Served with Love Read online

  ‘Rejected, I believe. I only came back to pick up my phone.’ She waved her phone at him, turned on her heel, and walked out of the restaurant, her hips sashaying provocatively. At that moment, if Abhi was asked the difference between toor dal and urad dal he would have been stumped.

  He quickly got up from his chair and scampered out of the restaurant. ‘Wait,’ he called out as he reached the lobby, and the two receptionists and banquet managers seated behind the reception desk stared at him with their mouths hanging open. The lady he was in pursuit of stopped just short of the reception desk. She turned around to face him and said, ‘What? Surprised that I know such basic stuff? You think you’re the only chef in the world? Did you come here to…’

  Abhi cut her off. ‘Listen, miss – I don’t know why you’re behaving like I’ve done something to piss you off. Firstly, relax.’

  ‘Relax? Are you kidding me? You sent me away without looking at my credentials only because I haven’t worked anywhere in the last few months?’

  And that’s when it dawned on Abhi. That’s why she was furious with him. Well, she could be as furious as she wanted to be. That was not his problem. Right now, he needed somebody to assist him in the kitchen, and she seemed to be the only one who knew her way around it.

  ‘OK, listen,’ he started, only to be cut short again.

  ‘No! I will not listen. You had no right to reject me like that,’ she said between gritted teeth. ‘God! I hate you five-star hotel chefs.’ And with that she turned on her heel and walked away once again.

  Abhi looked around and saw the scene he had already created. Never before had the hotel staff been treated to such drama because of him. Even guests who were checking in, were staring at the two of them. But he had no choice. This time he made a run for it and caught her arm just as the automatic doors of the exit opened.

  But she twisted out of his grasp and almost flung her bag at him. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she screeched. ‘Unhand me right now.’

  Abhi didn’t know what to make of this. He released her arm and looked around sheepishly. Thankfully everybody was pretending to be busy and were doing their level best to not cause him any further embarrassment. But he could feel his temper rising.

  He turned to glare at the little five-foot nothing and muttered, ‘Look, I’m sorry for having rejected you. But will you stop making a scene and hear me out? I want to offer you a job…’

  ‘You … you want to offer me the post…’ Pakhi couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  ‘Yes, and if you could stop trying to throw your bag at me, maybe we can get back to the restaurant and talk terms?’ The man spoke softly, but she could hear a menacing tone in his voice.

  OK, so maybe she had overreacted a little and embarrassed him. But still, he shouldn’t have rejected her like that. So what if he was Abhimanyu Dev, one of India’s renowned chefs?

  ‘Ummm…,’ she tried to speak, but he said, ‘Let’s go back to the restaurant, please.’

  Pakhi mutely followed him back to the restaurant. She couldn’t believe it. One moment she was yelling at the man, almost throwing her bag at him, and the next moment, she was being offered a job.

  They entered the restaurant and he ushered her to a small table for two. He helped her to her seat and then sat down opposite her. It was then that Pakhi noticed the man properly. She knew he was tall, well over six feet – she had noticed that when she had followed him back to the restaurant. But she saw him properly now. Dark grey eyes were set deep in a face that would be called handsome if it were not for his slightly crooked nose. He had a sort of dusky-dark complexion and his cheeks were grazed by a full salt-and-pepper beard though it appeared more pepper than salt. His shoulder-length black hair had been pulled back into a ponytail.

  ‘Have you brought your certificates?’ he asked her. Pakhi began to fumble with her folder.

  ‘Err … yes. Yes, I have,’ she said and handed him a folder of her certificates. He took out a pair of deep-maroon, full-rimmed Tom Ford glasses from the pocket of his chef’s whites, and began to read through her CV and certificates. Pakhi perused the man some more. There was something about him that screamed sexy. Wait. What?

  She didn’t even know how that thought had entered her head, but it had. And for the life of her, she couldn’t displace it. She wondered how it would feel to run her fingers through his thick long hair. She didn’t know where that thought had come from either. Below the table, she uncrossed and crossed her legs again, praying to all the gods in heaven that her face had not turned the colour of the rose adorning the table.

