rising star; he was a force to be reckoned with.

As the evening progressed, each dish became a chapter in a culinary love story. Alex's creations danced across Jacob's palate, from the crispy duck confit served with a lychee reduction to the deconstructed cheesecake with edible flowers. Every bite was a sensory journey, a blend of flavors that both challenged and delighted Jacob's refined taste.

In the kitchen, tension mounted as Alex's team worked feverishly to keep up with the demand. Plates were passed through the window at a rapid pace, each one a testament to Alex's vision and skill. The team moved in synchronized harmony, their movements a testament to the months of training and preparation that had gone into this night.

As the final course, a decadent chocolate soufflé with a hint of chili, was served, Jacob's eyes met Alex's once more. In that moment, there was an unspoken acknowledgment—a connection forged through the very essence of Alex's culinary creations. Jacob's fingers lightly grazed the stem of his wine glass, considering the intricacies of the meal.

"Chef, your cuisine is a revelation," he said, his voice steady and measured. "Each dish tells a story, and I find myself eager to hear the next chapter."

Alex's heart swelled with pride and a hint of desire. He knew that Jacob's words would soon grace the pages of the city's most influential food magazine, but at that moment, all he could think about was the electric connection between them, sparked by the very essence of his culinary creations.

Bonus Pics

[lewkwoodnco]

Be More - George x Reader

"Er...I think this dough's ready to be cut into the strips."

"Yes, chef."

He coughed awkwardly, too uncomfortable to come up with any decent sort of response.

a/n: am soooo salty i fell sick in the middle of my 12 days of fics '23 for xmas last year :((( so im giving myself a lil treat by doing a short series of valentine's fics! i SO don't know how souffles work if you can't tell so pls don't come for me, and a special special thanks to lisa @neewtmas for the apron idea heheh. all fluff, which is why I got all my angst fics out of the way beforehand if you'd like a lil palate cleanser :) also totally didn't make this a songfic cuz i was struggling to find a title :} btw I headcannon that george randomly zones in and out in everyday life and this has nothing to do with how much I may or may not do this myself ALSO was strongly influenced to post this earlier by the multiverse of George aka @oblivious-idiot @bella-rose29@bobbys-not-that-small heh

warnings/tropes: lockwood and george bromance supremacy!!! baking, lots and lots of valentine's day fluff, awkward georgeeeee

word count: 2.8k!

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST

Lucy handed George a steaming cup of tea, which he gratefully accepted. The three of them were having breakfast as usual, and with the last strains of winter fading, Portland Row's kitchen was entirely too bright. He closed his eyes, pretending he didn't see the way Lockwood's hand lingered on Lucy's when taking his mug. They were bad enough on any normal day, but even worse nowadays, with Valentine's Day drawing achingly closer. He felt himself begin to nod off again from the gentle and comforting steam.

He felt a mild rap against his cheek, which he turned to see is from a well-aimed sugar cube launched from across the table by Lucy. He looked up to see her staring hard at him and Lockwood poorly concealing a snigger with his cup of tea.

"George. Have you or have you not got any plans for Valentine's?"

He takes his time wiping his glasses on his shirt sleeve before responding. "Nothing much. Though I've promised Y/N I'd spend the day with her."

He watched Lucy's expression carefully, and she seemed to be watching his. Truth was, with Valentine's drawing closer and closer, George was going into a mild panic. He hadn't exactly arranged it intentionally. They had been having a quiet chat on a morning when George had been too tired from the previous night's case to strictly follow, and suddenly she was waving goodbye, promising to see him next on Valentine's Day.

