Three whites, three reds.

Gleaming glasses of varying scale -

from large, to small, to large again.

Tremors.

The pools of liquid were trembling in his grasp,

like the infinite waves of an ocean.  

Fragrant soup simmering in the pot.

Like basil and cumin, like a hot summer in the countryside.

Wonderful golden color, slow bubbles, vegetables that floated atop rich broth.

He his lips, clearing his throat, and chose the first glass to his left.  

He raised it in a half toast to a room of shadowy, muttering mouths,

scratching pencils, and palpable disinterest.

“Where have you been all day?”

There it was again, the sound of those words from .

His head was already starting to strain and he tried to block out her voice

with his hands on his ears.

Just a moment please - just a moment of peace and quiet.

“Wine one.  White wine clear, hollow wheat core, light concentration of amber color.

Aroma is - aroma is -”

Slices of shining apples, sugared and frosted, dipped in gobs of caramel.

Drip-drop-drip, like sticky sweet honey liquid onto waxy paper.

Steaming hot, the faint scent of smoky cinnamon.

“Why haven’t you come home for the past week?”

Darling, he would try today as he tried most days, darling, I was out with friends -

“Drinking the night away again?  I can smell the alcohol on your breath -

it’s been the same excuse for three years, you cannot lie to me!”

Like an itch under the skin, too deep to be scratched by his restless fingers.

“Grapes, green, hint of unripened mango, hint of spice, taste is dry -

not too dry - like crushed spices, hints of fragrant wood.

Acidity is medium, complexity is a medium plus.”

Cured jamón ibérico, paper thin and stripped bare,

carefully laid upon a beautiful plate of white.

A touch of acorn, a feast for the eyes of red meat and white fat.

Green sprigs of parsley and spinning plates.

“I feel as if I am raising our child alone and I - I’m so tired!

I don’t know if I can do this anymore, I -”

“No, don’t say that, I’ll do better, I’ll try harder, I’ll pass the test this year and -

and we’ll find a good restaurant to hire me, the best.

This time, I’ll make good money for us both - this time, it’ll be better -”

“You say that every year, but it never is!”

“This wine is from the old world, possible countries are Italy, France.

Age range, 40 to 45 years.  Wine is - wine is -”

Balloons dipped in thin sheets of dark chocolate,

pulled from the freezer and popped seconds later.

Just a bittersweet shell left behind,

filled with shining rice pudding, a single dried plum,

a slice of succulent fruit sinking within.

“Where - where are you going -”

“Think of our child, she needs her mother, you can’t -”

“Please, please don’t - I promise I’ll do better, please -”

“...please!”

“...wine is from Italy, Chianti region, Grosseto - no, Arezzo - no, Livorno.

Yes, Livorno.  Year is… 1973.

This wine is a 1973 Riesling, Livorno Chianti region, high quality producer.”

-

As soon as the words tumbled from his numb lips, the timer went off.  

The clock stopped, and with it, his heart.

For a minute or two, he heard nothing but the scratching of pencils on paper, the indiscernible looks, the considering whispers and harsh breaths.

And then, when the pencils were put down, the papers set aside, a man stepped up toward him, taking the glasses from his face.

“...that was a 1973 Livorno Riesling.  Congratulations, young man, you have just become one of the very few.”

A hand lifted up to his in congratulations, and he took it into his own.

He let them believe that the fear and the relief were the sole reasons for his shaking hands.  Let them believe that the tears sliding down his face were ones from shock, and joy.

They would never know that the day he finally passed the test that he had studied years for, was the very same day that he would wake up to an empty bed, and a single manila envelope sitting innocently on the nightstand.

They would never know that the day Kris Wu became a master sommelier was the very same day he would lose his wife.  

-

The glass was already gleaming, but he took a cloth to it again, perhaps catching the slightest imprint of a finger left on its crystal surfaces.

Not many had the patience for it, but then again, not many were as suited for his job as he was.

To him, the swirling glass, the slow slide of red liquid - it was a formula, a recipe, a white paper that filled itself out with every single sip he took.

The name.  The year.  The country.  

Each and every single hint of spice - of fruit - of aroma - of taste - used in its creation.

