Sean
For what must be the tenth time this morning, I step out of the back door of the building to smoke a cigarette. There’s a strict non-smoking policy inside the restaurant, but even stricter in the kitchen and I must set an example, even though I am still alone this time of the morning.
I am used to being here early and late; I practically live here. My heart swells with pride when I think how I found this place, how neglected it was, but I saw the potential immediately. I worked like a slave to get it running and in a way I still do, even though my staff think I am more of a slave driver.
It’s called ‘Blades’ in honour of my favourite football team and of course my background. I’ve worked in several restaurants all over Europe, learning to be a chef the hard way. I’ve been cursed at, mocked for my accent laughed at for my habits, but I made it.
Even though I loved seeing so many different places I always knew that I would go back to Sheffield, my hometown and my roots. It’s been two years ago now since I started here, and it’s a big success, which doesn’t surprise me, because the food is honest and good. What does surprise me however is that I am a success.
Even though I learned to cook the finest French cuisine, you won’t find that fancy stuff in my restaurant. The food here is made from fresh, good produce and I am proud of that. The people loved it here from the start and I got nice reviews, even one from the local vinegar-pissing restaurant critic in the Sheffield Star.
Before I knew it I was popular and asked to write a cookbook, which finally became a series of six. That’s when the press started calling, asking me for interviews and stuff and I did it all, because it was free publicity. I ended up having my own telly programme, which is really great to do, but has also brought me trouble.
I used to be here whenever my place was open, which meant six days a week. These days I am away a lot. I have to be in the studio for the TV show sometimes two days a week and now I have this promotional tour for my new book starting over a week from now. I will be gone for most of the time during the two weeks and it’s a big concern, especially knowing we’re pretty well booked up for months ahead.
I have a good staff, but none of them is capable of running the kitchen like it should be run and I am aware of that. I put up an ad in several newspapers for a good sous chef, promising a royal salary.
There were a lot of applicants and I picked out those that seemed suitable. For the last four days I’ve had a row of sorry suckers in my kitchen and it has left me desperate. Sure, a few were great to talk to, but as soon as I made them go into the kitchen and prepare me a meal they all failed one way or another to meet my exacting standards. I didn’t want one of those as much as cooking an egg for me. These young guys are all so full of what they want and seem to forget it’s about what the customer wants.
Now I am beginning to think I won’t find one, even though I have three more applicants to go this morning. I am worried as hell, and I know I have been a devil to my staff in the last few days, as I took it all out on them. I guess they are used to it by now, though.
I go back inside and glance at the note I left on my desk top; *Viggo Mortensen, 09.00 am* and then at the clock, 08.55. *Well you’d better be on time Mr Mortensen, or I’ll kick you right back on the kerb” I think, just before the doorbell rings. *Good, at least he is punctual.*
I open the door to a quite skinny guy, with a strong, angular face. He’s not wearing a jacket, which is a silly thing to do here up North at this time of year, but he doesn’t seem fazed by the cold. A short sleeved tee shirt shows muscular arms and a large tattoo on one. Well I’ve got a few of my own, so I won’t hold that against him.
His handshake is firm, and he seems at ease, planting his arse on a chair in the lounge uninvited. I offer him coffee, which he accepts and then I sit down on the chair opposite him.
“So Mr. Mortensen, how come an American like you wants to work in Yorkshire? I’ve seen your qualifications and I think you’d prefer working in a fancy London restaurant.”
“Viggo,” he says in a soft voice that makes me wonder if this man will be able to lead a full kitchen staff, “I prefer you to call me Viggo.”
“Okay Viggo, you can call me Sean, but if I employ you I will be Chef to you. Now how about it?”
There is something in that face that hints of steel and maybe there’s more to him than that soft voice. I sit back, and let him talk.
“I am working in London now and I really don’t like it very much. I’ve read about you and the way you feel about cooking. You work with local products and serve traditional food and I really like that. My father was Danish and like most Danes, I love traditional food.”
“Danish? You do realize we’re preparing Yorkshire food here? Think you can manage?”
He doesn’t blink, just smiles, “Yes Sean, I’m sure I can.”
“Okay then, Viggo, just follow me to the kitchen and prepare me some food,” I say, slightly irritated by his stance.
In the kitchen I lean against the counter, my arms folded over my chest, and watch him open drawers and inspect the equipment. I don’t offer any help and he sure as hell doesn’t ask for it either.
I don’t know if I am amused or pissed off. A little of both, I guess.
