The Stateroom Restaurant

San Francisco, CA

March, 2151

I wasn't sure what to make of him. He'd parked himself at the same left corner table every night for nearly three weeks, and while Virgie and Paul said he tipped well, he didn't talk much. Sometimes he had company; a couple of guys once, and an older woman another time but most nights he was on his own. Tall rangy guy with big shoulders and a good appetite.

The problem with the left corner table is you get a clear view into the kitchen. The owners don't like seating customers there and generally keep it empty, but this guy had asked for the table specifically. That put me on edge because it meant that any time during his visit he could see me and the rest of the brigade at work on the dinner orders. Normally I don't fret about that sort of thing; I'm too busy to let it bother me, but when it's the same person night after night it begins to cross into stalker territory, especially when you look up and find yourself watched.

And he was definitely watching. Not being obnoxious about it I might add. He never waved or made kissy faces or any of the other moves we've had from folks who've been at that table. No, he just . . . noted what we were doing. What I was doing.

"Maybe he has a toque blanque fetish," Paulette suggested to me with a grin. "You know, fantasies about getting it on back here."

I made a face. "Gross. As if there could be anything remotely sexy about the décor of stainless steel and enamel."

"Hey, some guys," Paulette teased. She's my sous chef and a damned good one, frankly. Too good to stay my number two for long. I'd been at the Stateroom for three years now and I was getting restless; if I found another job I'd be sure to recommend her to take my place.

I liked the position and I'd worked hard to get it but there weren't too many challenges to it now. Serving up California coast cuisine night after night wasn't difficult or even interesting anymore. Luckily Mr. Mysterious had taken to ordering some of the more off-beat items from the menu and that was a nice change of pace. I wondered if he was some critic looking to trip me up.

Tonight he'd asked for grilled swordfish with leeks and wanted plomeek to start with. Normally I'd roll my eyes at that; the soup isn't one of our best sellers but ever since my stint with the Embassy caterers I knew how to do a lot of the easier Vulcan dishes. Not a lot of folks ask for it—not a lot of humans anyway—so I was curious now.

I put the dinner together and handed it off to Pech, asking him to keep tabs and went back to running the kitchen, trying to stay focused. The Stateroom handles up to eighty tables most nights and even more on holidays of course. Tonight we were at two thirds capacity but I was on top of things, making sure Milo was keeping up with the beef cuts and stepping in for Taro when one of the gravies threatened to curdle. My brigade was in good shape all told and we were over the late rush so we could slow down a little. I was about to go on break forty minutes later when Pech found me and handed me a note.

"Love letter?" I asked.

"From Mr. Left Corner," Pech told me, smirking. "Wanted to make sure you got this personally."

I rolled my eyes. "Not you too."

"Hey," Pech shrugged. "He's been coming here nearly a month and cleaning his plate every time so it can't be a complaint. Go; management would want you to."

Pech hustled off to pick up someone's order and I opened the note: Dear Chef DeMarelli, I would like to speak to you at your earliest convenience. Thank you, Jonathan Archer.

There was a number and I was halfway tempted just to call it and avoid the face to face but Pech was right—management had already noticed the customer. I knew the PR drill: always make nice to the paying public, so with a small sigh I stepped out, pulled off my toque and made my way to the back left table.

He was there, looking like an extra-tall boy scout with his straight posture and big shoulders. I slowed down and stayed out of arm's reach as I put on a smile. "Mr. Archer?"

He looked up. "Chef De Marelli. Thank you for taking a moment to come over," he told me and I gave him a point for courtesy. He hadn't called Miss De Marelli or Ma'am, both of which make me grit my teeth a little. I'd earned the rank of chef and it was nice to have someone acknowledge it, if only as an introduction.

"Thank you for . . . eating," I murmured, suddenly a little lost. "I take it everything tonight was satisfactory?"

"Yes," he told me, looking a little lost himself, as if I'd just reminded him he'd had dinner. "Ah, yes. Very good. All of it. I can't think of a single dish I haven't enjoyed." Mr. Archer waved for me to sit and I did, sliding into the chair and feeling awkward again.