Indeed, Kris Wu had an impeccable sense of taste, for in this, he was less so a human than a well-oiled machine - a poised and calculated collection of shifting gears, the tick tock of a methodical clock.

Slowly and with discipline, the only sound there was, was a slight ringing as he circled the glass lip with practiced, gloved fingers.

He held the glass up to the light, squinting up into it with discerning eyes.

There.  Perfect.

-

“You’re thinking about mom again, aren’t you?”

Kris snapped from his daze, his eyes flicking up to the rear view mirror of his car.

His daughter was straining against her seatbelt, pushing forward across the division of the front seats to lean against it, plopping a soft cheek down upon her arms.

As had been the case for as long as he could remember, the expression on her face was so serious, so ill-fitting on the face of a six year old.

He let a comforting smile slide onto his face, leaning to the side to peer down at her.

“No, Kiara, dad was just distracted.  I’m sorry if I worried you.  Now come on, school’s starting soon, and we don’t want Uncle Lay to worry about where you are again, do we?”

Her face scrunched, as if she wanted to argue, but instead she pulled away, unclipping herself from the back seat before sliding onto her feet.

She tried her hardest with both of her tiny hands, pulling and pushing at the door with soft and quiet grunts in repeated attempts to force it open.

The sight warmed his heart.

He put the car into park before unbuckling his own seat belt and reaching out with a long arm to open the door for her.

Politely, just as he had taught her, she said her thank yous, pulling her arms through her purple Dora the Explorer backpack and allowing her father to adjust the straps, pulling her braided pigtails out from beneath them to make sure they wouldn’t be trapped.

Checking for the last time to make sure her uniform was spotless and impeccable, Kris rubbed lightly at the top of her head.

“Alright, off you go.”

There were her friends outside, already yelling and gesturing out for her to come quickly as they always did.

But this time, she hesitated, turning back for a moment to press her forehead against his, staring up at him with determined eyes.

“Dad,” She started, in a voice that was small yet big, “Today’s going to be just fine.  I can feel it.”

She had always had maturity beyond her years.

-

Routine was something that Kris lived for.

And that’s why he loved working where he did - there was always a specific order of things to be done, a precise way everything could be done perfectly and efficiently.

He folded each white napkin with practiced hands, creasing each corner twice, pressing in each edge with certainty.

It offered comfort to him, the monotony did, to listen to the faint sounds of a pot set to boil, the quiet buzz of the lights.

And the smell of bread baking in the oven, the coffee beans roasting in the pot, reminded him of a small Parisian cafe, like the one where he had first met her.

Maybe, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine walking down that cobblestone street, where he heard the street musician play every morning.

Maybe, if he closed his eyes, he could picture taking his seat at that small table in the corner, meeting the gaze of the woman who still sat there in her white summer dress.

2006 white Montrachet Grand Cru.  Dry, full, rich.

Beautiful, with just a hint of vanilla.

-

Executive chef Do Kyungsoo had been everything they had all anticipated in a head chef and more - cool under pressure, with a brilliant mind for flavor and years of expert training.

Quiet and sometimes sullen though, he wasn’t always the easiest to work with and perhaps it was his disposition or the explosive arguments it prompted with the owner that had prompted his sudden departure.

Either way, it had been an event which no one had anticipated and no one had prepared for.

Still, Chef Do had been at TableTops for as long as anyone could have remembered.  He had been as much of a fixture there as the dark oakwood beams, the antique bookcases, the vintage lamps that lent itself to the restaurant’s sultry vintage theme.

To be truthful, they had struggled in his absence, knowing that with how picky the owner was with how his restaurant was run, they could not have expected a replacement for a few months.

It had hardly been two weeks.

When Kris came in that morning, he found the entire wait and kitchen staff crowded around the swinging double doors to the kitchen, straining to peer through the port windows with gossiping whispers.

“What’s going on?”  He grunted, pushing past them all to the front.  Unlike their little prep cook Minzy, who strained on her tippy-toes to see past the crowd, his impressive height put him at just the right angle to see through the fogged glass.

There was someone hard at work who he did not recognize, bobbing his head as he bent over the counter.

