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Zeff has hired a new sous chef. Sanji is less than happy about it.
He watches him through the smoke rising out of the pan he’s working on. He’s not bitter about the outside help – he’s familiar with the phrase too many cooks spoil the broth. That doesn’t mean that each cook, should they create their own, wouldn’t bring their own individual twist.
The Baratie has had its fair share of chefs and wait staff that come and go. Be it the staff or the customers, and excluding the long-standing help of Patty and Carne, no one stays longer than a few months. The sous chef is the one who should run the kitchen in Zeff’s absence, the next one in line after him. It should be someone who’s been here since the beginning, someone who trained under the shitty old man himself.
If anyone is qualified to do this job, it’s him.
“It’s not personal, brat.” Zeff had said when he voiced his distaste for it. “Quit whining and peel.”
Sanji scowled in reply and busied himself with the potatoes, speeding through the peeling until the pot was full and disappearing out the back door for a smoke.
He stands outside the back of the Baratie and stares at the ocean until half of his cigarette has burned away. Who is this pompous, middle-aged, know-it-all to slither in to their restaurant and take his place?
He bites his cigarette in half in his anger. He watches the burnt end fall into the sea below.
The new cook’s name is Jean, which is as unassuming as the rest of him. Sanji likes nothing about him. He’s built like a brick house which scares the ladies when they’re trying to eat, he spits when he talks, and his face resembles more an animal than a respectable cook.
His cooking skills are alright. Sanji might be biased in his hatred. He hasn’t seen the man mess up so far, though he also hasn’t seen any skills that are overly impressive, nothing that he doesn’t think he couldn’t do himself. Patty and Carne haven’t stopped laughing at him since the beginning of this whole ordeal.
The kitchen is busy, preparing for the afternoon rush. The restaurant may be on the sea, but its reputation precedes it. People travel into the East Blue for a taste of their exquisite menu, and the dining room is usually busy. Sanji watches Jean chop vegetables through the bustle, his own preparations already complete. He’s organised, unlike some.
Carne snickers at him while he tenderises some meat. Sanji glares at him, then moves closer to Jean for a closer look.
He’s slow, he thinks, though he can’t fault his technique apart from that. It’s effective, the tiny diced pieces of onion, shallot, and garlic finely sliced into consistent sizes. Jean’s massive, hairy hands look too big to hold a kitchen knife, but Sanji knows he cannot dispute him there. Patty and Carne have clumsy hands marred from eager fighting, and their own cooking abilities can’t be questioned. Zeff would not keep them around if they were not skilled chefs, no matter how they get on Sanji’s last nerve.
Jean grunts and Sanji realises he’s been caught watching him.
“You’re the kid from the picture,” he says.
He means the picture of him and Zeff when they first opened, the one the shitty geezer has pinned beside the door of the kitchen, that can’t be missed every time someone leaves.
“Yeah. What of it?”
“You got a starin’ problem?”
Sanji feels his scowl deepen. He takes a deep breath to calm himself down.
“You’re too slow,” he snaps at him. “You planning on serving breakfast instead? At this rate it’ll be morning by the time you’re done.”
Jean looks him up and down. He raises an eyebrow. “Am I being criticized by a ten year old?”
Immediate laughter bursts from the surrounding chefs and Sanji’s ears redden, face hot.
“I’m not ten! I’m fifteen!”
That only makes the laughing worse. Sanji eyes Carne for support, God knows why – the smug bastard doubled over in happiness at Sanji’s misery. Sanji wants to knife all of them into fillets. He doesn’t know which is more childish; to yell and cause a scene or to carry on and snap at them again.
He flips them all off instead and trudges back to his workstation.
“That went well,” Carne says, wiping a tear from his eye.
“Eat shit.”
~
Lunch had gone well. Sanji mostly helps out the other chefs around the kitchen, though he’s honed his skills enough over the years that they trust him not to watch him like a hawk as they did when he was younger. When the Baratie initially opened, Zeff hadn’t let Sanji cook anything at all. He was restricted to cleaning up and carrying the dishes that were ready for plating. It had pissed him off royally to no end, though he understands that Zeff had let him in the kitchen to watch and pick up the order of things, to absorb their skills and make them his own.