  ‘Ms Mehra, you have an interesting CV,’ he said, and Pakhi was jolted back to reality.

  ‘Thank you, Chef,’ she said, her voice confident and firm, even though her insides were melting because of the way he was looking at her from the top of his glasses, now pulled down to the tip of his crooked nose.

  ‘You’ve worked in all parts of the kitchen and have considerable exposure to all aspects of the menu,’ he observed.

  ‘Yes, Chef,’ she added.

  ‘Which course would you say is your specialty?’ he asked her, his deep baritone voice doing all kinds of things to her equilibrium and composure.

  Pakhi’s eyes caressed his face – the dark grey of his eyes, his thick but well-groomed beard – and settled on his lips. His lower lip was full and thick and Pakhi would bet her remaining savings that it would be heavenly to bite into its soft pad. For the life of her she couldn’t explain why she was so attracted to this man, this stranger.

  ‘Miss Mehra?’ he asked.

  And Pakhi immediately came to her senses. Damn. Now was not the time or place to zone out and start fantasizing about this man. In fact, she was quite sure she shouldn’t be fantasizing about him at all.

  ‘Yes, Chef?’ she asked, at a loss for words.

  ‘Your specialty?’ he asked her again, and Pakhi could hear a thin veil of exasperation lacing his tone.

  ‘Err, yes, Chef,’ she said quickly, ‘I specialize in desserts mainly. But I also enjoy experimenting with appetizers and hors d’oeuvres.’

  ‘Well, that’s great,’ he said, looking clearly impressed. ‘But you seem to have not worked anywhere in the last fifteen months,’ he stated. ‘May I ask why?’

  Pakhi knew this was coming. In fact she had been preparing to answer such a question. But now, when it had finally been asked, she didn’t know how to put the words together and tell this man what she had been through in the last year and a half.

  ‘Err … Chef, I lost my brother and sister-in-law in a road accident last year. My niece has been left in my care. I had to quit my job at the Leela in Bengaluru and come back to Mumbai,’ she stated.

  ‘But why did you have to quit?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I couldn’t move my niece to Bengaluru. She needed stability after losing both her parents,’ she replied succinctly.

  ‘OK. That seems fair,’ he said before adding, ‘So … When can you start, Ms Mehra?’

  3

  Three months later.

  ‘Pakhi, table seven wants to compliment you on your exquisite Ali Pasha Kebab,’ Rajat informed her as he walked into the kitchen to check the status of another order.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Rajat,’ Pakhi blushed. ‘Your Samak Kebab is just getting done. Lalit’s already put the fish to grill,’ she gestured towards the junior chef, Lalit Sahay, who was, Pakhi had been told on her first day on the job by the staff, Abhimanyu’s biggest fan boy.

  And today, for the first time, Abhimanyu was late. In the three months that Pakhi had been working at Dev Intercontinental, not once had Abhimanyu been late. He usually got there before the other chefs did, and stayed long after everyone had left. He was so sincere and passionate about food and Pakhi admired that about her boss. During her first month, it had not been easy to understand his mood swings. Rajat had told her that if the boss said that the food looked decent or tasted decent, it meant that she had aced it. Apparently, he w
as as frugal with his praise as he was with sugar in his coffee. Pakhi hated coffee. She loved her tea both in the morning and evening, generously loaded with three teaspoons of sugar. Whereas Abhimanyu preferred his coffee, black and without sugar. Yuck!

  As she prepared the Chef’s Special, the Sultan’s Kebab, by adding thyme, basil and bay leaf to the lamb marinated in aubergine puree, she thought back to her first day in the kitchen. Abhimanyu had been to the point – if that made sense. There was no mincing of words, showering of unnecessary praise, or even any kind of flowery introductions. He just told the others that she was the new sous-chef and that they would have to help her around the kitchen until she got the hang of it.

  But there were times when his inability to form correct words caught her on the raw. The one time she had asked him if he wanted the lady’s fingers chopped, diced, or sliced for a dish they were preparing together, he almost nearly bit her head off.