He had no idea what kind of a Valentine's Day he had agreed to, or how much of a filter he had had, and he had been dropping Lucy desperate cries for help, with decreasing subtlety. Was it a date? Was she expecting a date? Sure, they had went to that play together after Lucy fell mysteriously ill, and maybe they met up for lunch once a week. But she never referred to

His eyes slowly drifted close as Lucy and Lockwood's conversation morphed into gentle white noise, enjoying the warmth of the little sun streaming through their kitchen window. It felt nice to have a little break from his intense week of baking -

Baking! George snapped wide awake, clumsily climbing out of his chair and feverishly counting the stacks of meticulously wrapped, frilly pastry goodie bags lining the kitchen counter. It had become an annual Valentine's Day tradition for George to construct these small goodie bags of baked goods for a sizeable chunk of his extended family. He even roped in Lucy and Lockwood, and as Valentine's Day approached they'd all gather around the kitchen table at night, even if it was after a case, packing the delicaices George had spent the day baking, until one of them started dropping off.

It was tedious work, but they enjoyed it and were well invested in it - Lockwood fiercely so. When a cousin had remarked that perhaps the tradition was becoming a little tired at a family gathering last Christmas, Lockwood had accidentally-but-not-really smacked his head. George relaxed as he neared towards the end of the pile - just one more day of baking, and he'd be ready to send them off.

Lucy and Lockwood were mostly finished with breakfast anyway, so he chased them out of the kitchen and got to work. Once George had his first batch of cookies in the oven, he started planning for the supplementary baked goods. For instance, he was going to make a chocolate souffle for the three of them to share over a midnight supper tomorrow.

So when the kitchen door swung open, letting in a blast of cold air, George spun around scathingly, ready to threaten Lockwood with deflated souffles. But the hiss at the tip of his tongue withered when he saw who it was.

"...Y/N?"

"Hello. Baking, are you?"

George suppressed the urge to shield the vast volumes of confectionary goodie bags littering the kitchen's surfaces.

"...yes." With some difficulty, he slowly resumed his movements, explaining how this was something he did every year. In a way, he was grateful to have something to do with his hands, because the last minute or so reminded him that he had no idea what he normally did with his hands while standing.

"Oh. Need any help?"

It took George another half-minute to process her question. "With what?"

"With the baking, obviously."

"Uh...s'alright, I've got it all handled."

"No, please, I'd love to help."

George paused mid-stir, looking comically perplexed with a smidge of flour on his nose. "What for?" He bit his tongue, hastily back-pedalling since his tone sounded aggressively suspicious. "What I mean is, you wouldn't want to spend your day here, sweating like a pig - not that you sweat, and definitely not like a pig, no - I'm the one sweating like a pig..."

What he wanted to say was, their oven was ancient and so made the kitchen stupid hot every time he baked, but failed miserably. He set down his mixing bowl in defeat. Almost instantly, she stifled a giggle, trying to pass it off as clearing her throat, and George followed her gaze to his apron in horror. What the mixing bowl had previously been hiding was the horrendously cheesy 'kiss the cook' graphic on his apron.

It had been a ridiculous gag gift from Lucy, one that he had never intended to use but was forced to after his last apron caught on fire from one of his experiments with the skull. Bursting into flames would have been more useful now, He stood there, eyes watering from the heat, determined in his refusal to acknowledge both the apron and the smile she was doing a poor job of suppressing.

"Fine. You can start with the cookie batter."

About a minute or two later, it occurred to George that perhaps it would have wise to ask how much experience she had with baking. Not a lot, he soon discovered, when her bowl nearly flew off as soon as she switched on the egg beater. He dropped his mixing bowl instantly, waving away her apologies.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't expect it to be so powerful."

He cautiously adjusted her grip on the bowl, gently guiding her fingers to a better hold.

"No, no, it's my fault. Not much of a baker?"

"...no."

"Okay, so what you do is, use one hand to hold the - other hand - hold the bowl, and the other holds the egg beater like - no, not quite."

He took a step closer, placing his hands over hers, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from her body, and the smell of her shampoo.

The last time they had been this close was on their way home from that play. With Lockwood out of town for a client meeting, and Lucy developing a mysterious case of the flu, it was only the two of them crouched under a tiny umbrella as they walked home after the play. George would have been more than happy to walk in the rain, but she was the one holding the umbrella, and was firm in her resolve to not send him back to Lucy with a head cold. With the little space between them, their cheeks brushed against each other occasionally, sending a jolt running through the side of George's face.