He helps Patty knead dough and bake bread and pastries. He mills around Carne as he butchers the meat, watches the precise and tactical way that he cuts into it. His favourite is watching them prepare the fish they buy from their usual vendor. Sanji accompanies whoever goes to town and is a seasoned haggler, knows the best deals and what’s local, what’s new.
He’s good with the soups. He’s already made the broth for the bouillabaisse, has had it simmering for over an hour. He’s made the rouille to accompany by it by whisking egg yolks with lemon juice and cayenne pepper, adding oil and garlic before thinning it down and setting it aside for later. He’s adding the finishing touches when Jean stops beside him, peering into the large pot and breathing deep.
“Smells good.”
Sanji ignores him, adding the tomato concassé to the dish. He thinks he might concassé Jean himself if he doesn’t get away from him.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier,” he says.
Sanji disagrees. He would very much like to shove his wrong foot up Jean’s ass.
“I’ve heard good things about your food. I’d like to try it.”
Sanji thinks Jean must be sizing up his skills. He knows he’s looking down on him, most of the new hires do at first, dubious of his age and subsequently his place inside the kitchen.
“This food isn’t for animals, you understand me? This is for paying customers.”
Sanji’s made enough for six or seven servings. It’s a popular menu item and one frequently ordered, and the broth has to be made beforehand, so he’s put a lot of time and effort into it. He snatched a quick taste as he finished up. It tastes good.
“Don’t be like that,” Jean says. His eyes flick to Zeff as he passes by on the other side of the kitchen. Zeff himself doesn’t always frequent the kitchen, but when he does, there’s usually insults flying along with pots and pans, staff either on their best behaviour or running for the nearest boat out of there.
“I’m hungry. Let me try it.”
Sanji can’t say no to him, especially not if he’s hungry.
He tsks and turns away to fetch a bowl for serving, coming back with one and using the ladle to pour out a generous portion. He adds some more of the garnish on top and hands it over.
He watches Jean bring his spoon to his lips and promptly choke on it.
“Got something to say?”
“Yeah,” Jean drops the bowl to the tabletop. The soup sloshes up the side but doesn’t spill. “This is awful.”
The kitchen becomes quiet. All at once, Sanji is so angry he thinks he might implode.
“What?”
He snatches the spoon and stares at Jean, the heat from his fiery scowl enough to scramble him. Jean gestures to the bowl between them.
“The bouillabaisse. You made that?”
“Impossible,” Sanji says. It is impossible. This two-bit cook must have a problem with his tastebuds, another fact which proves he’s not fit to be running Zeff’s kitchen.
Zeff appears beside him and reaches for the ladle without a word. Good, Sanji thinks. Let him taste it and see that there’s no problem. Jean will have proven alone that he shouldn’t be the sous chef of any kitchen, let alone the Baratie.
Zeff uses a clean spoon to bring a mouthful up to moustached lips. Sanji waits, smug. His whole demeanour shifts as he watches Zeff’s weathered face shrivel at the taste of it.
“Disgusting.”
This must be a joke. They’re playing a prank on him, another attempt to rile up the youngest cook in the kitchen.
“You’re not funny, geezer. There’s nothing wrong with the soup. I tasted it myself.”
“Then you need to have your head examined,” Zeff says gruffly. “This tastes like you made it off the floor. You think this is acceptable to serve to the public?”
“Impossible.” Sanji storms to get a clean spoon, his steps laced with fire. He shoves his way between Zeff and Jean and dunks it, shoving it confidently into his mouth.
It’s salty, overwhelmingly salty. It’s all he can taste, overpowering every other careful, thought out flavour that he knows he put into it. Sanji drops the spoon and heads for the pantry, checking over the ingredients. Everything is fresh and fine, stored in their correct places. This isn’t possible. He knows he made the soup correctly. He tasted it minutes before Jean had!