The thought of some stranger who clearly no one recognized tramping around their kitchen, putting filthy hands on their spotless dishes and laying chaos to their order, was one that made Kris’ blood boil.

“Who the hell is that and why is he in the kitchen?”

Front of house manager Luhan had his arms folded over his chest, staring through the crack in the door with an expression that wasn’t anger, as he would have expected, but curiosity instead.

“Apparently, according to the boss, that’s our new head chef.  He starts today.”

Kris hadn’t even known that they had been hiring yet.

“What?!”

“Yeah,” Chipped in Luhan’s stepbrother, a line cook named Sehun who looked as if he were trying very hard to keep his cool image in face of all the excitement.  “Apparently the boss interviewed him earlier this morning and hired him on the spot.”

“On the spot?”  Kris repeated, unable to believe what he was hearing.  “That’s absurd, I’ve never…”

“It’s true,” Minzy butted in, her eyes opened almost comically wide. “I saw it for myself when I came in this morning - the boss was wiping at his eyes with a handkerchief, can you believe it?!”

Past their gossip and whispers, Kris could hear what seemed to be an absurdly loud hip-hop beat that was rolling out from between the cracks of the doors.  From his vantage point, he could also see the telltale smoke of a cigarette.

They were a four star establishment, one that required a dress code and a reservation, one that was always raved about for its elegant atmosphere - an atmosphere that Kris had settled into, grown accustomed to.

And this?  This music, this behavior?  It was nothing that they supported.

Of those who chose to remain silent, Kris looked toward their sous chef for support, for she was the one who arguably had the most knowledge and experience in the kitchen of them all.  

Luna was nervous, biting her lip in an expression of worry that didn’t suit her usually cheery disposition.  She looked up to Kris with a pleading glance, and that was signal enough for him to step in past the swinging doors, clenching his teeth in tense preparation for the confrontation ahead.

-

There was an immediate wall of sound and smoke that Kris almost found hard to break through.

When he finally did, he walked through the floating cloud of white to find the back of the new chef who was muttering to himself under his breath as he scooped a viscous ladle of what looked like steaming orange porridge into a bowl.  Wiping his hands briefly on his apron, the man took up a pepper shaker and cracked a few shakes into the mystery brew below.

It took him clearing his throat three or four times before the man finally broke from his task to face him, swinging around to lean back against the countertop, trembling cigarette ash falling precariously to the floor.

Shocking, platinum hair, almost white.  It was a stark contrast to the man’s tattooed and tan skin which peaked out from the folded cuffs of his uniform, all curling flowers and wicked script, hints of scantily dressed pinup girls and crossed skull and bones.  

Sure enough, there was a Marlboro Red dangling between the two lips that curled upward at the corners in a welcoming smile.  A hand lifted in a mocking half salute before the arms crossed over a slim and muscled chest.  

Besides a brief twitch of appreciation for the man’s undoubtedly handsome features, Kris felt nothing at all as he reached forward, snatching the cigarette from the other’s mouth and snuffing it out onto the counter between them.

He ignored the cry of indignation.

“What.  Are you thinking.  Smoking inside of the kitchen?!”

The noise was still blaring in the background and Kris turned impatiently, switching it off abruptly before stepping back toward the other with an accusing finger.

“I don’t know who you are or who you think you are, but no one comes into the kitchen of my restaurant smoking a cigarette like an idiot.  You’re apparently a chef - hasn’t anyone told you that it ruins the flavor of the food?”

The other man took his verbal beating with a roll of the eyes and a dismissive nod as if he had heard it all before, looking down toward the floor as he scuffed it with the front of his shoes impatiently.  Waiting until Kris had finally paused to catch his breath, the young chef slid his eyes upward, taking in the other’s broad shoulders, the pressed and impeccable suit and skinny tie, the glimpse of a handkerchief that stuck out from the other’s pocket.  Kris’ hair was a rich color of mahogany brown, swept back up and out of his eyes with not a strand out of place.  With the way he was dressed, he definitely wasn’t going to be in the midst of the kitchen, chopping up onions and carrots and peeling potatoes.  And yet he seemed a bit too well dressed for a waiter, which left...

“So you’re our master sommelier, huh?  I’ve never worked with one before.”