"Well...this is me."

George nodded dumbly, staring hard at the chips in her front door's paint, agonisingly aware of her looking at his face. He didn't dare turn to meet her gaze; they were far too close.

"I had fun today, George."

He sighed and briefly zonesout. As short as their chat was, he remembered very little, his focus only returning when she pulled her key out.

"We should do this again sometime," she was saying, as she turned the key in her lock. When he finally looked at her, there were the tinies raindrops on her eyelashes. There was something so pure and unassuming about the sight that it tugged at his heart. It made him want...more. More with her. With a brief smile, she disappeared into her home, leaving him standing alone in the rain. He stood there for a minute, prolonging the moment for some unidentifiable reason. It was a nice door. She had a nice smile.

It was as though she had read his thoughts from his eyes, for a faintly embarrassed air hung in the kitchen after that. For the next better part of an hour, they engaged in this delicate dance as they floated through the kitchen, carefully staying out of each other's way, never in the same area for long. It wasn't until she was sifting the dry ingredients that they next spoke.

"Hang on, that might be too much flou-"

As George touched her elbow, her hand jerked, sending a sizeable chunk of flour into her mixing bowl, along with a cloud of it directly in her face. He was sorry, of course, but as she spluttered and tried to blink through it, he couldn't stop the amused twist to his features. When she caught his eye, she rolled her eyes and sent a fistful of flour into his eyes. Now it was her turn to laugh as George groaned through the smarting.

"You're right, Mr. Cook, it IS hilarious!"

George scoffed, struggling to maintain his sanctimonius, above-petty-acts front as he wiped his glasses clean with as much dignity as he could muster. But on the inside, his defences were crumbling fast.

"You're acting like a child."

She looked mildly apologetic for a moment, and George felt a flash of truimph, before she raised both her flour-coated hands and resolutely streaked them across George's face.

"Egg on your face. Or should I say, flour?"

With that, all pretenses of civility were thrown out the window. The both of them swept up as many ingredients as they could and migrated to opposite ends of the kitchen table, pelting each other with everything that could be pelted. George landed a few well-aimed chocolate chips into her hair. She soaked the front of his apron with half a jug of milk, which was nearly enough to send him into hysterics. So it went on and on and on, until they ran out of supplies in their immediate reach, before resorting to shoving each other's faces into bags and tins of baking soda and powdered sugar. This, it occurred to George as he was rubbing cornstarch into her red, wheezing face, is strangely intimate.

Again, there was this tugging sensation in his chest, the kind that made him want to sit in his armchair for anywhere from half a minute to half an hour. The kind of sensation that could not be held in words. The closest he could get was the wish for a never-ending summer, or perhaps orchards full of cherry trees as sweet as the first pick. But even that fell short.

Just as she raised two fistfuls of sprinkles, the kitchen door swung open. Lockwood wandered in, looking sharp as ever in his too-small suit. The two of them smoothly parted, their faces burning under the flour, and George suddenly became very interested in the pastry dough he was kneading. He felt rather than saw Lockwood looking back and forth between the two of them, wishing that he'd just take whatever he needed from the kitchen and got out. But of course, he knew better than to engage in wishful thinking, especially with Lockwood's mildly gormless smile plain as day. "Hang on. George, you do realise that-"

Whatever it was that Lockwood was wondering if he had realised was cut off by the jam tart George shoved into his mouth, because the answer was probably yes, Lockwood, of course I realised that completely inane observation.

"Out. Out. I won't have you compromising the integrity of my kitchen." With a little difficulty, George wheeled a spluttering Lockwood littering soft pastry flakes all over his clean kitchen floor out into the hallway. He shut the door firmly and turned back apologetically, only just seeing the flour in her hair as she watched on amusedly.

