Secret Service: There's something so inherently sexy about a chef

It's getting hot in here

The person who wrote this has clearly been reading Slutty Cheff, and who can blame them — Slutty’s writing is most entertaining. Our Secret Service column is designed to give chefs, front of house, suppliers and indeed anyone working in hospitality the chance to vent — or in this case, exorcise demons — so that we may 1) be entertained and 2) foster a greater sense of empathy for those working hard to put food in front of us. This is a most excellent use of digital space — props to the writer, who, as per all our Secret Service columns, shall remain anonymous. If this piece brings you entertainment and you can afford to, please consider becoming a paying Saucer so that I can further incentivise our writers and pay our talented illustrators more too. Thank you!

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Illustration by the immensely talented @slakarts

It was the hands that did it. Hands always get me. Brow furrowed in concentration, eyes sharp, and hands — those hands — laying fine slithers of vegetables against each other with such tenderness. The moment lasts for seconds but I’m left reeling all night. What else can those hands do? The thought of it makes me shiver in impossible anticipation. Don’t go there. Dangerous.

But those hands. There’s something so inherently sexy about a chef, isn’t there? But everyone knows everyone in Bristol and everyone would know immediately. It would probably be pinned in the WhatsApp groups. I want to be able to walk into wine bars on my day off without the waves of anxiety. But I do love starting my shift and noticing those furtive glances. The way you accidentally tease my fingers as you hand a plate over.

I read recently that electrons can tell when they’re being observed, just as I can tell instantly when you’re in the same room as me. My cheeks flush and I hate it. You must know. Surely. I feel exposed, like a full moon on a clear night. We sit next to each other at family meal and our thighs brush. I want to tell you about the book I read and about ideas and about food I’ve eaten and about places but you’re so busy. Getting you alone is like trying to explain the concept of pronouns to my nan. And I shouldn’t, I mustn’t. It’s a terrible idea. Plus, following you into the walk-in fridge would be downright creepy.

Instead I lie awake until the early hours, tossing and turning. I imagine every scenario ever. Murphy’s law right? If it can happen, it will. And it could happen. The forbidden-ness makes it all the more exciting.

On your days off I wonder where you are and who you’re with. The rota shows an insight into your life, but provides me with little else other than windows of overlapping excitement.

Is it that I want your power, your influence? Is it that I want your knowledge — how you can turn something so humble into something amazing? Do I want to be seen by you or with you? Would those hands be so careful, so precise, with me?

I’m writing this as a means of exorcising my demons. Or rather, demon. Does some small part of me hope that in having it published you’ll read it and realise my undying horniness for you? Yes. I lie awake thinking you’ll slip me a note during service that reads ‘I’m taking you for dinner’ and we’ll go arm in arm to Caper & Cure or perhaps Dongnae where we’ll relish every bite and then each other — locking eyes over an injeolmi.

It will end badly, that is certain, and we’ll have to avoid each other for the rest of our careers, which will be hard in Bristol village. Maybe I’ll move to Australia. Maybe you will. But in this naive, heady state of the first rays of sun, harbourside beers and you with your hands — that all feels worth it. Perhaps you’ll even make me breakfast the next day…

All words by a Secret Service Agent, illustration by @slakarts

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