Chef's Kiss Quotes

I walked in without knocking. The screen door banged to a close behind me announcing my presence. I followed my nose to the kitchen and found Kaleb standing by the stove. He stirred something that smelled absolutely delicious a wooden spoon in one hand and a huge chef’s knife in the other. “Are you sober?” I asked from the doorway. He turned and leveled a smile at me that made me a little wobbly. “I am." “Good. Because if not I was going to take the deadly kitchen utensil away from you.” I crossed the room and pulled myself up to sit on the counter beside the stove. A cutting board full of green peppers and two uncut stalks of celery waited for attention from the knife. Melted butter and diced onions bubbled in a sauté pan on the stove. “You cook." Kaleb was so pretty I was jealous. Pretty with ripped muscles and a tattoo of a red dragon covering most of his upper body. “Yes,” he said. “I cook.” “Do you usually wear a wife beater and,” I pushed him back a little by his shoulder “an apron that says ‘Kiss the Cook’ while you’re doing it? ” He leaned so close to me my heart skipped a couple of beats. “I’ll wear it all the time if you’ll consider it.

She looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced over to the dog, kissed it with ecstasy, and swept into the kitchen, implying that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there.

Sorry,Chef Pierre. I'm a little distracted by this English French American Boy Masterpiece.

Damn. Rowan might not speak much but when he does—” Cal does a chef’s kiss. “Poetry.

I make grilled cheeses for lunch, one for me, two for Will. We don’t have any chips, but I find a far of pickles in the pantry. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” He pauses for a drink, staring at me over the rim of his glass of juice. “It’s the provolone,” I say, swallowing my last bite. “It’s the chef.” I smile and look away. We listen to music. Talk. Kiss until my flesh glimmers gold-red. Warms to the touch from the deep scald at my core. He stops to watch. Leans his face close to my neck and smells my skin. Like I’m something he might taste. He sweeps his hands along my arms . . . making me burn hotter. “Is this what it’s like for other fire-breathers?” he asks, winks, holding my hand up in his broad palm. “Or is it just me and my magic hands?

Everyone's here except for St. Clair." Meredith cranes her neck around the cafeteria. "He's usually running late." "Always," Josh corrects. "Always running late." I clear my throat. "I think I met him last night. In the hallway." "Good hair and an English accent?" Meredith asks. "Um.Yeah.I guess." I try to keep my voice casual. Josh smirks. "Everyone's in luuurve with St. Clair." "Oh,shut up," Meredith says. "I'm not." Rashmi looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fall in love with her own boyfriend. He lets go of her hand and gives an exaggerated sigh. "Well,I am. I'm asking him to prom. This is our year, I just know it." "This school has a prom?" I ask. "God no," Rashmi says. "Yeah,Josh. You and St. Clair would look really cute in matching tuxes." "Tails." The English accent makes Meredith and me jump in our seats. Hallway boy. Beautiful boy. His hair is damp from the rain. "I insist the tuxes have tails, or I'm giving your corsage to Steve Carver instead." "St. Clair!" Josh springs from his seat, and they give each other the classic two-thumps-on-the-back guy hug. "No kiss? I'm crushed,mate." "Thought it might miff the ol' ball and chain. She doesn't know about us yet." "Whatever," Rashi says,but she's smiling now. It's a good look for her. She should utilize the corners of her mouth more often. Beautiful Hallway Boy (Am I supposed to call him Etienne or St. Clair?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Rashmi and me. "Anna." He's surprised to see me,and I'm startled,too. He remembers me. "Nice umbrella.Could've used that this morning." He shakes a hand through his hair, and a drop lands on my bare arm. Words fail me. Unfortunately, my stomach speaks for itself. His eyes pop at the rumble,and I'm alarmed by how big and brown they are. As if he needed any further weapons against the female race. Josh must be right. Every girl in school must be in love with him. "Sounds terrible.You ought to feed that thing. Unless..." He pretends to examine me, then comes in close with a whisper. "Unless you're one of those girls who never eats. Can't tolerate that, I'm afraid. Have to give you a lifetime table ban." I'm determined to speak rationally in his presence. "I'm not sure how to order." "Easy," Josh says. "Stand in line. Tell them what you want.Accept delicious goodies. And then give them your meal card and two pints of blood." "I heard they raised it to three pints this year," Rashmi says. "Bone marrow," Beautiful Hallway Boy says. "Or your left earlobe." "I meant the menu,thank you very much." I gesture to the chalkboard above one of the chefs. An exquisite cursive hand has written out the morning's menu in pink and yellow and white.In French. "Not exactly my first language." "You don't speak French?" Meredith asks. "I've taken Spanish for three years. It's not like I ever thought I'd be moving to Paris." "It's okay," Meredith says quickly. "A lot of people here don't speak French." "But most of them do," Josh adds. "But most of them not very well." Rashmi looks pointedly at him. "You'll learn the lanaguage of food first. The language of love." Josh rubs his belly like a shiny Buddha. "Oeuf. Egg. Pomme. Apple. Lapin. Rabbit." "Not funny." Rashmi punches him in the arm. "No wonder Isis bites you. Jerk." I glance at the chalkboard again. It's still in French. "And, um, until then?" "Right." Beautiful Hallway Boy pushes back his chair. "Come along, then. I haven't eaten either." I can't help but notice several girls gaping at him as we wind our way through the crowd.