"I sure hope I'm not starting up a ruckus - or was it compromising the integrity? - of your kitchen."

George felt his cheeks warming as he returned to the kitchen table. "No, of course not. You never know where Lockwood's been, is all. You're different."

Had he been standing this close to her the whole day, he wondered, close enough to see the pretty flakes in her eyes, softer than any pastry he could make? How was he supposed to look away? And how did he stand it?

"Er...I think this dough's ready to be cut into the strips."

"Yes, chef."

He coughed awkwardly, too uncomfortable to come up with any decent sort of response, embarrassedly muttering something along the lines of how there was no need for any of that. As she got absorbed into getting the strips of dough just right, George glanced at the kitchen door, to see Lockwood silently making exaggerated kissy faces at him. George picked up his rolling pin and Lockwood fled immediately, without so much as a creak from the floorboards.

Now, they finally returned to their baking with proper focus, now that they were all tired out. She seemed to have picked up some skills pretty quickly, though he still kept an eye out in case she might do something that would, say, set her hand on fire.

An hour or so later, the phone started ringing obnoxiously in the hallway. With some difficulty, George peeled off one of his disposable gloves on his way to it. When he picked up the phone, he almost wished he hadn't, because it was that same cousin from last Christmas' gathering. As his voice wore on and on, George started wishing he had let Lockwood give him another punch or two, just to set him straight.

Suddenly, he picked out a few startling words from his cousin's nasally voice, which made his heart plummet, as the calendar in the hallway came into startling focus. He wandered back to the kitchen door, numbly hearing his cousin's complaints of why no one's goodie bags had reached yet. He blankly stared at her, and she stared back confused, slowing down her cutting of the strips concernedly. After a second or two, he hung up the phone, but was in too much shock to lower it.

"Today's date," he whispered.

"Hm?"

"Today's date. It's not the 13th. I thought it was the 13th. Today is the 14th. Valentine's day was today, not tomorrow."

Even as he was saying those words, the calm look on her face told him exactly what he had feared - that she had known all along.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I thought this was what you wanted to do!"

"Unpaid labour."

"What?"

"You spent your Valentine's Day doing exhausting, difficult, unpaid labour." He clumsily placed the phone down on the kitchen counter, struggling to find the right words as he fought against the embarrassment. "I am so sorr- just a minute, I might have some loose change somewhere here-"

"Don't." George was spiraling with shame, kicking himself for his oversight, and she still had the gall to look that pretty and kind. "I didn't mind any of it one bit, I promise."

"I promised you something fun."

"George, this is the most fun I've ever had baking, and I've been making pineapple upside down cakes since before I could - oh."

She broke off when she finally looked up to see the growing shock on George's face. She nibbled at the inside of her cheek nervously, trying to gauge his reaction.

"So you do know how to bake."

"Only a little?"

He took in the sight of her apologetic smile, the careful dusting of flour on her face and her suspiciously clean clothes. "You could have said."

"Oh, but I was having so much fun." George rolled his eyes. "I spent the day learning how to construct the most adorable pastry goodie bags I have ever seen, and I did it all with my boyfriend. Believe me, it doesn't get more fun than this."

Not for the first time that day, George stared at her in wonder, like he couldn't quite figure out how she was real. Even now, when all she was doing was merely existing, words failed him. He had a feeling he'd spend lifetimes chasing shadows, trying to pin what was gone before it bloomed, and he still wouldn't be able to find the right words. There was no other way to put it, or colour it - he wished they were more.

He hesitantly extended his hand, brushing just a speck of the huge handprint of flour on her face with his thumb. He turned, walking out into the hallway, but then just as immediately wheeled back.

"Your WHAT?"

