Secret Ingredient

A line cook lets off a little steam during his shift, serving up a specialty sauce with his meat.

The stainless steel counter was flecked with bits of dried parsley and something that might've been egg yolk from breakfast service. Ramon wiped it down for the third time that hour, the rhythmic squeak of his rag pushing grease into abstract patterns. His apron straps dug into his neck where the knot had tightened over his shift.

"Fire two ribeyes, one mid-rare, one hockey puck for the chick at twelve," the expo guy barked without looking up from his tickets.

Ramon flicked his tongs in acknowledgement. The kitchen hummed with the usual mid-dinner rush chaos—sizzling fat, the intermittent hiss of the steam vent, some new dishwasher in the corner scraping carbonized shit off a sheet pan. He nudged the meat onto the grill where it immediately protested.

At the pass, a server (Jenny, maybe? He never remembered their names) leaned her hip against the heat lamp and picked at a hangnail. "Table seven says the béarnaise tastes like feet."

"Tell him it's imported," Ramon said, flipping the steaks.

Jenny snorted and disappeared through the swinging doors. The mid-rare ribeye bled a perfect pink onto the cutting board when Ramon tested it. He was reaching for the resting rack when his phone buzzed in his back pocket. A single text from his ex lit up the screen: a picture of her massive breasts spilling out of a far too small bikini.

The tongs hit the floor with a clatter. Ramon exhaled through his nose, slow, deliberate, then glanced at the pass. No one was looking.

His left hand dipped below his waistline, fishing out more than just frustration- his hard, certainly not food grade dick, tip dotted with precum. The ribeye glistened under the heat lamps.

"Fuck it." Ramon put a bit of oil on his cock, then stroked twice, three times, before thick ropes of cum splattered across the meat. A glob landed directly on the pink center, quivering slightly before being absorbed into the muscle fibers. He wiped himself off with a corner of his apron, tucked his cock back in, and grabbed the resting rack. His hands didn't shake.. that was the strangest part.

Jenny reappeared, her nose wrinkling at the steam rising from the plate. "Why's it smell like-"

"Truffle oil," Ramon cut in, drizzling béarnaise in careful zigzags. "Chef's new thing."

The server shrugged, sliding the tray onto her forearm with practiced ease. Ramon watched the swinging doors flap behind her, catching a glimpse of table seven; some gray-haired finance type with a Rolex peeking out from his cuff. The man was already waving his wine glass like a baton.

At the table, Jenny set down the plates with a flourish. "Mid-rare ribeye with our signature truffle béarnaise," she announced, her smile bright as a ticket light. The finance guy, his nametag read "Bradley", sniffed once before plunging his fork into the pink center. Ramon watched through the kitchen porthole, his knuckles white around the handle of a sauce pan he wasn’t using.

Bradley chewed slowly, his eyebrows lifting. Then, Ramon swore he saw it, the man’s tongue flicked out to catch a bead of sauce clinging to his upper lip. "Jesus Christ," Bradley muttered, already cutting another piece. "What the fuck is in this?"

Jenny hovered, her fingers twitching against her order pad. "Is it-"

"It’s incredible." Bradley’s voice dropped an octave, his fork stabbing the meat with sudden urgency. "Like… I don’t know, like it’s marinated in something *alive*." A sheen of sweat glistened at his temples. Across the table, his date blinked at him over her wedge salad.

Back in the kitchen, Ramon exhaled. The dish pit guy was staring at him. "What?" Ramon snapped, tossing the pan onto a stack with a clang.

The dishwasher wiped his hands on his thighs. "Nothing, man. Just… you got a little…" He mimed wiping his chin.

Ramon swiped at his face, his fingers coming away streaked with béarnaise. Or maybe not. His pulse hammered in his throat as Bradley’s voice carried through the pass: "Get me another one. No, fuck that.. let me two."

Jenny’s sneakers squeaked against the tile as she hurried back, her cheeks flushed. "Dude," she hissed, slapping the ticket down. "What did you *do* to that steak?"

Ramon grinned, reaching for the raw ribeyes lined up like dominos in the lowboy. "Secret ingredient," he said, palming his crotch through the apron. "Family recipe."