Chapter Text
The ironic thing is that Max wakes up on Wednesday morning in a pretty good mood.
He slept for a solid seven hours for what feels like the first time in months, winter menu prep is coming along well, and PSV won last night. All in all, it’s feeling like a pretty good morning. He hums along to the radio on the drive to work, stops in the market to pick up some fresh radishes and smiles at Ricky- the vendor- who looks so surprised that Max is forced to reevaluate every interaction they’ve had in the past month.
His newfound good mood lasts exactly as long as it takes for him to get into the kitchen.
There’s someone standing in his kitchen.
The man in question is dressed like he’s ready for work, fully decked out in chef’s whites and an apron. He looks young, maybe close to Max’s age, with messy dark brown hair that’s pulled back from his face by a red bandana, and he’s leaning against the kitchen counter like he’s supposed to be here.
Max’s first rather unhelpful thought is; fuck, he’s gorgeous . His second, more reasonable thought is;
“Who the fuck are you?”
The mystery man jumps, apparently unaware of Max’s presence until that moment. He looks at Max and- Christ , no one should have cheekbones like that outside of a magazine cover.
“Charles Leclerc,” the man smiles. It's a little bit dazzling and Max is not at all distracted by it. He extends his hand for Max to shake. “I’m your new executive sous chef.”
That’s- what ?
"Great." Max searches the man's - Charles' - face for a sign he's joking. This has to be a joke, maybe Lando's idea. "Except you're not, because I didn't hire you."
Charles just smirks, unbothered, and Max suddenly has a very bad feeling about what he's about to say next.
"You didn't, but your boss did."
Max immediately regrets even getting out of bed this morning.
He ignores the pretty boy standing in his kitchen - because, pretty as he may be, he's suddenly a huge fucking problem - and marches towards the restaurant, where he knows the man responsible for this mess will be hiding behind his laptop.
"Christian!"
The door to the restaurant floor opens, and the man himself emerges, not looking at all surprised by the screaming. That confirms Max's suspicions.
"In my office," Max all but snarls. "Now."
He storms ahead, not waiting to see if Christian is following. When Christian catches up, shutting the door behind him Max whirls on him.
"I have control over hiring. That is the deal here. It's a pretty essential part of the deal, in fact. I can't work if the team doesn't work. I need my people. What part of that wasn't clear to you?"
Christian at least, has the grace to look sheepish. "My hands were tied Max, I was told to hire him."
Max narrows his eyes. "By who?"
Christian grimaces. "Helmut."
"Oh for fucks sake."
"Max," Christian has his hands raised, like he's trying to calm a wild animal. It does nothing to soothe Max's temper. "He wants the third star."
"So do I," Max grits out. "That is exactly what we're trying to do here."
"Well, he thinks Charles will help you get it."
Max rolls his eyes. "You know what would help me get it? Being able to hire my own people for my own fucking restaurant."
"Max-"
"No, you know what? I can’t work like this, this is a joke. He can take his money and his precious funding and go shove it up his ass for all I care."
"Great," Christian crosses his arms, glaring back at Max. "So I'll cancel the order you just put through? Will you pay the staff’s wages or will I?"
"Fuck off," Max bites back, but he knows Christian is right. Fuck it all .
Christian is watching him carefully, when he speaks again his voice is softer, more reasonable. "He's good, Max."
Max groans. "I know he's good, of course he's fucking good. He worked under Massimo Bottura, he was sous in Épicure. Everyone here is good, that's not the only reason to hire someone.”
"When did you learn all that?"
"While we were having this argument-" Max gestures at the computer on his desk- "his CV is on file."
Christian rolls his eyes. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"
Max flips him off, but Christian is already moving towards the door and Max knows this particular battle is lost.
“Max?”
“Yes.”
“Give it a chance. He's very good.”
Somehow, that makes Max feel even worse.