Most of the garden was devoted to the usual things- lettuces, onions, cabbage, and eggplant- ordinary ingredients for good, honest meals. But then there were the chef's other plants, the ones that made the cooks cross themselves and kiss their thumbnails whenever they were forced to handle them. Take love apples, to start with. Their poisonous reputation was as well known as that of hemlock, and the cooks protested loudly the day the chef put in his seedlings. What if their roots contaminated the onions? What if their fumes caused swoons or fits? What if the odd, tangy smell of their leaves attracted disgruntled ghosts from the nearby dungeons? It took repeated assurances, the installation of a wire enclosure, and the fact that nothing catastrophic followed their planting to keep the staff from uprooting the love apples behind the chef's back. Even so, one cook quit, and another developed a twitchy eye and started nipping at the cooking sherry. After the love apples, the chef put in beans- another rarity from the New World- and then potatoes. Once, he tried something he called maize, but the plants failed, so instead he bought sacks of dried maize from an unknown source. In a giant stone mortar, he ground the dried maize down to a coarse yellow meal from which he made one of his exotic specialties- polenta.

From Walt: The Grapes of Wrath, Les Misérables, To Kill a Mockingbird, Moby-Dick, The Ox-Bow Incident, A Tale of Two Cities, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Three Musketeers, Don Quixote (where your nickname came from), The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and anything by Anton Chekhov. From Henry: Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, Cheyenne Autumn, War and Peace, The Things They Carried, Catch-22, The Sun Also Rises, The Blessing Way, Beyond Good and Evil, The Teachings of Don Juan, Heart of Darkness, The Human Comedy, The Art of War. From Vic: Justine, Concrete Charlie: The Story of Philadelphia Football Legend Chuck Bednarik, Medea (you’ll love it; it’s got a great ending), The Kama Sutra, Henry and June, The Onion Field, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Zorba the Greek, Madame Bovary, Richie Ashburn’s Phillies Trivia (fuck you, it’s a great book). From Ruby: The Holy Bible (New Testament), The Pilgrim’s Progress, Inferno, Paradise Lost, My Ántonia, The Scarlet Letter, Walden, Poems of Emily Dickinson, My Friend Flicka, Our Town. From Dorothy: The Gastronomical Me, The French Chef Cookbook (you don’t eat, you don’t read), Last Suppers: Famous Final Meals From Death Row, The Bonfire of the Vanities, The Scarlet Pimpernel, Something Fresh, The Sound and the Fury, The Maltese Falcon, Pride and Prejudice, Brides-head Revisited. From Lucian: Thirty Seconds over Tokyo, Band of Brothers, All Quiet on the Western Front, The Virginian, The Basque History of the World (so you can learn about your heritage you illiterate bastard), Hondo, Sackett, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, Bobby Fischer: My 60 Memorable Games, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, Quartered Safe Out Here. From Ferg: Riders of the Purple Sage, Kiss Me Deadly, Lonesome Dove, White Fang, A River Runs Through It (I saw the movie, but I heard the book was good, too), Kip Carey’s Official Wyoming Fishing Guide (sorry, kid, I couldn’t come up with ten but this ought to do).