Viggo
*Sean Fucking Bean* as he is generally referred to, on account of his usual form of addressing his staff, is a pretty impressive figure, when he opens the door of his restaurant to me.
He is wearing an immaculate, white chef’s tunic and crisp checked pants and he sizes me up with sharp green eyes.
I figure that he finds it pretty easy to intimidate people, but I refuse to be intimidated, so I sit before I am invited and accept a cup of really excellent coffee, while Sean cuts straight to the chase,
“So Mr. Mortensen, how come an American like you wants to work in Yorkshire? I’ve seen your qualifications and I think you’d prefer working in a fancy London restaurant.”
So no crap with Sean, which I like, so I meet his gaze and answer him straight. I tell him the truth – well most of the truth and when he asks me if I think I can manage to prepare Yorkshire food, I tell him I am sure that I can.
He seems slightly pissed off by my confidence and invites me to demonstrate, so I saunter as nonchalantly as I can into his kitchen and make myself familiar with the equipment.
I turn and nod, then tell Sean I just need to go out to the car and bring in my things. I return minutes later with my cold bag containing ingredients and my precious case of sharp knives, the tools of my trade.
I put on my own spotlessly clean chef’s tunic and my white toque, ignoring the grin he tries to suppress and scrub my hands thoroughly before I begin.
Sean leans against the counter and watches me like a hawk. Come to think of it, his prominent nose and those eyes remind me a little of a bird of prey and I smile to myself as I work.
I move quickly and efficiently with an economy of movement. I am an instinctive cook. For me this is a form of creativity. Some people paint, write, take pictures or make music, but I express myself through food. I did my homework before I came here too and sourced my ingredients locally, as I know Sean does. I am soon able to place in front of him three courses.
“Your appetizer is scrambled eggs with smoked kippers from Noble’s in Whitby, on havercakes.”
“Havercakes! You have done your research!”
“Oh yes, but these oatcakes date from Viking times. The Old Norse for oats was hafre, hence havercakes. Did you know that a haversack was originally for carrying oats?”
“Fucking hell! I asked for a cookery demonstration, not a lesson in Old Norse!”
But I note that he nods in approval at the presentation and the taste, so I move on to the main course of Toad in the Hole, carefully chosen to demonstrate that I may be an alien, but I can make a mean Yorkshire pudding.
“The apple and sage pork sausages are of course hand made in Harrogate. I am sure you will recognize the superior taste, as they supply you here. The rhubarb compote on the side is my own creation. It offsets the richness of the sausages very well and of course, Yorkshire is famous for the Rhubarb Triangle.”
“I am fully familiar with the Rhubarb Triangle and I do not require a fucking geography lesson. These sausages are good, though and the rhubarb does work with this.”
“And my Yorkshire pudding?”
“It’ll do!”
* Come off it, Sean. That’s perfect and you know it!*
I suppose that a grudging ‘it’ll do’ is the best I can expect as a non-Yorkshireman and he liked the rhubarb, so I move on to the dessert,
“And for dessert, a proper Yorkshire curd tart.”
“I’ll be the judge of whether it’s proper, thank you!”
The grumpy bastard closes his eyes as he takes a forkful of the tart and I know that I have him.
He savours it for a moment and then looks at me,
“In your Yorkshire pudding, there was an extra zing. What was your special ingredient?”
“Ah now, that would be a secret ingredient. I could only reveal it to my employer.”
He glares at me for a moment and shakes his head,
“You are the cheekiest bugger, who ever applied to me for a job! You’re a smart arse as well and you’d drive me fucking mad!”
“But I can cook, Sean and I do understand Yorkshire food. My ancestors probably settled here in Viking times. Hey, we could be related!”
Sean makes a kind of strangled growling noise in his throat and looks as if he would rather throw me out than offer me a job. I wonder for a moment if I have gone too far, so I say,
“How about you guess my secret weapon, Sean?”
He seems to have been struck speechless by my audacity and then I actually see the light dawn,
“Henderson’s Relish! A dash of Henderson’s in the batter. You sneaky bastard!”
His face lights up, he throws back his head and roars with laughter and holds out his hand.
“So do I get the job, Chef?”
“You get the job, on probation, mind, but I’m not sure being around you when there are sharp, shiny implements to hand is going to work. It would be very tempting to turn you into a kebab!”
“I am sure you wouldn’t do that, Chef,” I say, with a grin. “Not traditional Yorkshire fare!”