***
Max takes a deep breath, lingering in his office for a moment after Christian has left. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that he might be overreacting, that Helmut knows a thing or two about restaurants and wouldn’t have hired Charles if he didn’t think he was good enough to risk Max being pissed off about it. It’s just- it really couldn’t have come at a worse time. They’re heading into winter, the busiest season of the year, and they haven’t had an inspector in yet which means that everyone is on edge, waiting for the dinner service that will determine whether all the work they’ve put in this year has been worth it. He kind of had enough on his plate as it is, without having to deal with all of this, but deal with it he must, and hiding in his office isn’t going to fix anything.
He finds Charles roughly where he left him, in the middle of his kitchen. Charles has to have heard the shouting from Max’s office, but he seems entirely unbothered by the whole affair. In fact, he’s poking around Max’s ovens, already making himself at home.
“You don’t have much oven space,” Charles comments, when he sees Max approaching.
Max grits his teeth. God this is going to be a long day. “Well, it’s an old building, not much we could do to change it-” he gestures around him- “small kitchen, less ovens.”
Charles glances around. “It’s definitely cosy.”
Max just glares at him.
“I have deliveries waiting downstairs. If you’re quite finished poking around, maybe you can help me bring them up.”
Charles smiles at him, something cheeky in his grin. “Yes chef .”
The minute he says it- ‘chef’- in that teasing tone, Max knows he must’ve heard the entire exchange that just took place in his office. He says it like he knows he’s won, that Max is stuck with him, and he sounds so smug about it that Max has to dig his nails into his palms to restrain from throttling him there and then.
And to think that it really had started out as quite a nice day.
***
By the time they’ve finished with the deliveries, most of Max’s staff have filtered into the kitchen to start prep for the day. Max walks in, Charles in tow, and finds half of his kitchen staring at him, questioning. Word travels fast, apparently.
Someone kills the speakers and Max suddenly finds himself standing in silence in front of half a dozen expectant faces.
“Right,” he clears his throat. No point delaying the inevitable. “Everyone, this is Charles, he’s joining the team as executive sous.”
Lando starts at that, staring at Max like he’s just announced he’s quitting cooking to become an accountant.
“Charles,” he turns to the man beside him, who looks entirely at ease being stared at like he’s some sort of zoo animal, “This is the team.”
“Lando here-” he points towards the curly haired chef, who hastily plasters a friendly smile on his face - “he’s over meat and fish. Yuki and Pierre work under him.” Yuki waves enthusiastically and elbows Pierre in the ribs.
“Pierre is French actually,” Max turns to Charles, “So you’ll probably get on fine.”
Charles mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “not French”, but Max chooses to ignore that, for the time being.
“Daniel covers starters-” the Aussie beams at Charles, perhaps the only one who looks entirely unbothered by the surprise new arrival- “and Mick is relatively new, he’s on canapes.”
He gestures to the fair haired chef, lingering at the back of the kitchen, who offers Charles a small wave.
“Then we just have Alex, who’s our pastry chef, he’ll probably be in soon.”
Charles nods, glancing around at the team in front of him. “Nice to meet you all.”
Lando is still squinting at Max, questions written all over his face, and Max has absolutely no desire to have that conversation in front of the entire kitchen.
“Alright, that covers it-” he claps his hands- “back to work everyone, we’ve got a busy service ahead.”
The kitchen is flooded with music again and everyone returns to their work, curiosity satisfied for the time being. Max turns to Charles, pulling his phone out of his pocket.
“I’m sending you a link to the google drive. This covers all the recipe details, order spreadsheets, menu planning, and so on.”
He looks at Charles. “I expect you to be up to speed tomorrow. I can't carry dead weight and it's not like you're new to this.”
Charles just stares back at him for a minute, before rolling his eyes. “Beef consomme. Three litres of stock, eight hundred grams of beef, four to one ratio for veg, two egg whites. Simmer for one and a half hours, strain.“
Max stares at Charles, who’s smirking back at him, smug. “You have it already,” he says.
“Yep,” Charles pops the p, loud and obnoxious, and Max really really wants to kill him. “Read it yesterday.”