I'm much more used to complaints and questions than I am to compliments. People are much more likely to call out the chef for those than to praise them, not that I've had that many that were actually related to the food. A kitchen is a service of many parts and I've been yelled at things I personally had nothing to do with: for dirty forks and spilled salad and even the level of the music at times, so I'm always a little on guard. I looked at Mr. Archer. "Thank you very much, sir. So . . ."

"Oh. Yes, so I wanted to tell you that yes, I'm very impressed with . . ." he waved a hand towards the rest of the room, "Ah, all of it. Your food is excellent and you turn out an amazing variety night after night."

There was another little pause and I nodded. "Yes," I agreed, trying not to sound either exasperated or condescending. "It's my job, sir."

"I know," he agreed, "and yet you make it flow. Everyone under your command knows exactly what to do, how to get it done, when to get it done. It's like a sort of ballet."

I looked at him, wondering where this was going. It didn't sound like any sort of pick-up line I'd ever heard before, that's for sure. He looked sincere but also nervous, and it dawned on me that Mr. Archer had no idea how to get to what he wanted to say.

So I caught his gaze and cleared my throat. "Sir, what exactly is your point here? Not to be blunt but I do need to get back to the kitchen fairly soon."

He smiled then, and it was . . . nice. A good smile. A real smile. He leaned forward like he was going to share a secret with me and said, "I want you to come cook on my ship."

I stared back at him. Damn, and here I thought it was going to be something exciting, not another offer to head up some cruise liner galley. I'd been approached before to work some of the biggest companies out there and I admit I worked one summer aboard one of the SilverSea ships back when I was just starting out. Fun for a while but not enough to do again anytime soon, even if I got to shop the best markets around the Mediterranean.

"Oh. Well thank you very much, Captain Archer is it? But I'm not really interested in cruise work, to be honest."

"Oh this wouldn't be a cruise," he told me. "And it wouldn't be . . . on the water."

It took me a minute to catch on, especially since the man across the table had never showed up in a uniform, but this is San Francisco, home of Starfleet, so when I figured it out, I couldn't help reacting.

"A star ship?" I mumbled, feeling my gut quiver. "As in space?"

Archer nodded and I'm glad he gave me time to process the idea because he just waited as I blinked a little, trying to figure out what to say.

I'd done a lot already in my life but space . . . that was new. I'd worked dives and fancy steakhouses, done the cruise cuisine and even worked on a food truck so fancy that it was allowed on the White House Lawn but space . . . that would be one hell of an adventure, that's for certain.

"How . . . how big a ship?" I asked. "As head, or under sous? Doesn't the Fleet have their own culinary school? How long a trip are you talking?" I had those and a thousand others to ask, but Archer held up a hand and I realized he was fighting a grin.

"Crew of eighty or so; Head of course; we're starting a school but not in time for this mission; about two years," he told me. "I was given authority to hire anyone I wanted for the Enterprise, Fleet or otherwise."

I stared at him. "And you think I'm the chef for the job?"

"I know you are," he told me, and smiled again.

-oo00oo-

Starfleet was up to date in everything scientific and mission-related but when it came to galleys, the layout was out of date by thirty years or more. I looked at the schematics thoughtfully sent to me by Archer and already I could see problems. Of course since the ship was already built, I didn't have many options; I was going to have to work around them to the best of my abilities.

"Here," I pointed to the far end of what would be the main prep station. "It's three steps away from the incinerator hatch—which is three steps too many for efficiency. Maybe I can arrange a disposal chute if I talk to an engineer. And here," I tapped the buffet rails, "these are too narrow for tray stability. We're going to have a lot of spillage if I can't get the space between these tubes widened."

Archer nodded. We were in his office at Central Command and despite his rank it was still pretty small, and full of boxes. I'd been briefed by Star Fleet and given an honorific rank, I'd gone through my physical, my psych evaluation and had taken the speed course version of basic ship protocol 101 so things were in motion now so this chance to talk to Archer about the galley was a lucky event.

"Anything else? Anything critical?" he wanted to know.

"Well your personal dining room is adjacent so you might hear noise from the galley," I pointed out. "And it's . . . intimate—small. If you're doing to do any formal dining or entertaining for more than four people, we'll have to clear out the mess hall for that night."

