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Who didn’t know Nom de l'espace Réservé. The restaurant was famous for only their special but boy, how it sold. How could you not love that iconic cut of lean meat? Those vibrant greens. The steam wafting up off criss-crossing char lines and the mound of glossy potato salad on the side.
Everyone loved it.
Well, everyone except me.
It all started off as a joke. See, I couldn’t cook to save my life but I had taste buds more sensitive than a baby’s skin. So upon discovering my freakshow-worthy talent to taste every morsel added into a bowl, my college roommates took it upon themselves to concoct increasingly bizarre combinations of food and film me listing everything I tasted. I mean, come on, we were broke and very often drunk (I had to be that most of the time, I think it’s more a curse than anything) and we were earning mad youtube revenue from disaster cooking and everything was fine for a few golden years.
My fame cost me eventually, though. It was the Michelin starred restaurants first, the big shots with recipes and fame to lose. Then the celebrity chefs were next, like Kayden Palmer by Kayden Palmer even though their food was questionable at best. That started the beginning of the end — Quintuple H. Soie Gras. Even the unknown hipster ones like Sketch Lecture Room And Library — I’m banned from them all.
The biggest blow was the first time I was stopped at a McDonald’s. As if people don’t already know what goes into those excuses for patties as it was. They were rich enough to afford the lawsuits anyway.
I didn’t care at first. Not until I found out my friends of five years were having secret outings without me because it was impossible to eat anywhere otherwise. All they had for me was an apologetic “sorry, dude” before kicking me from the chat. Like damn. A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, you know?
So I move upstate, somewhere quieter but no less unawares, and settle for a shitty apartment in the middle of goddamn nowhere.
The shoe rack’s vibrating from some tasteless heavy bass as I dig out my keys. I get the door open and a tow-headed boy pops up from behind the couch. Devon Lancaster. He’s smoking, but also hot, and it doesn’t help he’s not wearing a shirt.
“You’re the new guy. Raleigh.” His voice is gravelly, barely audible over the TV. “No. Wait. Radcliffe. Raymond?”
“Radley,” I say, barely in through the door with my stuff in tow, “Good to meet you—”
“Yeah, I was just messing with you, like who doesn’t know your handsome face by now, man. The Radley taste-it-all Portsmann.” With a disinterested flick of blue eyes, “Guess what I had for lunch.”
“The last of your manners?”
“Even better. The special from Nom de l'espace Réservé.”
“Screw you.”
He blows a chef's kiss at nothing in particular. “It was delicious. Heavenly. Magnifique.”
I hurry past the untidy dining table and its haphazard stacks of vinyls, Devon’s gaze weighing on me all the way.
“I left some instant mac’n’cheese on your desk,” he calls out unhelpfully, “Nom de l'espace Réservé wouldn’t let me buy anything to go cuz they’ve got eyes all over you, or I would’ve gotten you something that isn’t starch in a box—”
“Screw you, Devon, leave me alone.”
“Aight bro, chill.” He’s laughing as I slam the door shut.
-
It only takes three days to know Devon’s one of those bastards who’d steal a kid’s lollipop and blame it on someone else. Probably just a few years older than me but no less gangly than a teen, he’s loud and unapologetically in love with himself. It doesn’t help he has the looks to woo himself in the mirror. And even though Autumn’s round the corner he never wears a shirt indoors if he can help it.
“Guess what I had for dinner.”
I’m exhausted. I’ve just spent seven hours in the same lecture theatre and another four in a part time job bagging groceries and I’m not in the mood.
He knows it too. “I had The Kayden Palmer Special from Kayden Palmer by Kayden Palmer."
“Oh wow. Not the special from Nom de l'espace Réservé? Thought you were obsessed with it.”
“I still am! Just thought to try something else from somewhere that sells decent human vittles. You know, on your behalf. Hey, I picked up some Whiskers cat food, any chance you’d—”
“No,” I snap, “I’ll throw it in your face if you dare.”