“Good,” Max tries not to glare. It’s unnatural how easily Charles gets under his skin. “Fine. Okay.”
Charles just hums, gesturing vaguely at the produce around him. “So, what can I do for you?”
It gives Max an idea. Sue him, he’s feeling petty this morning.
He points at the large crate of root vegetables on the kitchen counter. “I want you to prep the celeriac.”
Charles nods. “Okay.”
Max squints at him. “Are you sure that's okay?” It’s a commi’s job, not someone with Charles’ experience, fresh out of a three star in Paris.
“Yeah, fine.” Charles just shrugs, reaching for a knife. “For puree, yeah?”
Max nods, still squinting at Charles suspiciously. But his new chef just gets to work, humming softly under his breath, looking entirely unperturbed by Max’s hostility.
Interesting.
***
Lando pokes his head into Max’s office just before lunch.
“Chef?”
“Yes,” Max sighs, “Come in.”
Lando closes the door behind him before turning to Max, eyebrows raised. “So, what’s the deal with the new guy?”
“He’s here, he’s got an impressive resume, left a three star for the job,” Max fixes Lando with a stare, “What else do you need to know?”
Unfortunately, Lando isn’t deterred. Max remembers a time when that glare would’ve shut him up immediately, he kind of misses those days.
“I wasn’t aware that you were looking to hire anyone.”
Max glares at his computer screen, silent for a moment. He’s not sure why he’s stalling, it’s pointless trying to keep Lando in the dark. He’ll find out one way or another.
“I wasn’t,” he says eventually. “I didn’t hire him.”
“Ah.” Understanding passes over Lando’s face and he shrugs, sympathetic. “Well, at least he’s good.”
Max grunts, noncommittal. He’s not quite ready to sing Charles’ praises, despite his admittedly impressive work history.
“And,” Lando is smirking now, “he’s hot.”
Max glares at him “Why would that matter?”
Lando wiggles his eyebrows, grinning. “I’m just mentioning it, chef. No particular reason.”
“Go back to work,” Max says, still glaring. Lando just laughs, retreating out the door, leaving Max regretting his choice of colleagues.
***
Max learns a number of things about Charles fairly quickly. The first is that he is in fact an excellent chef. This isn't exactly surprising, but Max finds himself a little bit impressed nonetheless when Charles glances down the kitchen where Pierre is basting turbot and- squinting from about ten metres away- says; "Flash that for ten more seconds, it's just under temp."
Pierre frowns, pulling out a meat thermometer and Max just stares because- it's nothing special, exactly it's just that, well. It's exactly what he was going to say.
The second thing he learns about Charles is that he's opinionated, and not at all shy about expressing it.
“If I may?” Charles asks, leaning over Max’s shoulder as he’s plating up.
Max takes a deep breath, trying to stay calm. He may be stubborn but he's not an idiot. Charles knows what he's talking about and Max should listen to him. He does not, however, have to be happy about it.
“Yes, Charles?”
“It feels like it's upside down.”
“What?”
Charles moves forward, reaching for the plate. “It just feels like it should be served this way-” he swivels the dish around- “but we are serving it like this. You see, upside down?”
Charles points at where the duck is now. “Because it is one line, it feels wrong to sit at the bottom of the plate, it cuts you off. This way, it leads the eye in, looks more natural.”
Max squints. Fuck . Charles is right. Of course he is.
“Yeah, okay,” Max concedes, “That looks better.”
The third thing Max learns about Charles is that, well, all of these things are good. He has to admit, watching Charles as he works, deftly rearranging the plate in front of him, that having someone in the kitchen to genuinely challenge him is not the worst thing in the world. It’s annoying at times, granted, and he probably never would’ve had the guts to hire someone like Charles if it had been his choice, but-
He watches Charles, brow furrowed in concentration as he plates up, and thinks for the first time that, yes, this might actually work.
***
"Charles,” Max calls across the kitchen to where Charles is wiping down the pass. “Food."
