Slow Rise | Chef Luca | The Bear| CH.2
The Bear was more than just a restaurantāit was a family, messy and loud, but fiercely loyal. The connection between the staff ran deeper than the constant chorus of "Yes, Chef" shouted during the dinner rush. So when Carmy announced that Amelie would be flying to Denmark for two months, the kitchen erupted in cheers. Everyone knew her skills would only sharpen abroad, and that she'd return with something fresh, something boldāsomething hers.
Richie and Fak got unexpectedly emotional. At twenty-two, Amelie was the youngest in the kitchen, but she fit in like a missing puzzle pieceāmatching their chaotic energy both in and out of the kitchen. To them, she wasn't just a co-worker; she was family.
Sydney, ever the composed second-in-command, nodded in quiet approval. She understood the weight of this opportunity. Amelie was already sharpāthis would make her dangerous. Still, Syd couldn't help but feel the distance growing between herself and the restaurant. With Shapiro's offer still on the table, Amelie's departure stirred something uncertain in her chest. So she smiled, supportive, but kept her feelings close.
Marcus and Tina were the most outwardly excited. "I'll be waiting, Number Two," Marcus said with a soft grin as he handed her a boxed pastry for the plane. Despite the heaviness he'd been carryingāgrief, burnout, lifeāhe wanted Amelie to succeed where he couldn't always guide her. Tina, ever the heart of the kitchen, hugged her tight and whispered,Ā "Make us proud, girl."
Amelie tried to soak in all of itāthe noise, the love, the pressure. This wasn't just a trip.
This was the moment everything could change.
After more than eight hours on a plane, Amelie had finally arrived in Copenhagen, Denmark. The city felt serene, cold, and unfamiliar to the twenty-two-year-old. As she stepped off the plane and into the quiet stillness of the terminal, a pang of longing hit herāshe already missed Carmy's chaotic crashouts and the relentless rhythm of The Bear's kitchen.
The moment she stepped outside, the crisp Scandinavian air slapped her across the face, making her gasp. Instinctively, she reached up to tighten the red scarf around her neck, its warmth a small comfort against the chill. Her eyes scanned the pickup zone, searching for the Uber Carmy had promised would be arranged.
Instead, she spotted a white placard held by an older man in a long charcoal coat.Ā "Amelie Rousseau."Ā The letters were neatly printed, stark against the Danish gray.
She hesitated for a second, then approached. The man gave a polite nod and introduced himself in accented English. No frills. No small talk. Just a gesture toward the waiting van.
Without another word, she climbed inside.
This would be her home for the next two months. And something told her it wouldn't be the cold that tested herāit would be everything else.
The city was breathtaking. From the clean, modern architecture to the quiet rivers winding through cobbled streets, Copenhagen felt like a different world. Amelie had never been outside of Chicagoānever even owned a passport until a month ago. Now, everything around her was foreign. Beautiful. A little intimidating. She felt small, almost fragile. But something told her this experience would be worth every uncomfortable moment.
After an hour-long drive through unfamiliar streets and across narrow bridges, the car finally came to a stop. Her new home wasn't a flat or a shared apartment. It was a small, weathered houseboat moored at the edge of the canalātucked away, almost secretive.
She stepped out slowly, thanking the old man as he lifted her bags from the trunk. He nodded once, gave a brief smile, and drove off without ceremony, leaving her standing alone with her luggage and a cold gust of wind.
Dragging her suitcase inside, Amelie paused at the threshold. The houseboat was nothing like her cramped Chicago apartment. It was warm, quiet, and oddly comforting. The space was small, but it wrapped around her like a blanketāwood-paneled walls, a narrow kitchen with a window facing the water, an individual bed tucked beneath a skylight, and a tiny living room filled with soft light and mismatched furniture. It smelled faintly of cedar and coffee.
She set her bags down slowly, soaking in the silence.
Somehow, even in this foreign place, she already felt lighter. As if this little boat had been waiting for her all along.
After unpacking her small suitcase and tucking away the last of her sweaters, Amelie's stomach reminded her just how long it had been since her last meal. She slipped on her coat, wrapped the red scarf tighter around her neck, and stepped back out into the crisp Copenhagen air. The sun had already begun to sink behind the buildings, casting golden shadows across the quiet streets.
She wandered aimlessly for about ten minutes, letting the city guide her. Cobblestones under her boots, foreign street signs, and the low hum of bikes whirring past. Then, just as her hunger began to twist into something sharper, a small bakery came into viewāits windows glowing with soft amber light, fogged slightly from the warmth inside.
The second she stepped through the door, the scent hit herāsweet and savory, butter and sugar, fresh yeast and something spiced she couldn't quite place. It was like being wrapped in a warm hug after a long day. Her body eased without her even realizing.
She made a beeline for the counter, eyes wide with awe. Behind the glass were rows of perfect pastries: flaky, golden, dusted, drizzled, filled. A symphony of textures and technique.
An older woman appeared from the back, her hair swept into a neat bun and her smile kind. "Hej," she greeted, her Danish accent soft but clear.
Without hesitation, Amelie blurted, "Can I get one of everything?"
The woman blinked, surprised. "For a party?" she asked with a small laugh.
Amelie smiled, cheeks flushed. "No, ma'am. I'm here to learn."
The woman's eyes crinkled at the edges, sensing something more in Amelie's toneāhunger, yes, but not just for food.
"Then eat slowly," she said, beginning to box up the pastries with practiced hands. "You'll taste more that way."
After lugging four pastry boxes through narrow streets and earning more than a few curious glances from locals, Amelie finally made it back to the houseboat. Her fingers were numb from the cold, her arms sore from the awkward weight, but the quiet thrill in her chest kept her moving.
Inside, she kicked off her boots, set the boxes down on the small kitchen table, and rummaged through her bag. From its depths, she pulled out a black notebook and a penāher culinary journal, untouched until now. She opened to the first page and, in neat print, wrote:
Baking Notes & Ideas ā Pt. 1
Still wrapped in her coat, she opened each of the pastry boxes, releasing a wave of sweet, buttery perfume into the room. There were delicate kringles, rustic tebirkes, glossy cinnamon snails, and spandauers filled with everything from custard to tangy raspberry.
Hungry in both body and mind, Amelie took a bite of each one, savoring them slowly. With every taste, she scribbled down her thoughts: the name, the dominant flavors, the texture of the layers, the type of fatāwas it butter or oil-based? The protein structure, the flakiness, the glaze, the type of marmalade or filling, even the crumb density. She broke each pastry down like an equation, dissecting it with the kind of precision only someone obsessed with improvement could manage.
To anyone else, it might have looked like a binge.
But to Amelie Rousseau, this was study. This was discipline. This was the beginning of something real.
She wanted to meet thisĀ LucaĀ guy preparedāready to prove herself, ready for the challengeācompletely unaware of just how much he would test her, and how deeply he would change her.
