Carla's Adventure Ch. 01

Hi reader, first of all, thank you to the mods for the speed and support they have given to publish my stories. Also, thank you for the generous support and follows I've had from the reader community here.

Carla's Adventure is a slow burn steamy romance taking in the journey through life of one woman, a Chef from New York. All thirteen chapters are being released over the coming two weeks so please enjoy.

I'd been long-distance backpacking before but never alone. Having dropped Europe entirely from my university gap year life-affirming itinerary, I'd missed out on Italy, something my father rued. When reminiscing about his life and chef's journey, Dad endlessly declared my decision as definitive evidence of flawed judgment.

He prodded gently because Dad was a nurturer, but in our front porch evening revues of one another's day, he urged me to travel and become the great chef he claimed was within me.

For too long I'd shelved the missing link to my adventure, opting instead for a stable job, trendy apartment, and a relationship, believing everyone else's perfect life as they described it on social media.

It was time to move on.

What had changed?

My slow-motion car crash relationship finally became a terminal wreck, and a reckless departure from a shitty job cleared my schedule. It was high time to try something new because so far, nothing I'd planned had worked out as intended.

A new backpacking itinerary was long overdue and Italy was finally on the cards. My father's vision for me as a great chef could be realized.

I'd have to go it alone because my siblings and friends were employed, shacked up with significant others, or looking for one or both. At twenty-eight I was young enough to reinvent myself, but this version must work out or I'd become a forever-evolving cliche romance story that never got published.

When I rolled up my steel kitchen knives at Chez Judy, NY, for the final time, I felt utterly relieved. I was standing my ground on a principle that any self-respecting chef or discerning diner would understand.

When Judy strode into the kitchen from delivering another average plate of food to an overpaying customer she looked furious, but I didn't care. If she wanted a showdown in front of staff that stopped trying long ago, it was fine by me.

"You'll be crawling in here tomorrow, Carla, begging me to take you back."

"Not this time, Judy. I can't watch your useless head chef fuck up one more steak. I'm sorry, but you're on your own."

"You just can't stand having the competition."

I gawked at her, turned slightly, and glanced at my rival where he hid behind a sous vide. When I looked back at Judy, my resting bitch face cracked and I laughed like a hyena.

"From him? He can't even name the five classic French mother sauces, never mind make them. You're too busy kissing wealthy asshole diners to see what a disaster you've hired."

It was true that we'd replayed the walk-out quarrel scene a few times, but I knew this moment was different because I felt no anger. My former good friend bowed her head and leaned wearily across the pass waving a hand dismissively at me.

"Just leave now Carla. You're easily replaceable."

"Be careful wafting your fingers so close to sharp objects, Judy."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'll see you tomorrow."

I knew she wouldn't but it was pointless explaining. It was time to leave and turn a page. When I stepped outside and breathed in the semi-fresh air of a dirty city, it felt good to be free.

A wave of jubilant relief propelled me down the street and through the doors of Bean Cafe where my best friend and fellow food connoisseur, Samantha Riley, sprinkled a chocolate love heart atop my cappuccino.

"Hey, Carla?"

"Hi Sam, I'll have an extra Vicenzi with that, please. I'm celebrating."

"It's already loaded up and ready to go, hun."

While I set down my knife roll nearby, she slowly slid a cappuccino across the antique highly polished wooden counter with a deserved gravitas, understanding its true value. My mug's arrival within reach was preceded by the caffeine aroma hit I craved, re-sparking dulled senses.

I'd messaged Sam five minutes earlier, knowing my furious walk-out was for real this time. Our incompetent head chef stabbed a raw porterhouse with his carving fork. When I heard the thud of blunt steel into a solid wooden block it was obvious to me that another fuck up was inbound.

"He didn't season or oil the steak before slapping a twenty-eight-day perfectly aged Aberdeen Angus beef on a searing hot grill with a stupid grin painted on his ignorant face. I wanted to carve out his liver."

"Calm down and be at peace, Carla. It's all over now so enjoy your coffee."

The caffeine aroma massaged my mind and I smiled while gently stirring a cup of hot, creamy rejuvenation, remembering the movie starring Anthony Hopkins.

I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. Mmm!

Yes Hannibal, please do it for me. Eat that poor excuse for a chef's liver.

I sipped my coffee, sighing heavily while desperately suppressing the pointless indignation that burned inside me. What was a triumphant exit was fast becoming a pit of despair, anger, and paranoia.

Get a grip, Carla.

Remember Epictetus and the Stoics.

You can't do anything about this so turn the page now and move on.

My father's advice echoed in the calmer recesses of my mind, offering only his love and wisdom.

While rolling my neck in a circle to calm a tsunami of pent-up frustration, I closed my eyes and imagined frying the head chef's chopped liver in a knob of butter, six slices of pancetta, and four tablespoons of Madeira.

Ahh, that feels better.

In my daydream, I smiled sweetly, offering him a spoon tip coated with a rich, dark red jus for his taste. Sadly, before my excellent sauce could reach his thin, ugly lips, the bastard slumped into a pool of blood on the tiled floor with his pathetic life draining from two useless eyes.

"Is it really over between you two this time?"

Sam jerked me out of my macabre, yet enjoyable recipe experiment. I stared at her, recollecting where we'd got to in our conversation. I don't like ending relationships, but mine and Judy's had run its course and I guessed I owed Sam some explanation.