Charles walks over to him, taking the bowl Max hands to him with a curious expression on his face. "What is this?"
"Vegetable curry."
Charles frowns. "No, I mean-"
"Chef worries about us," Lando says, around a mouthful of curry.
Max rolls his eyes. "I do not worry about you. I do worry that you would never eat another vegetable if I didn’t do something about it."
"You see, it's his way of expressing love and affection," Daniel grins. "Isn't that right chef?"
Max glares at the pair of them, wondering where he managed to find such an annoying bunch of employees.
"I simply want to avoid any blame when Lando has a heart attack at twenty-four because his diet consists of eleven black coffees and fatty scraps out of the meat bin."
"He worries about us," Daniel stage whispers at Charles, who looks entirely bemused by the entire situation.
“Yuki,” Max calls out, because he can see the commis still huddled over his station.
“Yes chef.”
“Have some curry.”
“I just need a few minutes chef,” Yuki replies, still working. “I'm not finished the scallops.”
“Yuki,” he says sternly. “Come, eat. Sit down for five minutes. After, we’ll prep the scallops.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Max can see Charles looking at him strangely.
"Charles will help too."
Charles raises an eyebrow at him.
"What,” Max turns to look at him, “You're not all set?"
"No, I am."
"Well then, you'll help me and Yuki finish the scallops-" he gestures at the food in front of them- "after we eat."
Charles is still staring at him, inquisitive, like he finds Max absolutely fascinating, but he nods agreeably. "Okay."
Max watches Charles as he eats, chatting idly with Daniel. He tries not to stare, really, but he’s just so- Max has no idea what to make of him. He’s brilliant, obviously. He gets on well with the rest of the kitchen, is surprisingly polite and mild mannered for a chef of his experience, and is generally- Max still struggles to admit this one- a good addition to the team.
Despite all of this, there’s just something about Charles that puts Max slightly on edge. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s seriously talented, probably as good as Max, but he’s never really been bothered by competition. Maybe it’s the fact that Charles was forced on him, that he had no choice in his being here, but again, he’s getting over that.
Max thinks back to Charles watching him earlier, that inquisitive look on his face, and thinks maybe it has something to do with that, this uneasiness he feels. It’s almost like he feels the need to impress Charles, or that he cares what Charles thinks of him. It’s absurd, because he’s the one with the two star restaurant and Charles works for him but it’s just- there’s something about him that makes Max feel like he has to prove himself.
He’s still staring, he realises belatedly, as Charles glances up and catches his gaze. Amusement twinkles in his eyes, almost as if he knows he’s caught Max staring and he finds it funny.
Max looks away quickly, but not before his brain registers, unhelpfully, that Charles’ eyes are green , not brown like he’d originally thought. Not that it’s important.
***
Max walks in on Sunday morning to find Charles arguing with his head sommelier. It’s not exactly his ideal start to the day, but neither of them have noticed him yet so he stands off to the side for a moment observing the heated exchange.
“I’m not saying the Savennières is a bad choice, I’m saying it could be better.”
“The soil gives it minerality-” Sebastian’s face is flushed, as irate as Max has ever seen him- “It’s a perfect compliment with the acidity of the chenin blanc grape. I don’t know what your problem is.”
Charles shrugs, seemingly unbothered by Sebastian’s ire. “You could get something similar from a piquepoul. Salinity in the soil, it would pair well with the oysters.”
Sebastian shakes his head vigorously and Max has to stifle a laugh. There’s something amusing about Seb when he really gets going about wines. Charles doesn’t know what he’s in for.
“If you go that direction you’re changing the emphasis of the flavour balance entirely. The minerality is what’s interesting about oysters, it’s the part of the palate you want to compliment.”
Charles opens his mouth then, ready to respond, and Max decides it’s time to step in. He has no desire for a brawl to break out in his kitchen before he’s even had his second coffee.
“Good morning. Charles, Sebastian.” He nods at both of the men who turn to look at him.