“Aw, come on, Ray, it’s not even as bad as some of the boxed lunches from the store.”
“It’s Radley.” I ignore the jibe, head into my room. “And do the dishes properly, for god’s sake. I could taste the instant ramen you had for supper yesterday.”
“My bad,” he drawls from the couch.
“Nom de l'espace Réservé on one hand and Nissin cup noodles on the other. You filthy hypocrite. At least get Maggie.”
“You buy it then.”
“Screw you.”
“Hey.”
I turn around. He’s in the doorway, unexpectedly close, still in the same ratty tank top he was in yesterday. I never noticed, but his hands are marked all over with brown scar tissue, plasters around two knuckles.
“If I can get you the special from Nom de l'espace Réservé, will you give me the recipe?”
He’s completely serious. I’ve never seen him standing without slouching, or talking without slurring his words. His gaze is so heavy.
I weigh my options.
“After you’ve been such an asshole to me? Yeah, that’s not happening.”
Devon runs a hand through strawberry blond hair.
I’m expecting something sharp in return, something insulting. But he just says “Okay” before his footfalls retreat back to the couch.
-
Unexpectedly, I am blessed with a weekend of peace as Devon disappears without a word. I make the most of it. Scrub the dusty floors, wash the starchy curtains, wipe down the stained couch. Help him tidy the place a bit. Man, he owns a lot of notebooks for someone who looks like he’ll use a pen as a back scratcher.
I’m working through a TV dinner when the door slams open. I nearly drop the food all over the floor as Devon storms in front of me. He’s in a more presentable sweater and jeans.
“Here.”
I stare at the tupperware he’s holding out. “What?”
“It’s to win you over.” He jerks the box towards me. “Open it.”
Slightly cautiously, I take it and remove the lid, and — Oh, shit. I’m salivating. It smells divine.
Anything does, really, after you’ve lived a whole year on salad and instant food.
Devon hands me utensils and I scarf it down. It’s homely and delicate. A lot of thought was put into it. Thought and skill and experience.
The food vanishes too quickly. Reluctantly, I scrape up the last morsels and resist the very strong urge to mop up the gravy with a finger and lick that clean.
Devon, who’s stayed silent this whole time, simply smiles and collects the tupperware to clean it. Properly, with soap and sponge, just like I asked.
And I find myself half wishing he wouldn’t.
-
“Guess what I had for lunch today.”
I slip off my shoes and head for the kitchen, not bothering to reply. He’ll continue talking either way. When Devon wants to talk, he will make himself heard.
But I stop dead in my tracks. There’s a single bowl waiting on the countertop, piled high with steaming food.
“This is cruel,” I say. Today’s instant pasta is still in the bag I’m holding.
Devon comes up and whisks the bowl out of my reach. He’s smirking, the devilish thing. “My bad.”
This lazy good for nothing can cook and he never once volunteered. Boxed starch my ass.
Devon sobers.
“Tell me the recipe for the Nom de l'espace Réservé special, I’ll make it worth your while.”
It smells so good.
“With one cooked meal? Forget it.” I head over to the microwave. “I’m not gonna expose a world famous dish for that.”
Devon sets the bowl down. Slowly slides it over.
“No, Devon.”
“You’re dying to change your mind,” he singsongs.
“No, Devon, I’m not. Because unlike you, I have morals.”
Devon grins.
“What if I told you that what you’re looking at,” he points at the bowl, “Is the special.”
“From Nom de l'espace Réservé? They stopped doing takeout so there’s no way.” I unwrap my dinner and shove it in the microwave.
“Oh, but it is.”
The microwave’s lights go out. Devon has the plug dangling from one hand.
“The ‘special’ is my mom’s recipe. She learned it from my Nana, who learned it from her Nana.”
I glance at the bowl and its unruly heap of meat and vegetables.
“They deconstructed it,” Devon goes on, “But the marinade and seasoning? All the same. Down to the texture of the roast. It’s a Lancaster specialty.”
“Say I do it,” I cut in. “If I do it. Why would I help you?”