TAGLIST: @dangelnleif @elenianag080 @snoopyluver20 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @avdiobliss @mitskiswift99 @ahead-fullofdreams @neewtmas @mischivana @houseoftwistedspirits

[romain-leclaire]

Le Comte de Monte-Cristo - Une adaptation magistrale qui réinvente un classique

La nouvelle adaptation du chef-d'œuvre d'Alexandre Dumas vient de sortir en VOD, et quel spectacle ! Certes, nous avons déjà vu de nombreuses versions de cette histoire immortelle de vengeance et de duplicité, mais cette nouvelle interprétation, signée par le duo Matthieu Delaporte et Alexandre de la Patellière (déjà aux commandes du récent "Les Trois Mousquetaires"), apporte un souffle nouveau à ce récit complexe.

Le film suit fidèlement l'histoire que nous connaissons tous, Edmond Dantès, brillamment incarné par Pierre Niney, est un jeune marin prometteur dont la vie bascule suite à une machination orchestrée par trois hommes qu'il croyait être ses amis. Fernand de Marcef (Bastien Bouillon), Danglars (Patrick Mille) et le magistrat Villefort (Laurent Lafitte) conspirent par jalousie pour l'envoyer croupir dans les geôles du Château d'If, alors même qu'il s'apprêtait à épouser sa bien-aimée Mercedes (Anaïs Demoustier). C'est dans sa cellule que Dantès rencontre l'Abbé Faria (Pierfrancesco Favino), qui devient son mentor et lui révèle l'existence d'un trésor. Après quatorze années de captivité et une évasion spectaculaire, Notre héro renaît sous l'identité du mystérieux Comte de Monte-Cristo, prêt à orchestrer sa vengeance dans les salons dorés du Paris mondain.

Ce qui distingue cette adaptation, c'est sa capacité à condenser les 1400 pages du roman en presque trois heures de film sans jamais nous perdre ni sacrifier la profondeur du récit. Les réalisateurs ont réussi l'exploit de moderniser l'intrigue tout en restant fidèles à l'esprit de Dumas. Pierre Niney livre une performance remarquable dans ce rôle complexe, évoluant du jeune marin innocent au vengeur sophistiqué avec une subtilité impressionnante. Le casting féminin n'est pas en reste, avec une Anaïs Demoustier touchante en Mercedes et une Anamaria Vartolomei fascinante dans le rôle d'Haydée, l'esclave affranchie prisonnière de l'emprise psychologique du Comte.

Techniquement, le film est une réussite totale. Avec un budget relativement modeste de 42,9 millions d'euros, l'équipe a créé un spectacle visuel époustouflant. La photographie de Nicolas Bolduc capture magnifiquement les décors somptueux de Stéphane Taillasson, tandis que la partition de Jérôme Rebotier souligne parfaitement les moments dramatiques sans jamais tomber dans l'excès. Ce qui frappe particulièrement, c'est l'intelligence avec laquelle le film traite les thèmes intemporels du roman, la vengeance, la rédemption, la justice et le prix du pardon. Les réalisateurs ont su créer un équilibre parfait entre spectacle et profondeur narrative, action et émotion, fidélité à l'œuvre originale et sensibilité contemporaine.

Cette nouvelle version du "Comte de Monte-Cristo" prouve qu'il est possible de réaliser un film d'époque ambitieux qui parle au public moderne. C'est le type de production que Hollywood devrait prendre en exemple, un divertissement intelligent qui ne sacrifie ni le spectacle ni la substance. En définitive, cette adaptation est une belle surprise. Elle réussit le tour de force de se démarquer parmi les nombreuses versions existantes en offrant une relecture à la fois respectueuse et innovante du chef-d'œuvre de Dumas. Un film qui devrait satisfaire aussi bien les puristes que les nouveaux spectateurs découvrant cette histoire légendaire.

[loosesodamarble]

Welcome to the Black Bird Part 19: Kyle's Searching

Summary: Introducing Luck as Kyle, another member of the kitchen staff and a young man looking for someone, or maybe somewhere. Genre: general Word count: ~800 A/N: @crazycookiemaniac was commissioned for the artwork.

..........