Sebastian narrows his eyes when he sees Max, and before Charles has the chance to say anything he’s brushing past him, grabbing Max by the elbow and pulling him into his office.
"Who does he think he is?" Seb asks, the moment they’re inside. There’s no need to clarify who Seb is referring to.
“He’s…” Max pauses, searching for the right word. “Opinionated.”
"He's a know it all, and he's wrong."
"He's annoying, granted, but he’s not often wrong."
Seb just glares at him.
"You, of course, are never wrong," Max assures him, a little sheepish under Seb’s hard stare.
"You know, the Mandarin offered me two hundred grand to work for them. Two hundred grand, Max.” Seb points his finger at the office door. “I would not have to deal with annoying Monegasques there."
"I thought he was French?" Max asks, momentarily distracted.
"No.” Seb shakes his head vehemently. “And don't let him hear you say that. He's very prickly about it. Nearly took my head off when I suggested there was no culinary tradition in Monaco.”
“It sounds like you were asking for that one,” Max mutters, ignoring Seb’s raised eyebrows.
“But-”
“Seb look, he’s here, he’s part of the team. He’s a good chef. I’ll tell him to leave your wine pairings alone but the two of you are going to have to cooperate, okay?”
Seb shrugs, and Max figures that’s the closest to an agreement he’s going to get from him for now.
"And quit threatening to leave every five minutes, we both know you're old and institutionalised."
"Aw Max,” Seb grins, “No need to hurt my feelings, you can just admit you'd be lost without me."
Max just rolls his eyes, standing up and shooing Seb out the door. "Go back to your precious cellar and leave me alone."
***
When Max returns to his office Charles is waiting for him, thumbing through the recipe books on his shelf like he owns the place.
Max clears his throat, looking at Charles expectantly.
"Sebastian does not like me." Charles doesn't sound overly bothered by it, merely curious. Almost as if he's not used to people not liking him.
"He finds you annoying." Max clarifies, because it's not the same.
He's not sure why he feels the need to elaborate, because Seb is right, in a lot of ways, and Charles shouldn't have tried to pick a fight, but he feels a weird need to reassure Charles anyway. It’s unfamiliar and he kind of hates it.
"It's just that you're good,” Max continues. “He knows it and you know it, and he knows that you know it. That's the bit he finds annoying."
Charles is watching him from where he's leaning on the doorframe, expression bemused.
"That is a lot of words to use when you could've just said he thinks I'm arrogant."
"It's not a bad thing."
“I know,” Charles says, matter-of-fact. Then he winks at him, eyes twinkling, before turning on his heel to head back to the kitchen.
Max kind of wants to strangle him, maybe also kind of wants to kiss him. That second part might be a problem.
Charles pauses, halfway out the door and turns to look at him with a glint in his eyes.
"You can tell him he was right, by the way,” Charles smirks, “The Savennières will work better."
Oh for the love of god .
"Why-" Max pinches the bridge of his nose, feels a headache coming on already- "were you arguing with him then?
Charles shrugs. "He seemed to be enjoying it."
***
After work on Sunday evening the whole kitchen heads to the pub down the road for a drink to officially start the weekend. It’s something of a tradition at this stage, and Max enjoys the opportunity to spend time with his team in a more relaxed setting.
He arrives a little late, having run over time on paperwork, so when he gets there everyone has already settled in to their usual table in the corner. Max stops at the bar to grab a drink, signalling to Jacob- the bartender- and leans on the counter to wait. His eye is drawn to their table, where his team are sitting. Daniel appears to be telling a long and- judging by the laughter around the table- outrageous story, his hands waving rapidly, beer threatening to spill over at any minute.
Max’s gaze lands on Charles, then, who’s sipping a beer, watching on in amusement. Max tries not to stare but it’s kind of difficult sometimes. He’s not an idiot, he knows Charles is drop dead gorgeous, anyone with eyes can see that. But now, dressed in a plain black t-shirt and jeans, face flushed with warmth, hair ruffled and unstyled, he looks so good it makes Max feel a little bit unsteady. Charles laughs then, amused by something Daniel has said, and he tilts his head back, smile flashing under the low bar lighting, and Max feels like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs. It’s not fair, he rationalises, that on top of everything else Charles has to have this effect on him.