“Because we’re a family of cooks,” Devon says, grinning ever wider, “We’ll feed you.”
I close my mouth.
“All the food you could ever want and more.”
The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, huh.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I pick up the bowl, and Devon’s eyes light. “Good luck trying to get the Special out though.”
“I have my ways.” He pauses. “Radley, thank you.”
I’m so focused on the food that I don’t register it until he’s back in his room and the door clicks shut behind him.
Shit. Special or not, whatever I’m eating is so good I’d sell my soul for more.
-
Devon keeps his promise. I finally get some decent food inside me and I swear I have never felt my arteries so relaxed. My pores are cleansed. My skin glows. I’m a new man.
I text Devon whenever I’m home for lunch and there’ll be food waiting. For the first time, I’m content to not think about what it’s made of as I eat. Soul food for my aching spirit.
It’s the first Friday after our deal when I come home after a 5 hour shift at the gas station and there is no food on the table.
Devon’s head pops up from behind the couch.
“Ray. You’re back.”
“Uh huh,” I say slowly. “What’s going on?”
“I got you the special. It’s time to uphold your end of the deal.”
How on earth did he get a sample of the Special? The restaurant has been intensely strict about its food. Did he bribe a chef?
“If this is illegal I want no part of it.”
Devon rolls his eyes.
I come around to his side. He’s sprawled on the couch, all smug and prince-like. He must’ve just come back from the restaurant because he’s dressed in a well-pressed striped shirt and trousers which fit him so well that I’m offended.
And there is no takeout box anywhere in sight.
“Uphold your end of the deal,” he says again.
“Uphold my — Look, Devon,” I say crossly, “I would if I had anything to—”
Devon’s on his feet, snaking arms around my neck. He’s experienced and knows how to angle his head just so, how to slide his tongue past my lips, how to get me pushing against him—
He pulls away. He’s red-faced, eyes averted, burn-marked fingers twisting in his lap.
I rub my mouth. My hand comes away just a little greasy.
“Oh,” I say, very softly.
“Guess what I had for lunch,” Devon says. He’s breathless.
“The Special?” I ask, and Devon nods. “It’s your mother’s recipe.”
It’s his turn to say “oh” very softly.
I sit. Devon sits too.
For a long while we don’t say anything.
Finally, I sigh and rub my eyes. “Hers is better.” I glance at Devon, who hasn’t moved a muscle. “And so is yours.”
The edges of Devon’s eyes crease. “Yeah?”
“By a long shot.”
-
It’s child’s play to reach out to my old fair-weathered friends and collect the chits I’ve been owed. They’ve benefited from the fame and social media’s a bloodhound. Nom de l'espace Réservé goes belly up surprisingly quickly, like they’re just trying to cut their losses.
I’m still not allowed five feet near a McDonald’s, but thankfully Mrs Lancaster grills me all the sliders I want. Mr Lancaster makes a mean coffee and Devon, well, his specialty’s the desserts. I move in to a spare bedroom in the Lancaster home and get a decent job… waiting tables. Look, I’m a simple man, I love food, but more than that I love me some good old work-life separation.
Speaking of work-life separation, Devon and I try to never talk when I’m on shift. Because obviously, I still think about the kiss. The way Devon’s ears turn pink when he looks at me, he probably does too.
“Sorry,” he told me back then, after about an hour of trying to pretend to pretend we weren’t internally combusting like two horny teenagers, “I really should’ve asked.”
“You should’ve,” I told him.
“It was awful of me to have used you like that.”
“It was,” I replied.
He glanced at my lips again. And then it was my turn to pull him down and press him into the couch.
We’ve had rules since then. Fruits before kissing and then cuddles after — the second one is Devon’s idea — and he’s been very good at being a respectable human being. He told me later that his parents were in debt from running a failing restaurant and he was desperate, as most sons were, to change things.
Well, things are better now. Devon’s made head chef, but still cooks me anything I ask. And well, if I’m craving forbidden foods, I just send Devon out to get some. It works every time.