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Eliot, also known this weekend as “Chef Merino” (after his favourite type of wool), chopped seasonal root vegetables on a large wooden cutting board. Carrots, beets, turnips, shallots, everything spread out on several baking trays lined with parchment paper, oil and a special herb mix his mother taught him to make as a child.
He’d just taken his earpiece out, as everyone had told him to abandon post. These potatoes didn’t cut themselves, did they, and they wanted their alibis to hold for another two days, damn it. It was imperative the meal he put in front of the Ambassador and his wife was flawlessly executed, and he did not have the time to be a hitter if he was also going to be three Michelin Star Chef Antonio Merion. Only one of them was strictly needed right now, and it wasn’t a guy who could incapacitate another with a pinky and a one-liner.
When the chatter in his ear disappeared, there wasn’t much else than the soothing staccato of the blade against wood, and the solemn tapping of vegetable cubes sliding off metal. There was also a ticking noise.
A very distinct ticking noise. Eliot turned towards the pre-heated ovens.
Ticktick. Ticktick. Ticktick.
That was the sound of two Culinary Maxator Four-Thousand-And-Three X hitting their breaking curves after being used too hot for too long for too many consecutive days. In itself, this wasn’t anything strange, but the fact was that these were newly installed ovens in a newly renovated house in a newly bought villa, and, to the best of Eliot’s knowledge, this was the first time anyone had even put them on.
“Oh, no, you won’t,” he said, pointing a finger at the ovens. “No. You are not.”
He stepped up to them and put a hand on the glass. Heat radiated from the oven door to his skin and he held just a little too long before pulling back. The ticking continued and amped up in volume. He pressed his thumb to his red palm. His skin stung, but he picked up the earpiece and put it back in. “Guys, we have a problem.”
Sophie answered first. “Eliot, what’s going on?”
“Something’s wrong with the ovens. They’re breaking.”
“Breaking how?”
“The pressure is building in the internal pipes and they’re about five minutes from busting from the inside.”
“How do you know?” Parker piped in.
“Because!” Eliot groaned. “It’s a very distinct sound. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, they’re going to burst and there will be no dinner and the Ambassador can’t be blown away by the taste buds because he won’t be able to taste--”
“Eliot!” Sophie chimed. “Is there a backup plan?”
“A backup plan? Of course, there’s a backup plan! It’s not my first rodeo, Soph. But this is not going to be a walk in the park, let me tell you.”
“Did I hear my name?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Okey-dokey!”
“All I’m saying is that I need...” He looked around the counter at the half-finished meal still waiting for heat. “Twenty-eight minutes extra.”
“Shall we say thirty?”
“Twenty. Eight.”
Sophie laughed. “You heard the man! A twenty-eight-minute distraction, guys.”
Eliot took the earpiece out again, muttering. If there was one thing he was going to make damn sure of, was that nothing would ruin his dinner.