Chapter 2
Jason Wekiu drove to the back of the restaurant where the employees parked their cars. Glancing over at the clock on the dashboard, he saw that he was an hour late for work. He was supposed to be at the restaurant at 6:30 in the morning. It was now 7:30 a.m. Still, it was a record. Just last week he was forty minutes late getting to work. But his lateness couldn’t really be helped then, and it couldn’t be helped today.
Adjusting his sunglasses, he opened the door and got out of his car. The sudden shift in position brought a sharp pain to shoot to the back of his brain. Holding his head, he groaned at the jolt. Last night he was out partying with his friends, and like always, he had a little too much to drink.
He made his way to the employee entrance, careful not to walk too fast and cause another stab of pain to race to his head. When he got to the door, he saw two employees taking a smoke break.
They greeted him, and he nodded in acknowledgment. In reality, he didn’t feel like making small talk.
“Chef Rennald is in a foul mood today,” one of them warned.
“Isn’t he always?” Jason asked. The two guys laughed at his observation. But his comment wasn’t meant to be funny. It was the truth. Many chefs in the industry didn’t know how to handle pressure, and they took their frustrations out on their subordinates.
“You’re lucky to be the boss’s son,” one cook said with a hint of envy. “If either of us turned up this late, Rennald would’ve already canned us.” He glanced over at the red Porsche Jason had parked in the lot. No average restaurant worker would ever be able to afford a luxury car like that.
“Believe me, I’m not that lucky,” Jason said, yanking open the door and stepping inside.
He could hear the din of the busy kitchen, the familiar banging and clanging of pots and pans, and the shouting of workers on the run. These were the sounds that he’d grown up with and were somehow as comforting as putting on his favorite pair of boardshorts. He walked to the employees’ room and changed into his uniform. But even though he liked the smell of food wafting in the air, he preferred lounging in his apartment, especially since his headache had grown. The pain circled inside his brain and now settled at the base of his skull, throbbing like a dull beacon. Perhaps it would have been better to call in sick, but since he was here, he had to make the best of it. Besides, he had already called in sick last week, and if he made this into a habit, his father would hear about it. The last thing he wanted was to listen to another lecture.
Jason opened his locker and pulled out a half-filled bottle of water. He rummaged through the bottom of the small space until he found a container of acetaminophen. Taking two pills, his headache seemed to diminish almost immediately. He was now ready to go into the kitchen.
“You’re late!” the head chef barked when he saw Jason enter. Chef Rennald ran his kitchen with military precision, and Jason only fooled himself if he thought that he could sneak into work without being noticed.
“It looks like I am,” he said, mildly.
Chef Rennald was used to his underlings scurrying at the sound of his voice, and it appeared Jason’s calm demeanor ruffled his feathers even more. The man’s face turned a beet red, and he looked as if the crown of his head would erupt. The head chef opened his mouth to say something more, but Jason turned to his workstation. His coworkers at the prep table were already busy chopping vegetables and assembling the salad bowls.
“What needs to get done?” he asked Jose who worked at the next station.
“The same things as usual,” Jose said. “The soup stock is running low, so we have to make another two batches before the day is out. And the fish have to be cleaned, the shelves restocked.”
“Mahalo.” Jason pulled out the earphones from his pocket and plugged it into his phone. At the moment he didn’t feel like handling fish guts, nor did he want to make stock. The best option was to choose the least strenuous job, which was to restock the shelves. Chef gave him the opportunity to be a line chef but he declined. It was easier to work in prep. He just had to put in his hours, and listening to music during his shift allowed him to block out the world and make the day tolerable.
Turning to face the metal shelves, he surveyed the canisters that lined the walls. He reached for one of the vessels, but his judgment was off and the metal container crashed onto the floor.
Jason let out an oath and frowned at the mess. He hated to make more work for himself, but he knew that Chef would have a fit if he didn’t tidy up. Walking to the storage area, he grabbed a broom to sweep up the spilled flour. The work wasn’t half-bad with the music blaring in his ears. He could almost imagine himself at the club from last night. At least that was more fun than toiling in his father’s restaurant. He was bobbing his head to the rhythm of exceptional beats when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The person spun him around and yanked out his earbuds.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Jason asked glaring at the head chef.