It is no great secret that cooking is, in essence, seduction. As with amour, pleasure does not bloom in the body so much as in the mind. One may be a “gymnast in the sheets,” as the coarse say, but without passion and internal fire, without longing and anticipation, one may as well be doing calisthenics. So food. The most rarefied tastes on the unprepared tongue may be ignored or, worse, misunderstood. How then is the mind prepared for delicacy? As with Don Juan, reputation stirs desire. But even the best chef must entice interest, use aroma to flirt, caress and kiss with silken soups, reassure and coddle with a dulcet pudding.

One night while we were sitting in front of our mirrors putting on our makeup, Peter walked up behind Ace and put his dick on his shoulder. Ace very nonchalantly turned to the side and gave it a kiss. So he became the chef, because he had to taste everything.

It is no great secret that cooking is, in essence, seduction. As with amour, pleasure does not bloom in the body so much as in the mind. One may be a "gymnast in the sheets," as the coarse say, but without passion and internal fire, without longing and anticipation, one may as well be doing calisthenics. So food. Tho most rarefied tastes on the unprepared tongue may be ignored or, worse, misunderstood. How then is the mind prepared for delicacy? As with Don Juan, reputation stirs desire. But even the best chef must entice interest, use aroma to flirt, caress and kiss with silken soups, reassure and coddle with a dulcet pudding.

We watch the chef slice eel and octopus, delicate operations of dismemberment and amputation. For some reason it makes me think of poetry.

He feels like a delicious secret that is just for me. Like the little treat chefs hide in the kitchen for themselves for after the party is over... the oysters of the chicken, the ends of the brisket, the last piece of bacon, the corner brownie. Kissing Shawn feels like licking the bowl of frosting once the cake is finished, or eating the last spoonfuls of still-warm risotto in the pan while you are cleaning up. Extra special, private, the littlest bit naughty.

One night while we were sitting in front of our mirrors putting on our makeup, Peter walked up behind Ace and put his dick on his shoulder. Ace very nonchalantly turned to the side and gave it a kiss. So he became the chef, because he had to taste e

Food is my life---my calling, my raison d'être---better than sex, better than anything. I get lost in sensual experiences when I prepare a meal---the way the juices run all sticky and sweet on my hands as I cut fresh fruits like an orange or a fig, the way the flavors dance on my tongue when I taste my fingertips, the way salty and sweet fresh oysters kiss my lips at first, followed by a lustful intoxication when they slide down my throat, or the way a fragrant soup heats up my entire body, my soul. Foreplay is the preparation, and the climax comes with the finished recipe, bringing all the senses together while balancing flavors. Food is passion in its purest form and one of the reasons I became a chef.

traditional Norse blessing. Facing in each direction as he speaks, he forbids all evil from entering our lives from this point forward. After invoking the gods, our ancestors, and everyone gathered here today as our witnesses, he lights a symbolic candle to purify us so that we may enter our marriage with unadulterated love. Dipping an evergreen sprig into a bowl of holy water, he anoints Ella and me, offering his blessings before binding our hands together with the rite of the white ribbon. We recite a prayer to Frigga, the goddess of marriage, followed by our vows promising to love, honor, and cherish each other. The rings we exchange were personally chosen by Ella. A moonstone set into oxidized silver for her, and a brushed silver Tungsten band for me. As the final rite of passage into married life, the Gothi pours a goblet of mead wine and brings our free hands together around the stem, encouraging each of us to drink. Once we do, he declares us bound for eternity as husband and wife. He removes the goblet, and I bring my hand to Ella’s face, sealing our marriage with a kiss. Around us, bells begin to ring, a salute from the witnesses. But Ella and I only have eyes for each other as we seal our commitment to one another. When the Gothi opens the circle again with one last symbolic prayer, we exit to our new life amongst our family and friends. Celebrations are in order, and the chef has prepared a feast of traditional foods.

