e-mails from Christian were not to be opened without ample caffeine for fortification—and he doubted any of them were a reprimand.
Most of the articles hit closer to the truth, speculating that the King-Walters feud was continuing into the next generation, making them some sort of culinary Hatfields and McCoys. The media thought that, like the famous feuding Appalachian families, Christian and Vincent couldn’t even remember the reason for their long-standing animosity. Beck knew differently. His uncle could—and would—launch into a laundry list of transgressions a mile long if given the opportunity.
Beck finished his coffee, putting it in the sink with a heavy sigh that signified his daily switch from personal time to work time. And make no mistake about it, e-mails from Christian’s secretary definitely fit into the work-time category.
He opened the article attached, noting it was different from the ones Lindsay’s assistant had sent him. For starters, the byline was one of the more respected writers in the food industry, and it had been published on the web site of one of the major magazines.
“The Heirs-Apparent Come to Blows: The Next Generation of the Food Feud?”
Beck scanned the piece and felt a flash of annoyance at the magazine writer’s condescending attitude toward Duncan’s credentials. It was well known that, like his father, Duncan hadn’t gone to a traditional culinary school. But he’d been cooking professionally for more than a decade in some of the best kitchens in the world, and he had Vincent Walters, one of the most world-renowned chefs alive, as his personal tutor.
Beck had gone to culinary school not because he wanted to, but because he’d needed to in order to succeed. Beck had grown up in the kitchen, but he hadn’t had the advantage of having his famous and talented mentor work with him the way Duncan had. Christian expected greatness and wouldn’t settle for anything less than perfection, but he hadn’t had the time to let Beck work with him directly. By the time Beck was old enough to truly apprentice in a professional kitchen, Christian’s television show had taken off, and his restaurants were franchised across the country. He’d become more culinary personality than chef, so Beck had been forced to apprentice with the executive chefs in Christian’s empire instead.
Going to culinary school had been a necessity, and it had been one Beck had hated. He preferred simple food, but he’d known the key to succeeding with simple ingredients was to know how to treat them, and that meant he’d needed to be put through the paces of all those fancy French sauces Duncan had teased him about the night before. Beck hadn’t prepared a sauce á l’orange aigre-douce since culinary school; the point was he knew how to do it. The techniques he’d learned had been invaluable. For him, at least. He had no doubt Duncan had mastered the technical part of cooking as well as Beck had, possibly more so. The fact that Duncan had learned his skills in a kitchen instead of a classroom didn’t matter.
At least, it didn’t matter to Beck. Even though he’d needled Duncan about his lack of formal culinary education, Duncan had a pedigree. He wasn’t an idiot, and he wasn’t a line cook, no matter how much Beck liked to imply he was.
In fact, Beck was a bit jealous of Duncan’s education. He’d never even considered college, not seriously, because he knew Christian expected him to attend culinary school. He’d spent a year working insane hours as every kind of prep chef imaginable in Christian’s kitchens before he’d been deemed ready for the next level and promptly enrolled in his uncle’s alma mater, Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. Beck would have preferred studying at the Culinary Institute of America, which was almost as prestigious, but Christian had been footing the bill, and he’d shot that down before Beck had even printed an application.
Beck knew he allowed his uncle to have
Most of the articles hit closer to the truth, speculating that the King-Walters feud was continuing into the next generation, making them some sort of culinary Hatfields and McCoys. The media thought that, like the famous feuding Appalachian families, Christian and Vincent couldn’t even remember the reason for their long-standing animosity. Beck knew differently. His uncle could—and would—launch into a laundry list of transgressions a mile long if given the opportunity.
Beck finished his coffee, putting it in the sink with a heavy sigh that signified his daily switch from personal time to work time. And make no mistake about it, e-mails from Christian’s secretary definitely fit into the work-time category.
He opened the article attached, noting it was different from the ones Lindsay’s assistant had sent him. For starters, the byline was one of the more respected writers in the food industry, and it had been published on the web site of one of the major magazines.
“The Heirs-Apparent Come to Blows: The Next Generation of the Food Feud?”
Beck scanned the piece and felt a flash of annoyance at the magazine writer’s condescending attitude toward Duncan’s credentials. It was well known that, like his father, Duncan hadn’t gone to a traditional culinary school. But he’d been cooking professionally for more than a decade in some of the best kitchens in the world, and he had Vincent Walters, one of the most world-renowned chefs alive, as his personal tutor.
Beck had gone to culinary school not because he wanted to, but because he’d needed to in order to succeed. Beck had grown up in the kitchen, but he hadn’t had the advantage of having his famous and talented mentor work with him the way Duncan had. Christian expected greatness and wouldn’t settle for anything less than perfection, but he hadn’t had the time to let Beck work with him directly. By the time Beck was old enough to truly apprentice in a professional kitchen, Christian’s television show had taken off, and his restaurants were franchised across the country. He’d become more culinary personality than chef, so Beck had been forced to apprentice with the executive chefs in Christian’s empire instead.
Going to culinary school had been a necessity, and it had been one Beck had hated. He preferred simple food, but he’d known the key to succeeding with simple ingredients was to know how to treat them, and that meant he’d needed to be put through the paces of all those fancy French sauces Duncan had teased him about the night before. Beck hadn’t prepared a sauce á l’orange aigre-douce since culinary school; the point was he knew how to do it. The techniques he’d learned had been invaluable. For him, at least. He had no doubt Duncan had mastered the technical part of cooking as well as Beck had, possibly more so. The fact that Duncan had learned his skills in a kitchen instead of a classroom didn’t matter.
At least, it didn’t matter to Beck. Even though he’d needled Duncan about his lack of formal culinary education, Duncan had a pedigree. He wasn’t an idiot, and he wasn’t a line cook, no matter how much Beck liked to imply he was.
In fact, Beck was a bit jealous of Duncan’s education. He’d never even considered college, not seriously, because he knew Christian expected him to attend culinary school. He’d spent a year working insane hours as every kind of prep chef imaginable in Christian’s kitchens before he’d been deemed ready for the next level and promptly enrolled in his uncle’s alma mater, Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. Beck would have preferred studying at the Culinary Institute of America, which was almost as prestigious, but Christian had been footing the bill, and he’d shot that down before Beck had even printed an application.
Beck knew he allowed his uncle to have
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