"I can't watch it anymore, Sam. His culinary incompetence is insulting, even more so when the wankers eating the shit food don't complain."

She looked confused for a moment and I knew we weren't in the same conversation.

Maybe I've been out of circulation for longer than it took to cook a liver.

"I meant you and Dave, sweetie. Last night do you remember messaging me? Judy's restaurant is just a job, after all, your boyfriend has far greater potential, right?"

I felt resentful that my friend would attach scant importance to my life's work.

"It's not just a job to me, hun. I'm strapped into a front-row seat with my eyes forced wide open, spectating the massacre of good taste and refined flavor in the arena of culinary nightmares."

"You're not strapped in anymore Carla, because you're unemployed now."

"Touché sweetie, thanks for that blunt assessment."

And yet, a wholly accurate one, too, as usual.

I picked up a small, perfectly circular Vicenzi Amaretto biscuit from the saucer of my white porcelain bowl of coffee, admiring its scarred, crusty, and delightfully browned shell.

I closed my eyes and popped the delicious treat into my mouth, sucked it gently, bit down hard, then chewed and swallowed, savoring its rich, heady flavor.

I felt Sam's warm, sweet breath on my cheeks but ignored her attempt to disrupt my ten-second out-of-body vacation.

"Are you in Venice right now, babe? At your dad's old place?"

"Hmm, mmm!"

I nodded and held both hands up, grimacing to beg Sam's silence for a few seconds more while I imagined charcuterie from my father's Cicchetti cafe near the Rialto Bridge in Venice, wafting through the corridors of my mind for just a little while longer.

"You've only seen photos of it, sweetie. How you reconstruct the place is beyond me."

Suddenly the dream vanished, becoming as absent as my orgasm with Dave last night. My spirit traveler returned to Bean Cafe, conveyed there by Sam's interruption and bustling traffic outside. When my soul thudded back onto the wooden stool, my taste buds mourned and my pussy remained unsatisfied.

I stared at my friend who seemed to wait for an answer.

"What did you ask me, Sam?"

"About Dave? You messaged me late last night saying it's over between you and him."

"Yup, I threw that waste of space out this morning. Gave him until an hour ago to pack his shit and begone from my apartment."

"Why now, what happened?"

"We made love last night, and it was the same routine as always. He finished and rolled over, falling asleep almost immediately, leaving me to take care of myself. I'm done with all that shit."

"Okay, so what's next? Do you have work lined up?"

"I'll empty the fridge, say goodbye to Mom, drop Percy with my sister, and then I'm flying away to rediscover myself."

"Percy Jackson is lodging with your sister?"

"Yeah, why, what's wrong with that?"

"Fuck Carla, that will blow up your sister's grocery bill massively."

"It's only cat food."

"Yeah, for the fussiest cat on the planet courtesy of his gourmet chef momma. Does your sister know he dines on smoked salmon twice a week?"

"Err, no. I'll add it to my list of things that aren't really problems."

"You'd better let her know what she's getting into, or Percy will be living at a rescue shelter this time next week."

I smiled, shook my head, and then realized that Sam had a point, so I resolved to leave money behind for Percy, securing his safe return to me at some point. I'd saved my cash for years and had plenty, certainly enough for a fat ginger cat with a penchant for chicken liver pate and smoked salmon.

"I fly to Italy in three days' time, babe."

"Jesus Christ, Carla, really?"

"Yeah. It's time to move on with some courage."

Sadness wrapped me in its dismal blanket because I abhor failure and was leaving plenty of that in my wake. A broken relationship where I wasn't entirely blameless and a kitchen that would have been mine but for its owner, Judy, my former best friend, and her poor choices.

She'd become an asshole, making decisions like a kite flapping around in the hurricane winds of fashionable New York cuisine. Judy recruited one of the city's alleged rising stars despite my advice to the contrary.

Useless tosser more like.

Judy would soon discover, as other restauranteurs already had, that her star head chef's only culinary skill was being the nephew of none other than Guy Winters, a world-renowned food critic.

When Chef talentless shit for brains ran out of luck he'd move on to the next unsuspecting restaurant owner courtesy of a glowing reference from Judy and strings pulled by his uncle.

No restaurant owner would risk the ire or savage pen of Guy Winters.

Mulling over recent bad experiences elicited powerful emotions, and I knew tears already welled in my eyes, so I rubbed them, hoping to wipe away any regret. My joy had been short-lived and I felt vulnerable.

Sam stepped out from behind her antique, highly polished mahogany wood counter and tiptoed into my open arms. It felt good to receive love from someone who really cared.

We'd been lovers of convenience at college, avoiding the thin ice of a rotating door dating system. After graduation, we agreed that a lifelong friendship was preferable to heartbreak for one or the other of us when either discovered Mr. Right.

She went on and discovered hers, I still hadn't and Dave definitely wasn't the one for me.

"I'm going to miss you, Carla. I'll worry every day, but I think you must do this. Your father would be proud."

"Don't fret about me. I'll work at an authentic taverna in Venice for a grumpy but genius head chef who throws knives when someone fucks up a porterhouse steak."

"I'd love to come with you."

"You have a wonderful husband and fabulous kids, Sam. This is not the life you're looking for, babe."

We hugged a few more times, kissed with tongues entwined, and then I left.

When I strolled towards the subway, tears stained both cheeks for my loneliness and the majestic cow that died for a useless chef in a restaurant that could be so much more.