  ‘Is that even a question? You should know what you have to do, Miss Mehra. Don’t expect to be spoon-fed in this kitchen.’ His booming voice resonated throughout the kitchen and she had turned the colour of the tomatoes one of the other chefs was chopping. Fortunately, Lalit had come to her rescue and told her to slice the lady’s fingers through the middle.

  The buzzing of the kitchen intercom pulled Pakhi out of her reverie. As the other chefs were busy, she quickly added the finishing touches to her kebabs, placed the platter on the service counter, wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Who is this?’ was the question in the same baritone haunting Pakhi in her dreams from the day she had joined Dev Intercontinental.

  ‘This is Pakhi. Who is this?’ she asked meekly.

  ‘What do you mean who is this? Are you crazy?’

  ‘There’s no need to be rude, Chef. I know that it’s you,’ she replied, irritated now. There really was no need for him to be so rude all the time.

  She could hear him sigh on the other end before he said, ‘OK, I’m sorry. Anyway, there’s a reason I’m calling.’

  Pakhi got off the elevator on the seventh floor of Holy Cross Hospital. Room 711 was where she was supposed to go. After asking for directions at the floor help desk, she walked down a dimly lit passageway and knocked on the fifth door. In less than five seconds, the door was wrenched open, and there stood Abhimanyu.

  And her breath whooshed out of her at the sight of him. The receptionist back at the hotel thought he was a cranky old man who hadn’t had sex in a very long time. Right now, with his hair pulled back, dressed in a pair of dark khaki trousers, a white linen shirt that had the first three buttons undone and thick chest hair playing peekaboo, Abhi made Pakhi want to desperately touch his chest and feel how hard and fast his heart would beat beneath her touch. For months now, Pakhi had been wondering what it would feel like to have his beard caress her face, her cheeks, her breasts, her belly…

  Quickly she cleared her throat and the haze of desire that was making her brain go all fuzzy and said, ‘I’ve brought you dinner, Chef.’

  ‘Thank you. Come in,’ he pulled back the door to let her in.

  Pakhi walked in to the hospital room expecting another dimly lit set-up. But she was surprised to see balloons of all shapes and sizes scattered across the floor; on a table along the wall was a box of malai burfi from Mewa Mithaiwale, the local sweet shop. The bed was not covered with depressing white hospital sheets but with pink cotton ones, on which lay a wizened old man. He looked to be in his nineties. He was eating cotton candy and watching Baywatch on a flat-screen TV mounted on the opposite wall.

  Pakhi looked at Abhimanyu with a bemused expression. He sighed and shrugged casually before saying to the old man, ‘Daji, this is Pakhi.’

  The old man immediately turned to look at her, and Pakhi’s first thought was that this is what Abhimanyu would look like when he was this old. Mr Dev broke into a gummy and toothless smile and Pakhi lost her heart.

  ‘Hello, beta,’ he said, his voice soft after the heart attack he had suffered that morning. ‘Abhi has been telling me so much about you,’ he said and looked towards his grandson, who pretended to be very interested in the barren white paint on the walls.

  ‘He has?’ Pakhi was surprised and her tone said as much.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the old man continued, ‘I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time. Shame it had to be at such a boring old place,’ he lamented.

  ‘That’s OK, Mr Dev,’ Pakhi smiled back at him. ‘Your health must come first.’

  ‘Yes, yes. That is what my grandson keeps telling me,’ he agreed.

  ‘How are you feeling now, Mr Dev?’ she asked.

  ‘Much better now, my dear. And please call me Daji. Mr Dev makes me sound very old,’ he smiled his toothless smile again and Pakhi had to laugh.

  ‘And I suppose Daji makes you sound like Ricky Martin,’ Abhimanyu remarked sarcastically as he walked to his grandfather’s bed and adjusted the bed to a more comfortable position.

  ‘Why don’t you shut up? Just because you’re not from this century doesn’t mean I’m not either,’ Daji said, equally sarcastic. ‘And Ricky Martin is passé. I believe the new hottie is Justin Bieber.’

  ‘And Justin Bieber is hotter than Ricky Martin, is it? I should ask the nurse whether they mixed something in your evening soup, old man,’ pat came Abhimanyu’s reply.

  ‘Nah, they told me you raided their stores this morning.’