“You’re under my rule, boy,” Chef said, gritting his teeth. “You’re treading on very thin ice by waltzing in here late and undermining my authority.”
Jason turned the music off and detached the earphones from his phone. “Do I look like I care?”
Chef’s face turned purple, and he let out a string of curses that would have put a customer into a coma. “I’m going to speak to your father.”
Rennald pivoted on his heels and stomped toward the back office like a raging lion. “Get back to work!” he yelled, causing everyone to jump and rush around like chickens with their heads cut off. Pointing a beefy finger at Humberto Martinez, the sous-chef, he barked, “You run the pass while I get back.”
Jason finished cleaning the floor and returned to his workstation. He grabbed a pair of latex gloves and took a fish from one of the bins. Taking the back of his knife, he slid it against the fish scales. But he paid little attention to what he was doing. Instead, his focus was on the raised voices coming from the back office. He could hear snippets of the conversation since Chef spoke loudly. The man wanted everyone in the vicinity to know of his displeasure. The words “lazy” and “no-show” floated out to the kitchen, and then faded away. Then when there was a long lull in the conversation, Chef burst out: “Either he goes or I go!” A heavy silence followed as soon as those words were spoken. A minute later a door slammed and Chef stalked out. The crew pushed to work faster, but the head chef barely took note of the frantic activity that surrounded him. His footsteps were rapid and he stomped on the floor as if he wanted to break through the tiles. His face was stony as he tore off his apron and stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later, a door slammed.
Jose glanced at Jason, his eyes as wide as saucers. “Do you think he’s leaving?” he whispered.
Jason shrugged and flipped over the fish to run his blade on the other side. The scales flew in every direction.
“It’s probably for the best.” Jason had enough of the drama. Pulling off a glove, he reattached the earphones to the cell phone and drowned out the sounds of the work area. Even if Chef quit the kitchen, he knew that he wasn’t in the clear. His father owned three other restaurants on the island, and he might relocate Jason to any one of them.
He sensed someone coming to stand next to him. When he glanced over, he discovered that it was the sous-chef. He put his knife down on his cutting board. Peeling away his other glove, he switched off his music and pulled out his earphones.
“Mr. Wekiu wants to see you in his office,” Martinez said, his face grave.
Without a word, Jason untied his apron, and set it on the table before he went to rinse his hands in the sink. His coworkers continued with their tasks, pretending that his confrontation with Chef never occurred. In the end, they were trying to save their own asses. He got that. Everyone knew that he was the boss’s son, and they always kept him at a distance. They cracked crude jokes with one another, but with him, they were careful about what they said. In a way, he thought they were afraid of him. If they only knew how little an influence he had over his father, they might not have been so fearful. Jason had worked full-time at the restaurant for two years, and his old man rarely spoke to him in the kitchen. This suited Jason just fine since he didn’t have anything to say to him anyhow.
Jason made his way to the back office, but he felt no need to rush. He already knew that he was in for another lecture. Who in their right mind would hurry to get an earful?
When he reached the office, he found the door closed. It was silent on the other side, but even through the barrier, he sensed his father’s magnetic presence. This was hardly surprising since the man was Phil Wekiu, one of Hawaii’s premiere chefs. He ran a world-renowned chain of restaurants, and had won countless awards and praise for his French and Polynesian fusion cuisine. He had charm and a presence that he turned on in public, but he ruled his kitchen and his ohana with an iron fist. No wonder Jason’s mother divorced him.
Taking a deep breath, he raised his fist to pound on the door.
“Come in,” his father said.
Jason entered and closed the door behind him. “It’s a good thing you got rid of Chef Rennald,” he said. “The guy really had a stick up his ass.”
His father never looked up from his desk. Instead, he kept his head bent as he scribbled notes in his workbook. The man lived, breathed and dreamed about food. He always carried his prized notepad around and recorded any recipes and insights that hit him.