Luck stared at the contact saved to his phone: [Carissa Voltia]. Then, after a while, he put the device away. Such was his daily ritual, looking at his mother’s name and considering making the call only to not go through with it. He told himself he’d go through with it that day, considering how special it was. But…

He still didn’t have the willpower for it.

Not even after a year.

With nothing else to do, Luck grabbed his belongings and headed to the orphanage’s front door. There was no big send off for him but Luck was surprised to see someone waiting for him at the door. The head of the orphanage smiled sadly at him.

“I guess this is goodbye,” she said to Luck. She reached for Luck but stopped herself, instead placing a hand on her heart. “I admit, you’ve become like a son to me. I’ll miss you and all the messes you made.”

“That’s a lot to remember y’know, Miss Rêvepoir,” Luck remarked with a cheeky grin.

“Mm, yes.” Miss Rêvepoir’s eyes drifted from Luck for a moment before landing on him with a fierce warmth that he was unfamiliar with. “Just know that wherever you go in life, there’s going to be a place for you to belong. Remember that.”

Luck tilted his head to the side, not quite understanding what she was getting at. He gave a hollow, “Sure. Okay then,” in reply before leaving the orphanage for the last time.

…..

As poor form as it was in a professional setting, Luck didn’t stop himself from rocking on the balls of his feet. Secre touched a hand to her chin as her eyes closed in though. The left corner of Jack’s mouth and his left eye twitched. Magna wore a grin that looked as wide as Luck’s own smile felt. Between Luck and the three was a workbench with three partially eaten souffles—cheese, garlic herb, and chocolate—on top. Secre and Jack passed glances.

“I’ll be damned,” Jack muttered, his face breaking out in a smile. “He can cook.”

“With remarkable technique too,” Secre added.

“I told you!” Magna swung both arms up, palms open and leaned over the counter. “Way to go, man!”

Luck blinked then locked gazes with Magna. “Huh?”

“Uh… I’m trying to high-five— Or I guess high-ten with you,” Magna said with a faltering smile. “You know, ‘cause my buddy just rocked this test!”

Am I not just a roommate to him? Luck glanced up at Magna’s hands, which were slowly starting to fall. Friends, huh? Luck stepped forward.

A satisfying clap resounded in the kitchen.

There was the sting of impact on Luck’s palms. There was the warmth of Magna’s hands. Luck beamed at Magna and his roommate, now friend, smirked back at him.

Afterwards, Secre and Luck discussed getting him a food handler’s permit and the necessary paperwork. Then Luck stepped outside. Like he did everyday, he checked his mother’s contact information. But just the same, Luck didn’t make the call. Although, his heart didn’t feel heavy this time.

One day, he’d see her again but he wasn’t in a rush. For now, he’d stick with Magna—since it was fun cooking with him—and the Black Bird.

…..

Zesty Greens. A salad made using spring vegetables—which included spinach, radish, and asparagus—with a citrus zest dressing.

The cafe’s other vinaigrettes were milder, flavored with vinegar as the acid. The dressing for Zesty Greens was stronger in flavor as it used citric acid from lemon and grapefruit instead. Using those fruits, though, also gave the vinaigrette a bright and slight fruity flavor profile. The whole staff was in agreement that the sweet, acidic dressing felt like a smack to the taste buds, but in a good way. What might’ve been a dull salad was made bright and energizing.

Overall, a match for their new chef.

Luck ultimately didn’t care what his cafe persona’s menu item would be. He went along with what his coworkers said with a smile. His focus was on doing what he liked, the freedom that came from cooking, the challenge in the many dishes on the menu.

“Hey, watch it!” “Phoenix,” one of the other chefs, yelped when Luck ran past him to bring plated items to the kitchen pass.

“We’ve got knives and fire here, ya’ know!” There was a laugh in “Gabriel’s” voice as Luck passed by his roommate coworker friend.

“Yeah, I know that!” Luck laughed back.

“Don’t rush so much!” “Fen” called out with a teasing smile. “Your plating will get ruined!”

“No worries! I got it!”

