Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 110

Abby

My heart pounds as the room goes quiet. What on earth is happening right now?

We’re all looking at each other—me, Karl, John, and the homeless man. His eyes meet mine, full of a sort of knowing energy that leaves me speechless. Is this a joke? He really has experience cooking with black truffles, some of the rarest and most expensive in the world?

“You look confused, so I’ll explain,” he says, smiling through his beard. “I was once a chef in France and Italy. Emphasis on was. But I’ve still got my skills.”

Karl scoffs, breaking the silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me. A chef? You expect us to believe that?”

The man just shrugs, a tiny smile on his lips. “Believe what you want. I know how to cook with black truffles, and you, my friends, are missing a crucial ingredient. That’s all I’m saying.”

Karl snorts. “Yeah, right. What’s next? Are you a secret millionaire, too?”

I shoot Karl a glance. His skepticism is understandable, but there’s something about this man that captivates me. Maybe it’s the sincerity in his eyes, or maybe it’s the unexpected way that we just met him. But if there’s even the tiniest chance that he knows something, then why not listen?

“Karl, come on. What’s the harm in hearing him out?” I say, finally breaking my silence. My voice is soft but certain, and I hope it conveys how genuinely curious I am. “I mean, we’re stumped, aren't we?”

Karl grumbles, clearly not thrilled with the idea, but nods. “Fine, whatever. It’s not like we’re making any progress on this dish anyway.”

John, who’s been silently observing the exchange, finally speaks. “I say let’s give him a shot. What do we have to lose?”

Karl throws his hands in the air. “My last shred of sanity, probably. But go on, enlighten us, Chef... what should we call you?”

“You may just call me Anton,” the man replies, seemingly unperturbed by Karl’s skepticism.

John leans against the counter, arms crossed, intrigued. “So, Anton, you were a chef in Europe? Cooked with black truffles often?”

Anton nods, his eyes drifting away for a moment as if he’s back in a different time, a different life. “Yes, I worked at a few Michelin-starred restaurants in France and Italy. I have made this dish you’re trying to master more times than I can count.”

The atmosphere in the room changes. My eyes meet Karl’s for a moment; his face is a hard mask of skepticism, but I see a flicker of something hidden behind his gaze—curiosity? Annoyance? I can’t quite put my finger on it.

“Look,” Anton says, pulling us back to the present. “I know how this sounds. A homeless guy claiming to be a former high-profile chef? But life has a funny way of bringing us to unexpected places. One wrong turn, one mistake, and here we are.”

I feel my heart swell with an emotion I can’t quite describe. It’s as if a fog has lifted, revealing a landscape I had sensed but not fully seen. I want to know his story, want to understand the path that brought him to our alley, but now is not the time.

“Okay. So what’s the missing ingredient, Anton?” I ask, my voice almost a whisper.

Anton smiles at me, and for a moment, he isn’t a homeless man in tattered clothes sitting in our kitchen; he’s a chef, someone who once had a different life, different dreams. And somehow, that thought gives me comfort. It reminds me that we’re all just people at the end of the day, each with our own stories to tell, our own mistakes to regret.

But Anton doesn't tell us. He just grins wider, as if savoring a secret he’s not yet ready to share. “Ah, that’s the magic part, isn’t it? Would you really want me to spoil it? Some things are better experienced firsthand, no?”

Karl rolls his eyes, but I’m only all the more intrigued. I feel like I’m suddenly back in culinary school again, and Anton is a wisened old teacher, eager to teach but slow to give away his secrets.

“Alright, Anton,” I say, smiling back at him. “Keep your secret, for now. But you’ll have to at least give us a demonstration, don’t you think?”

Anton’s eyes twinkle, and he nods. “Absolutely. It would be my pleasure.”

A few minutes later, Anton’s hands are washed, his long hair is pulled back, and an apron is covering his grimy clothes. Karl, John, and I are sitting on stools on the opposite side of the counter while Anton inspects each ingredient carefully, like he’s preparing to build something magnificent.

Karl clears his throat, clearly itching to say something snarky but holding back for my sake. “So, Anton, are you gonna cook this mystery dish? Or was all that just talk?”

Anton smirks, picking up a chef’s knife with a familiarity to his mannerisms that leaves me somewhat taken aback. “Just watch.”

The room falls silent. John moves closer to get a better view, while Karl and I shoot each other a glance, half out of respect, half out of disbelief. Anton’s fingers fly through the air, chopping onions, mincing garlic, and handling the black truffles with an expertise that makes my jaw drop.

“How did you...?” John begins, but Anton silences him with a raised finger.

“Patience, my friend.”

I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s not just cooking; it’s like he’s performing in front of an audience, a well-practiced show that he’s been putting on over and over again for decades now. It’s both fascinating and overwhelming at the same time. I could only ever dream of being as skilled as he is.

The room starts to fill with the scent of garlic and onions cooking in olive oil, intermingling with the earthy aroma of the truffles. My mouth waters uncontrollably, and I shoot Karl a glance. His eyes meet mine, and in that instant, I see the walls of his skepticism crack, if only a little.

Anton looks up from the stove, his eyes locking onto mine. “Would you pass me the white wine, Miss Abby?”

I hand it to him, and he pours a generous splash into the pan. The liquid sizzles as it hits the hot surface, and Anton stirs, a hint of a smile gracing his lips.

“Always deglaze the pan,” he mutters, more to himself than to us. “The real flavor is in the ‘fond’—the little bits that are stuck to the bottom.”

Minutes feel like seconds, and before we know it, Anton is sliding the pan off the stove, stepping back as if he’s an artist who has just unveiled a masterpiece.

“Et voila,” he says with a flourish. “Now, who wants to taste? Karl? Why don’t you try first?”

Karl lets out a small huff and stands, although I can tell he’s trying not to act too impressed. He steps up to the counter and stabs the fork into the pasta, then lifts it to his mouth and takes a hesitant bite.

His eyes widen, his face softening in a way I’ve never seen before as he slowly chews the food, raising his hand to cover his mouth. “Oh my god. That's—That’s incredible.”

John goes next, and his reaction is just as intense. “Excuse the language, but holy shit, man. That’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Abby, you’ve gotta try this.”

I’m last, and as I step up to the counter, for some reason my heart is pounding.

“Go on, Miss Abby,” Anton says, his voice soft, noticing my trepidation. “I think you’ll like it the most.”

The moment the flavors hit my tongue, I’m transported to another world. It’s as if all of the elements—the truffles, the garlic, the wine—have combined into something transcendent, something almost magical.

I look up to find Anton watching me, a knowing smile on his face. It’s only now that I realize that there are tears in my eyes, and I quickly blink them away.

“That’s… That’s…” My voice trails off. There are no words to describe it; it’s just delicious, perfect and homey, like something that your mother would cook on a cold and rainy day. That’s what it feels like. Like love and warmth.

“See? Told you I knew what I was doing,” he says, setting the pan down and wiping his hands.

I’m speechless, floored by the sheer talent this man possesses. “Anton, you have to teach me how to cook like that. Will you? Please?”

Anton’s eyes narrow, but not in a menacing way. More like he’s contemplating something, deciding how much to reveal. Finally, he speaks.

“Alright, I will teach you, Abby. But you should know—everything comes at a price.”