Sanji stalks out of the pantry to twelve pairs of eyes on him. The kitchen hasn’t been this silent for a while, with the exception of his own angered, heavy breathing.
“He did something to it!”
He must have done something when Sanji had turned away. Jean is the picture of innocence, scratching the back of his stupid, boorish head as if he’s none the wiser.
“Why would I?” he mutters. “It’s just a waste of food.”
“It won’t go to waste,” Zeff says. Sanji knows this too. As long as it isn’t poisoned or harmful to eat, they would never throw away anything over something as simple as too much salt. There’s enough tainted bouillabaisse here to feed a large table. Sanji will be eating it all week until it’s gone.
“You did this.” Sanji’s sure of it. “Don’t lie. I’ll kick your ass!”
“Save the fighting for the dinner guests,” Zeff scolds them. “Jean, go and make yourself useful somewhere else or get out of my kitchen. Eggplant, I’d like a word.”
Sanji follows Zeff out the back. The salty sea breeze immediately helps to clear his head. His fingers itch at the pocket of his chef whites, grasping for a smoke to calm him down.
“Explain.”
Zeff’s giving him a chance to tell his version of the story. Sanji won’t waste it with his biased complaining, knows that Zeff will surely write him off as being childish and distracted by his feelings if he does.
“I made the bouillabaisse like I always do,” he tells him. “I tasted it when it was done and it was good.” He sighs, thinks of all his efforts that have gone to waste. “It took ages.”
Zeff nods along but grunts. “Get to the point.”
“The soup was probably one of my best until that animal came along and sabotaged it.”
Zeff steps forward. Sanji shuts his eyes tight, imagines he’s probably going to be kicked overboard for his griping. Instead he feels a heavy but gentle hand settle on top of his head.
“Why would Jean do that?”
“I don’t know?” He feels frustrated tears start to build in his eyes. He won’t cry about it, but it sucks all the same. “Because he knows I don’t like him?”
“Why don’t you like him?”
“Because you didn’t need a sous chef!”
Zeff sighs. “I thought that’s what this was about.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a familiar looking pack of cigarettes, handing them to Sanji wordlessly. Sanji takes it gratefully, plucking one out and lighting it amidst his embarrassment. He can’t believe he just admitted that out loud, in front of the shitty old man no less.
“Sanji.”
He looks up. Zeff has a tired but serious look on his face, the set of his eyes narrow and focused. Sanji knows well to listen to him.
“You’re too young to be the sous chef.”
He opens his mouth to defend his age again but shuts it swiftly at the hard look he gets in response, Zeff unwilling to be interrupted.
“I brought in Jean so you could see how other cooks run a kitchen. It’s better to observe and learn from real experience than be thrown in the deep end. You understand that?”
He does. Sanji shifts his cig from one end of his mouth to the other, grumbling instead of replying.
“Good. We’ll see how well you listen once you turn eighteen. Until then, get your act together and grow up.”
Sanji tsks and leans over the back rail to finish his cigarette as Zeff shuffles around him, back into the kitchen. Minutes pass in silence as Sanji calms down.
Through the cracks between the door leading out the back, Sanji catches sound of a scrap going on inside. There’s muffled yelling in the kitchen, the clatter of equipment and cutlery being tossed about, and he risks poking his head in to check it out. His eyes widen at what he sees.
Jean is on the ground, rubbing his head again, only this time he’s soothing the growing bump that Zeff has put there. He stands over Jean with his chef hat clutched in his hand.
“What would I gain from doing that?” Jean says desperately. He cowers and Sanji laughs as Zeff uses the hat to beat him with it wherever he can reach.
“That punk is hardly a cook – he’s not even a station chef!”
“You’d do well not to talk about that little brat where I can hear you again, got that? Now get the hell outta my kitchen.”
Laughter erupts from the chefs around them as Jean scrambles up and makes a run for it, kitchen doors swinging in his haste. The little worn picture of Zeff and Sanji watches him go.
“Once you turn eighteen…”
Sanji grins and slips his head back out, letting the ocean breeze fill his lungs. He doesn’t know what he was worried about.