Luck had an extra skip in his step. The smile on his face felt more real.

The place he’d found himself in... He felt like he belonged there.

[raisongardee]

"La rhétorique c’est pour les foules, aux chefs il faut du répondant, le vrai répondant c’est la Banque. C’est là que se tiennent les clefs de songe, le petit Nord et le grand secret, les Souffles de la Révolution. Pas de banquiers pas de remuements de foule, pas d’émotion des couches profondes, pas de déferlements passionnels […]."

Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Les beaux draps, 1941.

[calimera62]

Nous avons des news sur la série "Astérix" d'Alain Chabat !

La série sera composée de cinq épisodes de 30 minutes chacun.

Elle adaptera donc l'album "Le combat des chefs" mais il n'est pas exclu que des histoires venant d'autres albums se mêlent à l'intrigue principale.

Des personnages inédits viendront côtoyer ceux que nous connaissons déjà, parmi eux une jeune Romaine qui souffle à César l'idée du combat des chefs (comme s'il n'était pas assez retord pour y penser tout seul, enfin passons ^^;) ainsi que la mère de César lui-même. Nous avons déjà une idée de son apparence d'après cette vidéo.

Le casting pour le doublage a également été dévoilé. On aura notamment Alain Chabat lui-même qui va doubler Astérix. Alexandre Astier sera lui-aussi de la partie en doublant Ordralfabétix, Thierry Lhermitte doublera Panoramix, Gilles Lellouch sera Obélix, Laurent Laffite sera César, pour ne lister qu'eux, mais d'autres noms sont également cités dans l'article.

Nous n'avons pas encore de date précise concernant sa sortie sur Netflix, mis à part qu'elle se fera au premier semestre 2025 !

[ekman]

La France a un nouveau premier ministre, et un presque nouveau gouvernement. Ça fait deux fois "nouveau", et ça c'est nouveau.

• C’est officiel, Attal a été nourri au lait Davos, spécial premier âge, efficace pour attirer les fées Récession et Rébellion autour du berceau de l’heureux élu, jeune Éloïm dressé à coups de saucisse alsacienne.

• Profitons de l’instant pour placer un bonus/malus à celui qui espérait une récompense, je cite notre vieil ami Moussa, fraichement niqué-de-sa-race-sur-le-coran-de-la-Mecque, qui a réceptionné la nomination de son rival pile à cet endroit que Gaby affectionne tant. Pour l’instant, c’est acté, le coq reste chef des poulets.

• Sachez qu’Attal se prononce “Attal” parce que l’on dit “ravioles” quand on veut parler de “raviolis”. Comprenne qui pourra.

• Gaby investit Matignon – sonnez hautbois, résonnez musettes ! – avec l’air modeste et compassé de tous ceux qui l’ont précédé, trop content de jeter à la rue celle qui restera, pour la postérité, l’incarnation même de la sécheresse vaginale.

• Gaby est proche des gens, c’est le service de presse de Matignon qui le dit. Ainsi le voilà parti dans les “Hauts de France”, qui valent bien ceux de Hurlevent pour le quart d’heure, tant la tempête y souffle et l’eau y monte. Il est beau surtout dans l’action, Gaby. C’est de son âge.

• Sur les ondes et les plateaux téloche, on vous sert Attal solidaire et volontaire, Attal enfant surdoué, Attal homosexuel assumé, Attal et sa passion Véran – d’ailleurs ne dit-on pas d’une machine efficace qu’elle est montée sur Véran ? Bon, je sors.

• Question people : qu'en pense leurs exs ? Stéphane Séjourné, mari divorcé du fougueux impétrant, a accepté le quai d’Orsay un peu comme on prendrait du bout des doigts un cadeau de rupture. On imagine que la cote de la France va remonter très fort dans les pays africains. Quant à Coralie Dubost, ravissante arriviste qui sortit un temps avec le turbulent bi Véran, on n’a plus de nouvelles. Tant mieux pour elle.

J.-M. M.