Kris paused, suddenly furrowing his eyebrows.

“I’ve heard about you guys,” The chef said, lazily waving his hand in Kris’ general direction.  “You guys study for ing years about wines and spirits.  Supposed to have some kind of crazy amazing sense of taste, right?  Should be able to taste whether or not a wine is from a warm or a cold climate ...or something like that.”

Kris could feel his lip curling back at the other’s cuss-word filled street drawl, the way he was tilting his head back, scratching at his neck with no concern for who was watching.

“Yes.  And the point is?”  He bit out, only to take a step back in surprise when the other pulled the bowl from the counter, stepping up close to him with a spoonful of something unknown.

“Well, since you’re good with tastes, do you think we have anything in stock that goes well with this?”

Opening his mouth to give the other a piece of his mind on the other’s obvious disregard for personal space, he found himself with a mouthful of flavor instead.

-

He’s a child again, laughing as his father pushes him on a tire swing.

He’s watching the world spin by, breathing in the scent of autumn leaves spilling from the trees, the swirling colors of orange, purple, red.

His mom is sitting him down at a table of red and white plaid, pulling the sippy cup from his hand.

There’s a plate being pushed in front of him, a big slice of her homemade pumpkin pie.

His mom scoops a generous dollop of whipped cream on top, pressing a spoon into his hands.

He looks down at it briefly, and suddenly, she’s laughing.

Not his mother, no.  This time it’s his girlfriend.  His fiance.

They’re sitting in the dirty and bare mattress of his apartment in Paris, and he’s got the same plate in his hands, this time a little chipped, but with the same contents as before.

“Try it.”  He tells her, pushing it at her insistently.  “You’ll like it.”

She leans in with a smile, the strap of her silk negligee sliding charmingly down her slim shoulder.

“What is this?”

-

“Well?  What do you think?”

A voice too deep to be a woman’s broke him from his memories, and Kris opened his eyes to see a grinning face peering eagerly up at his own.

“What… is this?”  He repeats, an echo of something he remembered.

“Something new I’m trying,” The man shrugs, taking a bite himself without looking bothered at the fact he was using the same spoon. “I’m at names, but I’m thinkin’ ‘creamy pumpkin risotto’.  Oh, and there’s chopped bacon in there too, if you can taste that.”

Kris suddenly felt the tell-tale kick of salty-savory.  Yes.  He could.

“...Catena Zapata.”  He bit out, holding in the temptation to his lips and chase the flavor that remained.  “2001.”

He stormed off abruptly, presumably to fetch the bottle of wine he had just identified as the others shuffled in, spurred on by the sommelier’s interactions with the new chef.

The other man watched him leave with curious look and a tilt of his head, reaching over after a moment of quiet consideration to turn the stereo back on.

-

“I’m sorry Lay, work was a bit busier today, we’ve got a new chef and I wasn’t able to leave until a bit later than usual.”

Lay transferred the sleeping six year old from his arms into Kris’, careful not to jostle the girl who snuffled in her sleep before settling into her father’s warm arms.

“It’s fine,” The first grade teacher sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow. “...but this shouldn’t be a daily occurrence, alright?  She kept refusing to take a nap and wanted to stand by the door, to see when you could come pick her up.”

The thought made his heart twinge in guilt and he sighed, shifting his grip on his daughter to make sure she was comfortable.

“I know.” He admitted quietly, shaking his head. “I’m trying.  I - I’m sorry.”

“You’re lucky I’ve known you for years,” Lay scolded, poking Kris in the arm. “Or else I’d nag more.  Now are you going to tell me what’s wrong?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“What?” Kris looked distracted now, his voice cracking briefly. “Nothing’s wrong.  Just tired.  New chef is a disgusting slob who can’t do anything right.”

He looked down at his watch, cursing at the late time before backing away from the teacher’s front door, back toward his car.

“Damn.  I’d like to stay and talk, but I’ve got to go and make sure Kiara gets her dinner.  Thanks again for taking of her, Lay.  I’ll see you maybe this weekend?”

Skeptical, but too tired to press it, Lay nodded and stood at the door, watching Kris settle Kiara into the backseat before getting behind the wheel of his red Acura and backing out of the driveway with a wave.