Chapter Text
chef wilde
It became somewhat of a routine. Wake up at 7:00 am, far earlier than a fox ever should. Shower, brush teeth and comb down any stray fur. Dress not as nice as he should, but still presentable, grab the bag he otherwise refused to look at, and out the door. Ready in 30 minutes most days, 40 if his clients were especially dreadful. Take the bus as close as possible to the address, walk the rest. Lidded eyes, that fake, casual grin he donned all too much, a knock, and —
"Chef Wilde! What a pleasure to finally meet you, we've heard so much about you!"
And so the dance begins.
Greet the patrons and their children, if any. Shake hands, kiss cheeks, slide in a well time joke when appropriate, and sometimes if he has kids in the audience, when inappropriate. Continue the pleasantries for what feels like too long every time, and pose the million dollar question.
“So what will the menu be for you fine folks today?”
He already knows the answer, of course. He had heard the same reply 5 days a week for over a month now. Like everyone else had, they wanted —
“The famous “Nick Nines” of course!”
A painfully bad name. He hated it with a passion, though it technically surmised what the menu entailed. 3 courses, for 3 meals. “Food to the nines, and just as perfect”, as people came to say. It couldn't be farther from perfection though, but he wouldn’t say that in front of anyone else.
He was beginning to think he would slip one day.
“Then let’s get started, shall we?” He turned around to grab his bag, partially to drop that cloying grin for a moment, and began to lay out his tools
This was the part of routine where things slowed down for a moment, and his mind found some sort of calm. Whether or not he was tired of the dish he was making, he still got to cook, and that was something he would never complain about. He surveyed the client's kitchen for a moment, and began to place his things where he could. His knife roll, all but one being high-quality expensive things from some big company he stopped caring about. The coolers and dry totes, full of ingredients that he quickly packed away where he could in the fridge and cupboards. The rest of the bag full of his extraneous tools he’d tell his clients he brought “just in case”, though he knew exactly what he would be using.
First, he would take out the pre-prepped ingredients, and the few he left unprepped for show. He would then ready the pots and pans the client had in store, and occasionally his own if he needed to. From then on the day would always seem to meld together. Breakfast, clean, then his break — which he often spent walking about the nearby area. Call it a fox's nature, but Nick always loved exploring, loved learning. Hurry back when he eventually realized how far he wandered. Ignore the meaningless compliments about breakfast, especially when they mentioned how “Good of a cook he was for a fox.” Lunch, clean, and his break, usually occupied by conversations with his clients he tried, and failed to avoid. Try harder to ignore the speciest comments disguised as compliments. Dinner, ignore, clean, shallow goodbyes, and the dance concluded. 5 days a week, making the same set of dishes over and over until he thought he would snap, which he definitely someday would.
Until Saturday came along.
Saturdays were his “private” cooking class, though he kept prices reasonably low so it was more accessible. He held three sessions throughout the day, the recommended level of skill growing as the day went on. Thanks to the extra money from the week, he was also able to splurge on the ingredients every so often, which always left people happy. Even when people started to come from his “famous” meal plan, he controlled what was cooked here. Were people usually disappointed when they learned it wouldn’t be what they saw on TV? Yes, they were. But that disappointment faded quickly once they began to cook whatever was scheduled for the day. At least, usually.
“Give us the nines!”
“We paid to cook your famous meal!”
He’d seen a pack of angry mammals plenty of times before, but never about something like this.
Almost every animal in his class was standing, very loudly against the meal he said they would be cooking that evening. He could spot a tiger in the back row that was standing but not chanting with the group, a sitting tapir in the front row that was still loudly against his suggestion, and a bunny in the middle row. For some reason, she sat at the edge of her seat, almost looking excited. Slowly getting more and more agitated, he slammed his paw on the counter, and the room went silent.
“Enough! If you all want to cook my meal so badly, then we will not act like this within the kitchen. Is that clear, chefs?”
Maybe if he scared some of them out of coming back, he could enjoy the one day of the week he can cook with a real, genuine smile. That, or earn some returning cooks that really want to learn.
“Well?”
“Yes Chef!” the room boomed with their response, the bunny arguably the loudest of them all.
The rest of the evening went smoothly, albeit different from his normal classes. He barked out the steps to the dish — the third course of the third meal, it having the most in common with the ingredients already in the kitchen — and the chefs in the room responded accordingly. They definitely had the enthusiasm, but only a few could match the (unfair) pace he set for them.. When the first few mammals began to finish the dish, he decided that if he really wanted to deter them from doing this again, he would have to take it one step further.
“In this bowl contains scraps of paper. you each will come up and grab one, and if your scrap has a number on it, you will present your dish to me. If the quality of your meal does not reach my standard, then you will be blacklisted from my cooking classes.”
A quiet rolled over the room. Some of the louder mammals at the start were visually nervous at the idea of being judged so harshly, in front of fellow cooks at that. One by one, they walked up and took a piece of paper from the bowl. Some looked right away, some waited to get back to their station, but it was very clear who was relieved and who wasn’t.