My body is a temple.” Jean-Pierre snorted. “My body is an inconvenience,” he murmured, “and it should be thankful I let it exist at all.

That is black-and-white thinking, and I live in a world full of color.

Now she’s telling him off for dragging ‘some poor girl’ into this mess,” Simone said. “Which I guess is you.” “Honestly, it’s just an honor to be recognized.

My hopes for a normal social life were disrupted. I had an abundance of gender to deal with.

There's this little area outside by a creek, because I think every single place is by some kind of creek in Georgia, and apparently we're hanging out there. Will is the only guy from the other team here. It strikes me as odd, then, that we've cordoned ourselves off from each other because of these random group assignments. But we have. When I walk up, arms linked with Riya, Andrew glances at me and his face darkens.

She hurried a little faster and gave thanks for the fact that she was wearing gym shoes. Plus, her longer legs meant she could probably get a decent chunk of distance between them. Tall girls keep winning.

She felt a little like a student again. She even had a notebook and pen in her hands to take copious notes on Simone’s technique. She couldn’t wait to make a spreadsheet about this later.

She wasn’t certain how she should phrase her opinion about the appearance of her fake boyfriend’s nipples. There was no Hallmark card for something like this.

How many French-speaking short kings could there be in this neck of the woods?

Leaning back, I eye him. “Did you just give me a forehead kiss while I’m wearing my chef’s coat?”  “Mm-hmm.” “I’ve made grown men cry while wearing this coat.” “Oh, I have no doubt about that, but girl bosses need forehead kisses too.

The Catalonian photographed an old man struggling with the weight of his outmoded suitcase; a chef caught in a cloud of smoke at the back of a bistro. He found distinct beauty in ordinary things. Even in my sad countenance, how I couldn't look the boy in the eye, how I pinched my lips each time we kissed to reduce the evidence of my ethnicity. He took to my solemnity, photographed my reading, eating, never giving way to a smile. This is love, I said, I know it, I feel it in the ease with which he takes to my seriousness and my unrelenting focus on the ground. But when you've been misused, you tend to view love as a type of sacrifice, or a numbing of the senses. You never let him please you, instead, you arch your back and offer the full view of your behind.

But why are you taking him?” Monya added a wrapped blueberry pie and three loaves of day-old bread to the box of food items she was packing. Then she looked over at Percy. “Why do you care?” she asked, squinting slightly as she studied her chef, then pointing. “And you’re burning your toast.” “Shoot,” Percy said, and dropped the toast from singed fingers. Then he glared at Monya. “I care. We all care. This guy just shows up and waltzes in here from… wherever, and you just start taking up with him, just like that? It’s not like you. I mean, what do you even know about him?” “I know he kisses like a…” “Gah,” Percy made a pained noise. “You’re burning my ears.

The evening Bartolomeo left her the radish rose, he also ignored the words of her gray-haired mother and gave Stella an extra serving of pappardelle, made fresh from ricotta, eggs, and goat milk, fried to perfection and dusted in sugar. They were called "gobble-ups" for a good reason, and the principessa was pleased to indulge, that is until her mother bade Bartolomeo to take the plate away. She glared at her mother and snatched one last fritter. Sugar coated the edge of her pretty lips and Bartolomeo thought he might swoon. He would give anything to kiss the sweetness away. The rose was gone when he went to clear the plates. He could only hope she had secreted it away in the finely embroidered saccoccia hanging at her hip.

