***
My hands shook as I stepped up to my station just before the lunch rush. Chef Harrison had me cooking sides and appetizers. It was a lot of responsibility for my first day, considering I’d barely had time to skim the recipes. But I wasn’t about to complain.
I had a feeling Chef Harrison was testing me, seeing how I would handle the pressure. It would be a challenge, no doubt, but I’d worked too damn hard to get to this point. I wasn’t about to fold before I even started.
The first orders came in and the rush was on. First up, I had to sauté some scallops. It was something I’d done a hundred times, so why the hell was I so damn nervous? Why did this feel like the most important plate of scallops I’d ever made? My hands were shaking.
I reached out for the oil bottle and caught my wrist on the edge of a hot pan. I yanked my arm away and held it to my stomach. It hurt like a bitch, but I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t want Chef Harrison to see it. My face remained calm, but inside, I was screaming.
I took a deep breath to calm my frazzled nerves. I could do this. I just had to get my head straight. Pain throbbed through my wrist. I shut my eyes and focused on that, blocking everything else out. When I opened my eyes, I was ready.
Things were a blur after that. Orders came in as fast as I could cook. Most of the time I was juggling several dishes at once, making sure to time them so that they were all ready at the same time. It was hard, but I did it.
There was no time to worry, no time to think. My hands moved almost automatically, stirring here and flipping there. Cook. Plate. Garnish. Serve. Again and again, until all of a sudden, I had no more orders coming in. Lunch was over. I was done.
I felt like a million bucks. Tired, but good. Chef Harrison had examined every single one of my dishes before going out, and he hadn’t asked me to redo a single one. I counted that as a win.
I cleaned up my station, making sure it was as spotless as it had been before lunch. I couldn’t help but glance up from time to time, hoping that he would come by and give me some little bit of praise. It was silly, but a man with his reputation in the kitchen thinking highly of me was something I wanted; something I needed even.
When I was done, it was time to go home. I thought about just leaving without saying anything to anyone, to end the day on a high note. But it felt wrong to leave without at least saying goodbye to Chef Harrison.
I found him in his office, sitting behind a hulking, mahogany desk. He shuffled through papers with a stern expression on his handsome face.
“Excuse me, Chef,” I said from the doorway. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do before I go?”
He shook his head without looking up. “Just be sure to take the recipe binder with you. Learn it. Memorize it. Ingrain it your thoughts. Live and breathe that shit until it’s all you can think about.”
“Okay. Will do.” I paused. “I think things went well today. I felt really at home in the kitchen.”
He looked up at me then. “Tell me, does it hurt your back?”
“What? When I cook for a long time?”
“No, when you suck your own dick that way.”
My jaw dropped open. I sputtered with rage. “What the hell is your problem?”
He rose from his chair and stalked over to me. “My problem is that you come in here looking for an ‘atta girl’ and a pat on the back. And when you don’t get it, you have the nerve to compliment yourself on my behalf.”
My chest burned with embarrassment. What an asshole. “But I thought my food was fine. I didn’t have to redo any of it.”
He waved away my statement. “Yes, you met the bare minimum standards of this restaurant. And for that, you expect me to congratulate you? You want me to hand you some kind of award for that? Is that what you learned in culinary school? Cook something and get a trophy? This is the real world, little girl. You don’t win a prize for showing up. You win for being the best, which, you are not.”
My whole body shook from a mixture of anger and humiliation. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
It was like he didn’t even hear me. “And on top of that, you move far too slow. If you decide to come back tomorrow, I expect you to pick up the pace. That will be all, Miss Foster.”
Before I could say anything else, he shut the door in my face.
I made it back to my car before tears stung my eyes. That bastard. What right did he have to make me feel like this? I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d cried, and he had me sobbing like a child.
And for what? Because I tried to see my value in his eyes? Then he suggests that I might not even come back tomorrow. Like I can’t handle myself in the kitchen. Like I wasn’t good enough to be here.
A whirlwind of emotions whipped my insides. I needed to get it all out before it tore me up. I slammed my fists against the steering wheel and screamed.
I slumped back in my seat, feeling empty and deflated. The scream had helped, surprisingly, but it hadn’t solved my problems.
I had no idea how I was going to get through this, but I knew one thing.
I would be back tomorrow.
You’ll eat my ass alright asshole.
****
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Amber is my HOT new chef - and all I want to do is take her out back and show her just how "HARD" of a boss I really am.
I've only cared about three things in the world:
My daughter.
My restaurant.
And bulldozing any *sshole that gets in my way.
That was it for me - until I hired Amber Foster as my newest chef.
HOT would be an understatement. She's a spitfire and she's got more balls than all the men in my kitchen combined.
I want to flip her over easy and scramble her until she screams my name.
Today's special? Sausage with a side of Grade A beef.
She's got serious talent but she needs my direction. I just hope I can keep my di*k in my pants long enough to show her the ropes.