Sean
I can’t believe he is actually taunting me, but he is and it’s a long time ago since someone had the fucking balls for that. He will probably be a pain in the arse, but he does know how to cook and I like his knives. Pretty daring to use Henderson’s in the batter, but I must admit (although not to him) it’s a great idea.
So I shake hands with the cheeky bastard and tell him he’s on board. I tell him he is on probation though, as good cooking alone isn’t enough. He will have to keep an eye on stock, make deals with my suppliers and most important; manage my kitchen crew and kick their arses when needed.
“So Viggo, when can you start?”
He looks at me and grins. “I already quit my job in London, Chef. I was planning to come up north anyway. I just need to check into a hotel until I find a place of my own. Tomorrow?”
I gesture him to follow me, and I pick up a business card from my desk, scribble down a few words and hand it to him.
“On the corner of the next block you’ll find the Yorkshire Inn. The owner Neill is a friend of mine, and he will give you a good room for a reduced price in exchange for a good meal for his wife and him.”
“Thank you Chef.”
“Don’t thank me, just make sure you prepare a good meal when he collects. Neill is really hard to please.”
He nods and turns around to leave.
“Hey,” I say, “now that I’ve found you a room there’s no reason you can’t start tonight. I expect you here at four.”
I watch him sharply, expecting him to argue, but this time the grin is wide and he nods again.
When I am sure he’s gone I go to the kitchen to eat the rest of his curd tart, which really is surprisingly good. I sit down to make a few phone calls about deliveries and then the kitchen staff start to come in and go to the kitchen to clean up and make preparations for lunch.
I wait until they are all there, because I fucking hate telling things twice and then I call them together and inform them about Viggo. They don’t dare to protest, but I can see that some of them are pissed off and Viggo won’t get anything for free. *Let’s see how he manages,* and I chuckle when I sit back in my office, thinking about that silly hat he was wearing and how that will go down with the blokes in the kitchen.
He will have trouble coming with Dan, who has been kissing my arse for the last few weeks in hope of promotion. Dan is no more than a mediocre cook, and he couldn’t lead a bunch of five year olds to the other side of the street, let alone lead my kitchen.
We are fully booked for lunch today, as the YWAA, short for Young Women Against Alcoholism has their annual lunch, and I tell you it makes me want to get blatantly drunk. Carrot juice doesn’t make much profit, but it could be worse as I found out when I had the Committee for Women’s Rights here a few weeks ago and I called Jane, my senior waitress a not very flattering name.
Lunch goes down well though, and I only have to raise my voice twice to tell my crew to get their fucking arses in gear, which is probably a record. This is only lunch which is a piece of cake compared to dinner.
I go back to my office to do some paperwork, while the kitchen assistants clean up and start making basic food preparation for dinner. Dan, Chris and Matt are working on soups and sauces, and I can hear the back door opening every time someone goes out for a fag. Working in a kitchen is great, but stressful, and we all smoke whenever we have the opportunity. Most of us go out, even when it’s minus 22.
Viggo arrives right on time, already dressed in his tunic, his knife case in his hand, and his toque under his arm. I first introduce him to the head waiter and sommelier, Barry, then to the other waiters, before I take him into the kitchen. He shakes hands, and then gets out his tools. There’s a barely suppressed snigger when he puts on the toque, but he seems unfazed and just starts checking the menu Barry handed him.
I take my place next to him, shoving him a little more to the right and then he turns to me, his finger tapping the menu.
“I don’t see any vegetarian menu here Sea… err…Chef, and there isn’t much fish on the card either!”
“If people want fish,” I say, standing a little closer to him, “there’s a very nice chippie just on the other side of the road. About the vegetarian, we serve vegetables with every main course, and that’s enough for Yorkshire people so it will have to do for you too, mate!”
He opens his mouth to say something, but seems to realize this is hardly the place to start an argument and he shrugs and starts to work. I keep an eye on him, and I am amazed how he has managed to remember everyone’s name.
I take him with me to the store room, and show him the freezer room and the goods we store there. Just before we step out I grab him by the arm and pull him back in.
“Look here,” I say, “I don’t pay you to make changes on the menu. This is what we serve my guests and if you don’t like it you can fuck off right now.”
He just looks at me and says, “Yes, Chef”, politely, but somehow I am sure he’s laughing at me. *Fuck him.*
Viggo
Well, mission accomplished and I was offered the job. It’s just as well, as I had kind of burnt my boats in London by quitting my job before heading north.