I have been waiting far too long for this moment." So had I. Desire rose within me and I stood, holding her, knocking the chair out of the way. I carried her to the bed and fell with her against it, our limbs wrapping around each other. Our caresses were fevered, a fire rising between us. It was everything I could do to keep from tearing her dress off her body. Together we unlaced her bodice, a deep kiss accompanying each ribbon undone. Once unclothed, our bodies moved together as one, our skin slipping on skin in the mid-May heat. "At night, when I go to sleep, I think of you," she breathed in my ear as I teased her nipple with my tongue. I lifted my head. "What do you think about, dolcezza mia?" "This. What it would feel like to be with you, to have you touching me." I ran my hand along her thigh and let my fingers explore her sex, rubbing the little spot before her opening. She moaned. "Does it feel like you imagined?" I asked. "Better than I- oh!" My fingers slid inside her folds, teasing with gentle movement. She pushed her body against me. I moved my mouth to cover hers. She tasted like cucumbers and salt. I wanted to devour her. I explored every part of her mouth, my teeth grazing her skin, the flavor of her exploding against my tongue. When I pushed myself inside her, I thought I would lose myself. She was hot and smooth, my knife to her butter. I wanted to feel this moment, to know this pleasure of the body forever. I moved inside her, the rhythm a stirring of our souls. When her soft exclamations of pleasure grew louder and louder and finally climaxed in one long sensuous moan, I could no longer contain my own enjoyment and I lost myself. For a moment, I thought the sky had opened up and all the stars fell down around me.

We feel something special between us, Gio. You took me there, on the bed, and I will let you take me again, and again." Her fingers brushed my mouth, pulling softly at my lips. "But, caro, I do so because we are forging something new, something that will, I hope, take us through our lives to the very end." A surge of passion pushed through me, overflowing like wine in a too-small goblet. I pressed my lips against hers and tasted her sweetness once more. One hand entwined in her hair, the other against her back. "You are right, cuore mio. Ti amo, ti amo." She held off my kisses, her hand against my cheek. "And I you, Gio. Your face has haunted my dreams since I first saw you. But if you love me, if you want me to stand by your side and to warm your bed..." Her hand squeezed my backside and I drew in a deep breath. "Just as we are now, when we kiss, when we touch, we must be one in the way we speak behind closed doors," she continued. "I will give you everything and tell you everything. And, Gio, you must promise me the same." Her hand had found its way to the front of me. "Yes, dolcezza mia," I breathed, unable to say anything else, unable to think of anything other than her fingers against my sex, her voice hot in my ear. She fell to her knees and took me in her mouth. My hands clutched her head, feeling the motion of her against me. When I thought I could take no more, I pushed her back, to the floor, pulled up her skirts, and drove myself between her thighs. "I promise, Isabetta," I whispered in her ear as I melted into her.

I have a killer loose on the ranch and all I can think about is kissing you again.

Madame Escoffier," he said. In his white apron, he was again the man she loved. The gentle man who only spoke in whispers. "I am sorry," she said. "I am not." He leaned over and kissed her. His lips tasted of tomatoes, sharp and floral. The moment, filled with the heat of a reckless summer, brought her back to the gardens they had grown together in Paris in a private courtyard behind Le Petit Moulin Rouge. Sweet Roma tomatoes, grassy licorice tarragon, thin purple eggplants and small crisp beans thrived in a series of old wine barrels that sat in the tiny square. There were also violets and roses that the 'confiseur' would make into jellies or sugar to grace the top of the 'petit-fours glacés,' which were baked every evening while the coal of the brick ovens cooled down for the night. "No one grows vegetables in the city of Paris," she said, laughing, when Escoffier first showed her his hidden garden, "except for Escoffier." He picked a ripe tomato, bit into it and then held it to her lips. "Pomme d'amour, perhaps this was fruit of Eden." The tomato was so ripe and lush, so filled with heat it brought tears to her eyes and he kissed her. "You are becoming very good at being a chef's wife." "I love you," she said and finally meant it. 'Pommes d'amour.' The kitchen was now overflowing with them.

I watched Pascal sleep. He had long, curved eyelashes and lips that swelled with every little breath. I nestled into him, and his body responded in turn. He pushed his leg in between mine, nuzzling the top of his head against my cheek. His hair smelled like smoked wood chips. He looked old, in a good way. Even in his sleep, he had a reassuring quality. Restaurants were about hospitality, but the chef wasn't usually the one with open arms. Pascal was, though. He was everything at Bakushan: the genius behind the stove, the draw through the door, the face on the magazine covers. He embodied so many things, and I was floored that he was the one cuddling into me. He was the one who gave me little kisses as he slept.

My pulse throbs in my throat as I notch at her entrance. There’s just one last thing we need to clear up first. “Say you won’t run away with the circus.