“Take a seat,” Phil said, motioning to the chair in front of the desk. Jason did as he was instructed, and as he waited for his old man to finish, his gaze wandered to the pictures that sat on the bookshelf. His father had taken down all the images of his mother but left several photographs of Jason and his older brother Vincent. In one photo, Vincent stood between Jason and their father, his arms slung around each of their shoulders and a wide grin on his face. His brother was almost an exact copy of their father, only younger and a lot nicer. He had played the role of a protective older brother, and when someone bothered Jason in school, Vincent would step in, ready to wallop him. Vincent was the perfect son, the perfect older brother; everything he did came easily to him. No wonder Jason had always looked up to him. And then Vincent had to go and ruin it by dying in a boating accident six months ago. Jason clenched his jaw and looked away from the image. His father had such high hopes for Vincent, and when he was killed, those hopes turned to his younger son. Unfortunately, Jason fell short by a landslide.
Finally, his father looked up with furrowed brows and a slight frown on his lips. He appeared tired and seemed older than when Jason last had a really good look at him.
His father said, “Chef Rennald tells me that you’ve been coming in late over the past month.”
“I come into the restaurant and do my work. Wasn’t that part of our agreement?”
“It’s more than just work,” he said sighing. “Your brother would’ve understood.”
“I’m not Vincent,” Jason reminded him, his shoulders tightening even as he voiced that truth.
“Don’t I know it.” His father leaned back in his chair, staring at him. “I can’t have you undermining Rennald’s kitchen, and making the staff lose respect for him. He’s threatened to leave the restaurant if I don’t do something about you.”
“If he doesn’t like working here, then he should find another place to work.”
“That’s not going to happen,” he said, his voice firm. “I spent a small fortune enticing him to join my team. He’s an exceptional chef who helps maintain the Wekiu brand. Even your brother —”
“If you don’t want me here, I have no problem going to another restaurant location,” Jason said, interrupting him. He didn’t want to hear about Vincent. Every time his father spoke about his brother, he always pointed out Jason’s shortcomings. Unfortunately, there were many of them.
“Yes, that’s an option to consider, but that won’t solve the overarching problem.” His father put the tips of his fingers together, forming a steeple. “One day the Wekiu empire will be yours.” The statement hung heavily in the air. They both knew that the family fortune would have gone to Vincent had he lived. “I worked hard to build my business, and I can’t have all that work go down the shithole. I thought by now that after working here for two years you would show some ambition, but you refuse to take on any responsibilities. At your age, your brother was already working as a sous-chef.”
“Okay, fine,” Jason said, pressing his lips together in annoyance. “I’ll work on the line.”
“No, that’s not enough.” His father dropped his hands and rested his palms flat on the desk. “You need discipline. I’m sending you to the Hawaiian School of Culinary Arts for the five-week intensive program. Initially, I didn’t think you needed to go to school, but as you see, things have changed…” his voice trailed off, and his frown deepened. They were both aware of the reason things changed. His father seemed to remember himself, and when he looked up at Jason again, he added, “I graduated as the top student in my school. I expect you to do the same.”
“What if I don’t pass?”
“Oh, you’ll do more than pass.” The elder Wekiu lifted a finger and tapped it against his bottom lip as if in thought. “To motivate you, I’m going to put your job up for grabs. If you want to keep living in your beachfront condo and driving that nice car of yours, you’re going to graduate at the top of your class.”
“What? This job pays for all my extra expenses.” Jason clenched his fists. “You can’t take that away.”
Phil Wekiu arched one eyebrow. “Can’t I? Watch me.” He reached for the telephone that sat at the side of his desk and punched in a number.
“This is Phil Wekiu. Connect me to the school director.” He paused, his eyes leveled on Jason as he waited for the director to come on the line.
“David,” he said. “Yes, yes, it’s good to talk to you, too. Listen, I’m calling to offer a job placement for the top graduating student in the intensive cooking program. My secretary will email you the details.”
He ended the call and leaned back in his chair. “There, it’s done,” he said. “Now get back to the kitchen. And I don’t want to hear any more complaints about you.”
Jason jumped from his chair and stalked to the door. He reached for the handle, ready to fling it open.
“Oh, and Jason,” his father’s voice stopped him. Jason spun his head to look at him. “Good luck.”