  Pakhi watched this banter and couldn’t help but smile along. Clearly there was a very, very deep bond between Abhimanyu and his grandfather. The two men were more like friends or brothers. She watched as Abhimanyu righted the pillows that Daji was propped up against. He fed him the last of the candy floss, pulled out a tissue from the box on the side table and gently wiped Daji’s mouth and chin. This was a side to Abhimanyu she had never seen before. And she was completely enchanted by it.

  ‘Is everything OK at the restaurant?’

  ‘Yes, Chef,’ Pakhi had to look away from the wisps of black and grey hair peeking out of his shirt. They were sitting in the balcony in Daji’s room. Abhimanyu had made a makeshift dining table with the two plastic chairs and the small side table next to the DVD stand. The atmosphere was electric. There were just two small stars shining in the inky blue night sky and the moonlight shone soft and mellow.

  Daji had fallen asleep almost immediately after his dinner. Abhimanyu had asked her to bring some plain rice and tadkewali dal for Daji along with some simple dinner for himself. Pakhi had brought roomali rotis and some vegetable angaara, which was mixed vegetables cooked in a cashew and red chilli paste gravy. Dessert was a helping of the rasmalai Pakhi had made that afternoon.

  ‘Pakhi?’

  Her eyes flew to Abhimanyu’s. She saw something there – something inexplicable. Something that in the farthest corner of her heart she acknowledged but didn’t want explained. He had just said her name. For the first time. It felt like a caress – a caress from a red rose on a cheek parched for love. Like a weary traveller who had glimpsed an oasis in the middle of a desert.

  ‘Pakhi?’ He said her name again.

  ‘Hmm?’ She was losing control of her breathing. Again.

  ‘You should call me Abhimanyu,’ he said, his voice dipping a few notches.

  Pakhi stared down at the aluminium foil container of gravy. She could feel her face becoming red and for the life of her, she couldn’t bring herself to look at Abhimanyu.

  ‘Pakhi?’ he said again.

  She couldn’t say anything.

  ‘Pakhi?’ And yet again.

  Finally, she looked up from the gravy and said, ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Did you not hear what I said?’ his voice was soft, almost beckoning.

  She leaned against the back of her chair, not trusting herself with being so close to him and whispered shyly, ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Nothing. Forget it,’ he rasped.

>   ‘Forget what?’ her voice full of confusion at being so abruptly dismissed.

  ‘Nothing. Forget I said anything,’ he said and stood up.

  She watched him as he walked back into the room and, through the large windows, watched his movements inside. For a man who was so tall and broad, he was extremely graceful, Pakhi thought. His stride was masculine and confident just like he was. She watched as he checked on his grandfather, tucking the blanket under the old man’s chin.

  There was so much more to this man than met the eye, she finally acknowledged to herself. She was attracted to him, and there was no point in denying that. But Pakhi couldn’t also deny that there was no place in her life for any distractions. And Abhimanyu Dev was definitely a distraction, no matter how much she wanted him.

  She got up from her seat and loaded the tray with Abhimanyu’s plate and glass. She transferred the remaining gravy into an airtight glass container and threw the empty container in the trash can next to the TV unit. She was about to walk in to the en suite bathroom to wash the plate, when Abhimanyu jerked out of his chair next to his grandfather’s bed.

  ‘Give me that!’ he demanded, his voice so gruff that Pakhi almost dropped the tray.

  She somehow managed to not let the contents slide off and whispered back, ‘What?’

  ‘I can wash my own plate and glass, Ms Mehra,’ came his biting response.

  Pakhi’s eyes looked like mini-saucers when she stared at him as though he had lost his mind.

  ‘Are you crazy? It’s not a big deal,’ she hissed, trying very hard to reign in her temper. She didn’t want Daji to wake up.

  ‘It is to me. I like doing my own chores,’ Abhimanyu hissed right back.

  Pakhi had now had it. She had reached her boiling point. And rather than have the water boil over and scald everybody around, she took a deep calming breath and counted to ten silently before saying, ‘You know what? For once, try and allow people to come close to you. I just wanted to help you out because today has clearly been a very tiring day for you.