It was true that I was tired of London and wanted a change of scene. The Yorkshire dales and fells appealed to me, as I love to commune with nature, when I get the time but what really influenced me to come here was Bean himself.
Sure I knew him by reputation, but one night off, I tuned into a late chat show and was transfixed by the man. He was promoting his cookbooks and explaining his philosophy about good, traditional food and locally sourced ingredients and I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.
He was hesitant at first, a man of action rather than a man for talking, but my God, that voice and his accent made the hairs rise all over my body. And when he got into his stride, his enthusiasm and belief in what he was doing made him passionate and articulate.
I remember that he talked with his hands, beautiful, expressive hands with long fingers and since that night, those hands have had a regular starring role in my fantasies.
I didn’t feel the need to enlighten him about that aspect of my motivations. I don’t even really know whether he prefers sausage to sushi. He has a rep as a very macho, hetero character, ruling his kitchen like a tyrant and swearing like a trooper. Not that swearing is exactly diagnostic, as I swear pretty fluently myself. He’s been married and divorced three times, though, but that doesn’t tell you anything really, as I’ve been married myself. I just have a kind of gut feeling about him.
If he IS into guys in any way at all, he’s certainly firmly in the freezer about it, so call me a lovesick fool, if you will, but I just felt it was time for a change and I had this compulsion to work with him.
It’s fun to yank his chain, but I need to be careful how far I go. I want to get him interested in me, not kick me out on my pert and perky ass.
I check into the pub he recommended with his mate Neill and his wife, Carol, who greet me warmly on production of Sean’s card.
Carol shows me up to a small, but clean and comfortable room and chats to me about Sean all the way. It sounds to me as if she is pretty smitten and later, downstairs in the bar, Neill tells me about Sean’s love of football and ale and how he’s a “blokes’ bloke”. I could be in for an uphill struggle here.
I make sure I am on time for the evening service, as I am still very much on probation. There’s a little tension, when I am introduced to the other kitchen staff, who I can’t help noticing are all male. I am probably treading on a few toes here, but I know that I can cook up a storm, I pull my weight and I am pretty good at getting on with people, so it doesn’t bother me. There are always politics in kitchens.
What does kind of bother me is the menu, heavily weighted on the meat side, with only one fish appetizer, potted prawns and only one main fish dish, Whitby crab salad. There’s also no vegetarian option, which is astonishing in 2008, so I have to open my big mouth and comment.
I am firmly put in my place and told that it’s good enough for Yorkshire people, so it had better be good enough for me. Sean moves physically closer to me and uses the full force of his personality. He doesn’t need to raise his voice, just fixes me with a look. I notice that everybody is watching us and so I just start to work, because this is not the time to challenge him.
He interrupts the prep to show me the store room and walk-in freezer, but as we go to walk out again, he grabs my arm tightly and pushes me against the wall, establishing just who is the dominant one.
The air crackles between us as he tells me in no uncertain terms that he selects the menu and I had better do as I am told. I swear that the heat he is generating starts a few things thawing out in there and I smile inwardly, having had one of my doubts laid to rest. He is interested all right and not just in my chopping technique.
*We’ll see who gets to top here* But I keep my face deadly serious and tell him, “Yes, Chef”.
He eyes me suspiciously, but releases me and I head back to the kitchen and carry on as the evening gets underway.
Sean demonstrates that his reputation is well-founded as we get real busy and the air is blue with more than the smoke from the flambé. This hapless guy called Dan, who seems nervous, manages to curdle a whole batch of sauce béarnaise, just as the steaks for a party of six are ready to go.
It seems from Sean’s reaction that Dan’s mother and both sets of grandparents had imaginative sexual relations with a troop of baboons, Dan being the ultimate product.
As Dan is a nervous wreck after Sean’s tirade, I grab the bowl of sauce from him and put the base into a bowl of cold water to stop the cooking, quickly adding an ice cube and whisking like crazy.
Fortunately Plan A works, it all comes together again and I don’t have to move on to Plan B, starting off with a fresh egg-yolk and a tablespoon of water and gradually adding the sauce, or even Plan C, throwing the whole thing out and starting again.
The steaks are able to be put into the serving hatch cooked to perfection, accompanied by the sauce and Sean grunts at me in approval. Dan looks very miserable, but Sean calls him a twat and asks him if he wants to be down at the Job Centre come Monday morning, so he has to get on with his work.
I don’t think I made a friend tonight, though.