"Noted, not that I'm planning on entertaining much. We're more geared to scientific exploration," Archer admitted. He was in uniform now and it looked good on him, to be honest. Something about the directness of his gaze and that habit of quirking a smile was pretty appealing, to be honest.

"So my supplier is the quartermaster, right?"

"Yes. That will be Lieutenant Sath; he'll keep track of whatever you and your sous need to run meals for three shifts of twenty or personnel. Have you picked one?"

I nodded. "Maalik Khan. I worked with him for a few years and he's excited for this chance." Sort of an understatement; Maalik had always been interested in joining Star Fleet so this would give him a chance to see if it was a good fit. When I called and asked him, he was packed by the next day, no surprise. He and I had a good rapport and having at least one familiar face around would help a lot.

"Good. Anything else on your mind?" Archer asked me. "Now's the time to get it aired."

"Huh," I turned to look at him thoughtfully. "Well now that you mention it, I'm interested in getting an update from the ship's doctor on any crew allergies, I'd like to see what the furniture layout will be for the mess hall, and do you have any hydroponic capacity on this Enterprise?"

His brows went up along with the corners of his mouth. "Thorough," he commented. "Good. I'll make sure you get the information on all of that before we launch, which will be in four days."

I nodded and bent to pet Porthos, who wagged his tail. I like dogs, and finding out that this one was going along with us was a bonus as far as I was concerned. "Almost enough time for my roommates to throw a heck of a party," I sighed. "Can I board early and miss it?"

Archer laughed. "You don't want to go to your own bon voyage party?"

I shook my head. "Knowing them it will be the sort of bash that the police will have to break up, and that won't go over well with Starfleet. I figure I can slip away and get a feel for the galley a little early, if nobody minds."

He thought it over and nodded. "Sounds good to me, as long as you don't mind noise and people still working around you."

I rolled my eyes. "I work in kitchens; I'll be fine."

-oo00oo-

My quarters were nice. Having lived in the Bay area I was used to small spaces and this one was actually generous compared to what I'd had in past years. The room was located on the other side of the mess hall, down a little corridor and tucked against the bulkhead, so I had a nice window view of wherever we were headed. Maalik's quarters were at the front of the block of enlisted officers rooms so he was just as close to work as I was.

Archer wasn't kidding about people still working on the ship, either. I kept running into or being run into by people moving in a hurry. I made it a point to figure out the quickest route to the Sick Bay first; working around knives and flames had taught me that, and met the doctor who was heading up the place. Denobulan by the name of Phlox and he was nice. I'd never met one before but he was sort of charming and chatty so I enjoyed meeting him.

I also met the armory officer, Lieutenant Reed, who came striding into my galley later that day demanding to know who I was and why I was there. He didn't take my reply at face value—"I'm the chef,"—and insisted I produce some sort of proof. That annoyed me so I pulled out a knife and an onion, julienning the entire thing in fifteen seconds.

"Good enough?" I asked him, and began juggling a few more blades from my knife block, tossing and catching them in a pretty good display of steel. From the startled look on his lean face it was clear he hadn't been expecting a challenge and furthermore, wasn't sure how to deal with it, so I cut him some slack. I caught the knives, set them down and shrugged. "Call Captain Archer; he'll vouch for me, Lieutenant."

He did, trying to sound imposing. "Reed here, sorry to bother you, Captain, but I have someone in the galley claiming to be the chef."

"Tall knockout blonde?" came Archer's reply and I blushed. "Yes, that's Chef DeMarelli."

Knockout? I wasn't sure what to think, but apparently Lieutenant Reed just nodded. "Right then." He looked at the knives on the prep table and then back at me. "I hope you understand I'm only doing my job, Miss-"

I shook my head and picked up the biggest knife. "Chef, Lieutenant. No hard feelings, but worked as hard for my rank as you did for yours."

He got it and nodded again. "Chef. Welcome aboard the Enterprise."

"Thank you. I look forward to feeding you," I told him and watched him leave the galley, still feeling a little pink in the face thanks to Archer's description.

Tall, yeah that fit, as did blonde, but knockout? I rolled my eyes and began cleaning up the onion, well aware I was going to have to say something.