Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Figured.
He returned with two beers and a lemon, and he swiftly pulled out a cutting board and a knife. “So far, you’ve added soy, cumin, pepper, two types of oil, onion powder, garlic, a bit of mustard, and chili into the bowl. You haven’t once asked why.”
“Uh…”
He grinned and slid the bottle of honey my way. “Three tablespoons of honey. But why?”
For fuck’s sake. “I’m used to giving students homework, not the other way around. If there’s a quiz coming, you gotta warn me.”
He rumbled a warm laugh, the sexiest goddamn sound. “Come on. Think about it. Why are we adding honey?”
Because that’s what you told me to do!
“To make it taste good?” I guessed.
He shook his head in amusement and split the lemon into two halves. Then he squeezed the juice from one of them into the bowl. “Why am I adding lemon?”
“To make it taste good,” I repeated.
He found that funny too. “This is why you have oatmeal for dinner, Anthony. You don’t take the time to get to know your ingredients.” Did he actually remember my entry in the giveaway? “Have you taken any cooking classes before?”
“Once.” I winced internally at the memory. “My little brother still makes fun of me for it. He calls me the worst Italian in Brooklyn.”
That earned me another charming smile. They were fucking dangerous. “What were you makin’?”
“Alfredo,” I replied. “Mine came out lookin’ more like risotto.”
At the very least, my kitchen failings were brightening his mood. That counted for something.
“That’s the problem with most cooking classes.” King took over the mixing once the honey was in, and he whisked it all together with a practiced touch. “They give you a recipe to follow and entertain you with the origin of the main ingredient, fun anecdotes about that one time the chef was in Tuscany and tried homemade pasta for the first time, and then they give you some wiggle room about the time it takes to bake something, because, you know, all ovens are different.” Oh, he was passionate about this. He added some more spices too. A pinch of this, a pinch of that. “What they fail to introduce many times is a flavor profile. Just like with wine, whiskey, and coffee, a recipe is about bringing together the perfect combination of flavors.” He leaned into me to throw the whisk in the sink, which gave me a whiff of his cologne. Cazzo. “A marinade can be the character in a movie with only one line, or it can be more of a significant secondary character. For barbecues in the South, you wanna taste the marinade properly.”
I was on board for tasting.
In the bigger bowl, he started adding chunks of meat that he cut at a pace I couldn’t keep up with. “I’m making kabobs tonight, so I want the marinade to bring out something extra in each ingredient. The chili goes well with the bell peppers. Nutmeg with mushrooms, and…” In quick succession, he finished adding the meat, poured the marinade, and, lastly, emptied half a bottle of beer into the mixture. “Beer tenderizes the meat.”
I was a little turned on, to be honest.
“Don’t listen to the people who say you should only add the beer an hour before grilling,” he told me. “They’re wrong.”
Okay. I wasn’t going to listen to those people.
“Honey for sweetness, lemon for tartness, and black pepper that binds it all together,” he finished.
When all was said and done, he’d put plastic wrap over the bowl with the meat, he’d wiped down the counter, and he handed me the unopened beer.
“Let’s have a seat outside.”
“All right. Shouldn’t the meat be in the fridge?”
He chuckled and clapped me on the back. “God no.”
Was this the test? I should ask why. Right?
“Why not?”
The way his eyes warmed with approval affected me way too much. “It’s old thinking. Whether you’re baking or cooking, most ingredients are better to use at room temperature. And that includes ingredients we’re taught should always be in the fridge to prevent bacteria or everything going bad. Eggs, milk, butter, meat. You name it. One day on the counter won’t make a difference. Not in today’s day and age. Our homes are cleaner, most of us have air conditioning—hygiene is generally better.”
I shoulda known that. Nonna always brought out the ingredients in the morning if she was baking later in the afternoon.
I expected to be hit by a chill when we stepped out onto the patio, but I was greeted by the opposite. The afternoon sun blanketed the area in warmth, and it wasn’t very humid at all. It was perfect.
The big dining area near the grill was probably where we’d eat tonight, but right now, I had my eyes set on the cushy loungers around the pool. There were a lot of them too, at least a dozen. Hadn’t King said they weren’t used to entertaining? How big was his sister’s family? Or maybe when you were loaded, you simply had to have multiples of something. The pool belonged in a hotel, not someone’s backyard.