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“What’s wrong with my cooking?” Luke sits leaning over a coffee table filled with documents stamped ‘CLASSIFIED’. He looks busy, but when Sam enters the room he gives her his full attention.
“Nothing, if you like raw eggs.” Sam had been dropping hints for a few weeks leading up to today’s intervention. In her eyes, her father’s diet consists mostly of protein powder and grilled chicken, neither of which she would call her favourite meal.
Luke’s mouth opens in surprise, eyebrows rising as Sam bursts into smug giggles.
“That is not the extent of my cooking abilities.” Luke insists, but Sam is unconvinced.
“Come on, dad, it’ll be fun!” Sam gives him an encouraging smile, presenting him with her phone. Luke’s brow furrows as he reads.
‘Cooking classes for adults, from beginner to advanced’, the website states.
Sam’s eyes are wide, hopeful, and Luke’s will, weak as it is when it comes to Sam, cracks.
“Alright. I’ll do one class.”
Sam whoops, grabbing her phone back to promptly book him in. She rattles off a range of sessions, but Luke’s contribution is limited to nods and credit card numbers.
Later that week, it’s time for the first class. It’s held in a flash looking cooking school, all stainless steel and glass. Outside the room, the group is small, consisting mostly of couples and middle aged men.
“It’s for my wife’s birthday.” He overhears one explain. “A special gift for her.”
On the hour, the door opens and the students file in. Luke’s first impression of the teacher is surprise. Luke expected some sort of French asshole with a tall hat and arms like twigs. But this man looks closer to an officer than a chef, and he orders the class around like one.
“Welcome, everyone, to beginner’s cooking. My name is Deckard Shaw, but you can call me Chef.” Oh, British. Pretty close to French, then.
“Today, we are doing a crumbed salmon with a salad on the side. Everyone pick a station and we can go through the ingredients.”
Luke can’t help but observe the man as he makes his way to a bench. His expression is stern, features sharp. He’s handsome, Luke must admit, though far from friendly.
“So in front of you, you should have breadcrumbs, basil, olive oil, parmesan and a salmon fillet. Everybody ready?” The space between Deckard’s words is almost absent, sentences clipped of frivolity.
They begin to cook, and though the recipe is simple, Luke feels out of his depth. His hands feel too clumsy for the delicacy that handling fish requires. Still, he relishes in the satisfaction that watching a dish comes together can bring.
Deckard paces slowly around the room, giving brusque feedback to the students. When he reaches Luke, his permanent frown seems to furrow deeper in disappointment. Luke feels Deckard’s white-hot gaze on him.
“We really want to properly incorporate the breadcrumbs.” Deckard comments, disapprovingly. Luke, his fingers covered in various sticky substances, resists the urge to quip a snarky reply, and nods.
Deckard pauses for a few more seconds, watching Luke rub damp breadcrumbs between his fingers, finally adding, “put in some elbow grease”, and moving to the next station.
Luke indulges in a glare at Deckard’s back for a moment before returning to his dish. His qualms about coming to a cooking class in the first place seem to be confirmed. Outweighing his discouragement, though, is an urge to punch Chef Deckard in the face.
“How was it?” Saturday nights are pizza nights, though the irony of returning from a cooking class only to order in is not lost on Luke.
“The chef is pretty up himself, that’s for sure.” Luke says it with amusement, but Sam still looks a little deflated.
“But I learned how to make crusted salmon.” Luke adds, and Sam perks up. “How about tomorrow night I show off my skills?”
“Oh, you’ve got skills now?” Sam laughs. There’s a pause, and Sam speaks again, voice low. “Was it a bad suggestion, cooking class?”
Luke looks at her and smiles. “No, sweetie. It was a great suggestion.”
“So, you’ll go back?”
“Of course.” Despite Luke’s irritation, nothing could keep him from returning, if only to spite that English prick.
-
Deckard had been wondering if Luke would show up at the next lesson. He was so different to his usual students, it intrigued him. He wasn’t a middle-aged man who was clearly hoping to make up for his lack of household assistance for the last thirty years by cooking one nice meal for his wife. Nor was he a couple hoping to avoid divorce through the magic of spending time together. In fact, he was something else entirely - perhaps military, like Deckard once was, or something similar.
During the lesson, as the room struggles to put together the day’s pasta recipe, Deckard attempts to steer the conversation towards finding out more about the mysterious Luke.
“Are you a military man?” He’s straightforward with his question. Those of a certain background appreciate candor.
“No, no. Law man.” Luke replies, not shifting his intense stare at his pasta sauce, stirring slowly.
“Ah.” Deckard, too, looks to Luke’s sauce as he decorates the vicinity of his pot with spatters. It’s a shade darker than Deckard would like it to be, an indication of too much or too little of something along the line.
“Military?” Luke asks, attempting to look Deckard in the eye but succeeding only in splashing a small puddle of sauce out of the pot. Deckard holds back a smirk.