Sean
The more I see Viggo work, the more I know I was lucky to get him, because he is a great cook. Despite the soft voice, his directions are clearly audible and he seems to have made himself at home already. It’s not like I am going to tell him all that, though. He still has to prove he can keep this up. Then there is also that little something about his attitude that seems to taunt me and it makes me feel good, like the foreboding of a really good boxing match. I used to box when I was still a teenager and I liked that feeling of tight apprehension.
Earlier I had told myself that I would restrain myself a little from leading the brigade, so that I could see whether Viggo would take over when needed, but when that wanker Dan spoils my sauce I snap out immediately in a few well chosen words about his ancestry. Instead of trying to do something about the sauce the idiot just trembles and blushes, but then Viggo steps in and does exactly what Dan should have been doing, if he knew anything more about cooking than Mickey Mouse. He has the nerve to glare at Viggo instead of thanking him and this time I warn him properly.
I mutter a ‘thank you’ to Viggo, who tries to not look smug and I can’t help smiling when I see his fancy toque doesn’t seem as pristine anymore and is showing signs of decline. *Welcome to Yorkshire, mate*
The evening goes by without any more drama, and after cleaning up we all sit in the restaurant around the big table, sharing a bite and a few drinks. We do this every night and it’s good unwinding the stress after busy nights like this. That’s the time where everyone can call me Sean, and we relax in general. Dan is the only one to leave straight after work tonight, which isn’t a clever thing. Soon, Viggo finds himself the centre of attention and of course some are taking the piss, but he can take it, and I like that.
He will just need a little coaching about Yorkshire and Yorkshire food, and learn when to keep his mouth shut and all will be well. I am really looking forward to putting him into place, because something tells me he likes to fight. Well so do I.
Later, when the rest are off, we stay behind together and we talk a little about procedures when I am gone next week. Of course he’s not me and I can’t expect him to put in the same working hours as I do, but on the other hand I pay him royally, so I do expect some commitment.
Luckily he seems to feel that way too, and we agree on him having some extra time off this week so he can find a real place to live instead of a temporary one, and he will work extra hours when I am gone. For the time being we settle on him being here early in the morning so I can show him the paperwork on our suppliers and introduce him to some of them so he’ll be able to deal with that part too.
We leave together, and I walk with him to Neil’s, waving at Carol who’s behind the bar, but deciding against stepping in. It is fairly late and I must try and get some sleep. I say goodnight to Viggo, and then I head home, which is only two streets away.
At home I check my mail, most of them bills, because I simply don’t have a social life nowadays. Sure, I get invitations for fancy parties, but fuck them. I am no dancing bear. Later in bed I can’t find sleep even though I am exhausted, and I start thinking about the good things about being married; how I got home and someone was actually waiting for me. Of course I know that was only true in the first few months. Things were spiralling downwards pretty fast after that and it was all my fault.
If I am really honest I think of all my marriages as failures, apart from giving me three wonderful daughters, who I adore. I just don’t like being alone though, and maybe that’s why I have thrown myself at work almost full time.
I need to get laid I decide. Not, definitely not, getting married again, but just get laid. Maybe even go back to the time where we had a different kind of unwinding after a stressful night, the Chef and I. I was maybe twenty-five or so, and that Chef forty or more, but it still felt great when he bent me over the kitchen sink and fucked me that night, spoiled food sticking to my bare chest, learning about the creative use of olive oil.
We had quite a few of those stress relief encounters, and it was good as long as it lasted, but I never felt the urge to do this again, with someone else. I don’t know why I am thinking about it now. It was all a long time ago and we parted friends, but without looking back. *Maybe I am just horny*, I think, while I wrap my hand around my cock, and stroke myself, while sinking back into the pillow.
The next morning, Viggo is early and I show him the suppliers I work with, while we wait for some deliveries. I always go to the market twice a week, and Viggo agrees to accompany me tomorrow. Like me, he prefers to see the food for himself and touch it, and that’s a good thing.
After checking all the deliveries we go to the kitchen and he opens the drawer I assigned to him, and starts sharpening his knives.
“Those are decent tools you have there,” I say approvingly and he turns around and smiles at me.
“Your tools aren’t too bad either Sean,” and for a moment we just stare at each other.
Summary: Sean is a Chef and restaurateur, famous for his salty language and Viggo is his new sous chef
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: If you can't stand the heatChapters: 4 Completed: Yes
Word count: 20307 Read: 3604
Published: 04 Aug 2009 Updated: 04 Aug 2009