“Chef number 1! Please bring your dish to the front”
The meal was a cauliflower steak, started in the oven and finished with a clean sear, basted in butter and dressed with a pesto. It was served alongside steamed carrots, and oven roasted potatoes. A simple enough dish, but it was easy to misjudge the cooking time of any of the veggies, and many mammals were intimidated at the idea of making a pesto.
The first victim was chef DiCaprio —- a tall brown bear, looking surprisingly nervous for his stature. his dish was plated perfectly, something you might see in a textbook somewhere. However, the interior of the vegetables were-
“Underdone. The potatoes have no crisp to them, the carrots are still tough on the inside, and the poor cauliflower has no crust to it. Do you think our farmers took the time and effort to cultivate this produce, just for you to not do it justice?”
He was being harsh, intentionally, but he wasn’t wrong. The food still tasted good, and would make almost anyone happy after a long day, but he had still failed to follow the instructions. He sent the chef back to his station, head hanging in shame. This might’ve been the only time in his life he thought he could make a bear cry.
The next chef was a hyena with wildly colorful hair, obviously trying to force a relaxed face. Obvious to him at least. Her plate was extremely similar to the bear before her, well plated and visually appealing. At a glance, everything was cooked to the proper temperature as well. he cut off a portion of the cauliflower, and-
Nothing. The intended, slight crunch from the sear was there, and the inside was soft enough that he was able to chew it easily. but there was no flavor past "cauliflower, cauliflower, and more cauliflower.” He tried the sides, as well as the pesto, and unfortunately was met with similar results.
“Vegetables are very capable ingredients, Chef Gertie. However, that does not mean you don’t use any seasonings at all. Go back to your station.”
She picked her plate up, and he noticed her strain to keep that relaxed grin on her face. A pang of guilt and understanding ran through him.
“Finally, chef number 3!”
The small, eager bunny from the middle rows slid off her chair, plate in tow. He pulled a chair around for her to stand on, but she had jumped up to set the plate down before he made it back to his side of the counter. Her food, well…
It just was wrong. The potatoes were sliced in thin discs, which she chose to plate on top of the pesto. The cauliflower and the carrots had their roles swapped, which worked well enough visually. The farmers in the burrows grew carrots large enough to make a bison happy, though they were usually sold in bulk to restaurants for prep. Or, to foxes that wanted to save a little money.
He gave her a questioning glare, but the bunny looked proudly at the fox and waited for his critique. He started with the potatoes, slowly becoming at a greater loss for words as he worked his way around the dish.
“Chef hopps. You ignored the clear instructions given and instead made something wildly different from the original recipe. Despite that, this dish is- “
Perfect. The way the potatoes had a slight crisp on the outside and a soft, fluffy interior that was only enhanced by the bed of pesto sent a shock through his body, giving him goosebumps. The chopped cauliflower held its moisture better, and was seasoned perfectly. And the taste of the carrot, combined with the perfect sear left him at a loss for words.
“-adequate.” He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep the tough guy persona going, and ended her review there, nodding her back to her station. He quickly wrapped up the end of the class and waited for everyone to leave before he closed up the building, unable to stop thinking about the final meal presented to him. How had she known to do that to the potatoes? To the cauliflower? To the-
“Carrots!” She was waiting for him outside of the building, looking eagerly, and now slightly upset at the chef.
“My name is Judy, and it's a liiiiittle rude to call a bunny that.”
Embarrassment burned through his already red ears. “Of course, I am so sorry about that, you caught me mid-thought. How can I help you?”
Nick was ready to drop the charades for the week and rest, but the unique bunny had admittedly caught his attention. He also noticed her tightly clutching a notebook.
“You never gave me proper feedback about my dish. I know I wasn’t supposed to change the recipe, but I thought if I rearranged things and…” she began to ramble off a number of things Nick had trouble stringing together. He wanted to go home, his one enjoyable day cooking was ruined, and he was dead tired after the act he put on. So tired, he took the notebook she was clutching, wrote down his number, and went home.
The next day, he started his morning jolting up so hard he almost fell out of bed. Why did I give her my number? What if that made her uncomfortable? Okay, it definitely made her uncomfortable. His mind was racing a mile a minute, and he paced around his room for a moment before opting to check his phone. What he didn’t expect to find, was 5 texts from a certain bunny.
good evening Chef Wilde! i’m sorry if my spiel was too much
like i said, i wanted to run some more ideas by you regarding some recipes i’ve been expwrimenting with
*exprrimentng
**experimenting
please let me know if you have any time to talk!!
The first emotion he felt was relief. His rude action was remotely understood, even if he didn’t know what he had agreed to by doing so. The second, was apprehension. He wasn't exactly jumping at the idea of meeting with someone he cooked with in his free time, especially not on his only day off. But, he saw how excited she was to talk about food, and not just his food. He wasn’t forgetting about her meal anytime soon either.
Good morning Chef Hopps. There is a cafe a block down from the kitchen that recently opened. If you’re free today, show me what you got.
So much for a routine.