“Yeah, yeah. Not anymore.” Deckard changes the subject, showing no signs of the indecision that precedes his next question. “Who are you cooking for, wife perhaps?”
“My daughter actually suggested I take lessons. She thinks I can’t cook.” Luke’s expression changes wholly at the mention of his daughter, from frowning to an open and glowing smile. Deckard is surprised by how charming he finds it.
Luke looks to him as if he is waiting for Deckard to make a comment, which he does. “She’s very observant. And that sauce should really be thickening by now.”
“Are you gonna teach me, or are you just gonna be a smartass?” Luke’s smile is gone now, and Deckard’s replaces it.
Deckard places two hands flat on the bench between them. “You know, the way I learned, if you talked back, you were out.”
“Good thing I don’t work for you.”
“You’re right, that is a very good thing.” They hold each other’s gaze, neither of them wanting to break first. It’s clear they have very different approaches to life, but their competitiveness is shared.
It’s Deckard who speaks first, just a few seconds feeling heavy and long.
“Keep stirring.”
As Deckard moves to the next bench, he hears Luke whisper under his breath, “asshole”, and he can’t help but smile.
-
It’s the fourth weekly session when, coming back from a playdate, Sam’s aunt drops her off at the cooking school at the end of Luke’s lesson.
“Hey beautiful, how was Laura’s place?” He greets Sam with a hug.
“So much fun! We watched movies and jumped on her trampoline. It’s huge!”
“Oh no, don’t tell me I’m gonna have to get you a trampoline now.” As Sam giggles, Luke stops walking, bringing his hands to his chest and frowning in realisation.
“Wait a second- I left my jacket.”
“I’ll wait here, I wanna go on those swings.” Sam says, gesturing to the playground adjacent to the school.
“Alright, I’ll just be a second.” Luke says, bending down to hug Sam again.
“Don’t talk to anyone!” He calls back as he jogs back towards the building.
Deckard is walking to his car when he spots a child on the playground - not an unusual sight. What is unusual is that there’s no adult with her. He waits as he loads his bag into the trunk of his car for an adult to emerge, but no one does.
He walks a little closer, just enough to get in earshot.
“Are you here by yourself?” He asks. Sam continues to swing as she speaks.
“No, my dad just went inside for a moment.” Deckard nods and goes to turn back to his car, but Sam calls him back.
“Hey, you’re the chef!” He must look surprised, because she elaborates. “My dad takes your class!”
“Oh, what’s his name?” Deckard tries to remember who in his class could have such a young daughter.
“Luke Hobbs.” She says proudly. Of course.
“Ah.” Deckard’s single syllable response conveys some frustration. Sam gives a knowing smile.
“Is he the worst one in your class?” She asks. Deckard laughs.
“You might be surprised, but he isn’t. Just don’t tell him that.” Sam grins. Kids always love being let in on a secret.
Luke returns from fetching his jacket to find Sam talking to someone, even after he specifically told her not to. He relaxes a little once he realises it’s only Deckard.
“Okay Sam, time to go.” Sam diligently jumps off the swing, running over to her father.
“You’ve got a very intelligent daughter, Mr Hobbs.” Sam beams at his comment, and Luke smiles too.
“I certainly do.” He and Deckard exchange nods, and Deckard heads back to his car.
-
“You gonna put some effort in today, Luke?” The two of them have settled into a happy routine over the last few weekly sessions, bickering just enough to get the job done.
“Are you gonna be a dick, Deckard?” Luke pulls his apron over his head. The other students laugh. They’re used to this by now.
“That’s my job.” Deckard can’t deny he’s been paying Luke special treatment. He certainly doesn’t argue with any of the other students, doesn’t make as many excuses to talk to them.
For Luke, he can’t deny that it’s become the highlight of his week. Sam, always perceptive, notices. One night, after Luke whips up his latest dish mastered in Deckard’s class, Sam comments that “you seem like you like going to classes now.” As much as Luke would like to say it’s about learning a new skill, he knows he wouldn’t be nearly as invested in continuing the class if it weren’t Deckard who was teaching it.
The beginner class only runs for six weeks, and the course is done. When the congratulations are over, both Luke and Deckard feel the occasion as more bitter than sweet.
Luke waits until the other students are out the door before he leaves, not for any particular reason.
“Glad to be out of my kitchen?” Deckard asks, the two of them slowing to a snail’s pace as they walk out.
Luke laughs. “Well, I’m glad to be able to cook now, for my daughter.”
Deckard nods hesitantly. “I’m still not sure we can accurately say that you can cook.”
“Hey, you’re the teacher.” They stop at the entrance to the school, the end of the line.
“I do give private lessons to my more challenged pupils.” Deckard offers. Luke meets his gaze, his eyes slightly guarded but not sharp.
“I still stand by my ability to cook.” Deckard nods, assuming rejection.
“But,” Luke continues, a smirk spreading across his face, “There’s always room for improvement.”