Jacob places his pint down on the bar counter, jolting Max out of his thoughts. “Thanks mate,” he mutters, handing over his change before grabbing his drink and heading towards the table.
There’s an empty spot beside Charles, so Max pulls up a seat, nodding to the others in greeting. Charles turns to look at him when he sits down, offering him a beaming smile, and it does nothing at all to soothe the fluttering in Max’s stomach. He has dimples, Max notes. Of course he has fucking dimples.
“Didn’t take you for a pint of beer kind of guy,” he says, before he can say anything truly stupid, gesturing at the glass in Charles’ hand.
“Ah,” Charles frowns at the beer in front of him, “Yes well I’ll admit the Dutch do beer reasonably well, far better than they do wine anyway.”
“Hey,” Max protests, vaguely offended, not that Charles is wrong, of course. “I don’t imagine you get any decent beer in Monaco anyway.”
“Ah,” Charles is grinning, “I see you finally figured out that I am not from France.”
Max shrugs. “Mate, no offence, but you sound French, and you came here from Paris, it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption.”
“I do not sound French,” Charles replies, irritated, and Max is kind of thrilled to have found some crack in the otherwise pleasant facade that Charles seems to exude at all times.
“It explains a lot though,” Max continues, teasing, “You were probably bussing dishes at Le Louis XV before you could even talk.”
Charles leans back in his chair, taking a sip of his beer, and Max tries not to notice how the light catches on the exposed muscles of his throat.
“Thirteen, actually.”
Charles’ response catches him off-guard. “You-” he shakes his head, willing away the image of Charles with his head tilted back- “What?”
“I was thirteen,” Charles says casually.
“You actually did work at Alain Ducasse?”
Charles shrugs. “I washed dishes and asked a lot of questions, I wouldn’t count it as work but, yeah.”
“That wasn’t on your CV.”
“My CV is full enough,” Charles smirks, eyes glinting with trouble. “Plus how would you know, you didn’t actually hire me, remember?”
How could I forget? Max thinks, but he smiles anyway, rolling his eyes. “I can’t believe you were washing dishes at a three star before you even hit puberty.”
Charles shrugs, turning to look at Max curiously. “What about you? You basically grew up in a kitchen from what I’ve heard.”
Max smiles to himself, so he wasn’t the only one who did his research.
“Yeah well, it’s all I’ve ever known really.” It’s true. When he thinks of his earliest memories they’re all of kitchens, the noises, the smells, the bustling energy. He loved it then and he still loves it now, it’s not like he could imagine anything else.
“Worked in my dad’s kitchens until I was old enough to get a job somewhere else, dropped out of school early, travelled around, the usual story,” Max waves his hand vaguely, “Ended up here.”
“I think,” Charles raises an eyebrow, staring at Max intently, “You’re underplaying your experience there.”
Max tugs at his sleeve, suddenly embarrassed under Charles’ scrutiny. “I did alright.”
“Two Michelin stars at twenty-four is a lot more than ‘alright’, I would say.”
“Three would be nice.”
Charles looks at him then, something like a challenge glinting in his eyes as he smiles. “Yes, it would be.”
Max is quiet for a moment, staring at Charles. It’s not- he’s always backed himself, his talent, his team, but he’s never felt like this before. Sitting here with Charles, at the end of their very first week working together, he suddenly feels like absolutely anything is possible. Maybe it’s the beer, maybe it’s Lando’s laughter ringing in his ears, maybe it’s the way Charles is staring at him, but he finds himself asking, quiet;
“Do you think we can do it?” It isn’t lost on Max that ‘we’ seems to include Charles as well now. Judging by the smile on Charles’ face it isn’t lost on him either.
“Yeah,” Charles is grinning now, wide and full of excitement, “I think we can.”