Opening night and the restaurant is packed. A chorus of customers joke, laugh, and clink wine glasses together. It’s exactly what I expected from the buzz that has been spreading around town since my move here. The location of my new restaurant was kept tightly under wraps until only yesterday and yet the place is swarming with high class patrons. Even the Mayor of Portland is here—along with his beautiful wife, Ruth.

Tonight I’m working as part restaurant owner and part celebrity chef. Underneath my chef garb I’m wearing a bespoke Armani suit and tie so I can dart from busy kitchen to front of house in a flash. I’m acting as the face of the restaurant while also making sure that the machine is well-oiled. It’s a superstition of mine; getting hands on just for opening night. It’s served me well so far—I own upward of thirty restaurants around the world.

Walking through the kitchen I head for the dessert section. Brain, my main pastry chef from London, is overseeing Melanie’s first night.

I stop at Brian’s side and give him a pat on the shoulder. He looks up at me and smiles. Mel is standing just a few inches away. She doesn’t look up from her work and I don’t think she’s noticed me. I admire her work ethic but she seems to be making a mess of the icing on her sponge.

I push past Brian and loom over her, letting out a cough. She jumps and snaps her bright green gaze to me. Her face is blotchy red.

"Everything okay?" I ask, looking from her to the cake and back again.

She blows away a ringlet of brown hair from her sticky face and smiles. “Yes, chef.”

I pause before gesturing for her to continue.

Taking a deep breath she returns to the cake, squeezing out thick icing. Her decoration looks nothing like the cake Brian made that she’s referencing.

I shoot Brian a slightly concerned look. He shrugs. We both know that Mel isn’t really grasping the art of cake decoration.

"Melanie, can I borrow you for a minute?"

She straightens up.

"It’s nothing bad,” I assure her. “I just want you to help Claude out with the steaks. We need a Jus and I think you can do a good job on that."

As I start toward the opposite end of the busy kitchen, with Melanie walking fast behind me, I pass every work station and admire the team’s awesome efforts in helping tonight run smooth. From the cleaners to the head chefs to the waiters, everybody seems to be working in perfect synergy—everyone apart from my new recruit. I can't pretend she's not a little out of her depth.

After I've shown Mel how I want her to make the sauce, with Claude working by her side on the vegetables, the head waiter comes rushing over and informs me that the Mayor wants to talk.

I take off my chef's overcoat and place it on the side of the work surface were Melanie and Claude are busy preparing the mains. I direct Melanie to the simmering pan on the stove. "Can I trust you with this?"

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, chef,” she corrects.

There is a determined yet nervous look on her flustered face. I've seen that look countless times on new recruits; an iron will mixed with a little fear—the kind of fear you might have when you're about to dive off a high board for the first time.

I spend about ten minutes charming the Mayor and his wife with funny stories from my TV show, the reasons I love Portland, and how I’m finding the switch between crazy city life and the serenity of suburbia. When I’m satisfied that they’re being adequately looked after, with bottles of wine coming out one after the other and the food arriving from the kitchen in a timely fashion, I go back to my other role as kitchen master.

I march straight over to Melanie and Claude, to make sure they’re both on track. The orders of steak are coming in thick and fast and I can see they’re falling behind by the amount of slips pinned to the top of the work station.

"Is everything okay, Claude?"

He nods but looks panicked.

Melanie doesn't answer either. I take a spoon out of her sauce. As soon as the spoon touches my lips, I spit. "What the hell is this?"

Her face turns bright red.

"Well?" I press, my eyes glaring.

"I—"

I pick up the pan, dart over to the sink, pour the gloopy contents down the drain, and then throw the pan across the tiled kitchen floor. Each member of staff, apart from Mel, carries on like nothing happened—they know the score.

"Claude, can you take over the sauce?" I turn my attention to Melanie. "I want you to concentrate of the vegetables. Do you think you can actually cook vegetables correctly? Do you think you can focus this time?"

She doesn’t answer. Her face turns even redder and her eyes start to glaze.

I feel myself losing my temper. Tonight has gone relatively smooth so far and I don't want any chink in the armor of this operation.

"Don't tell me you’re going to cry," I say, sneering at her.

I can see her visibly shake, but it doesn’t move me. I’ve seen it a thousand times before. Heated emotions are par the course in a high-end restaurant.

With her still frozen in shock, I push past, take a sharp knife from the side of the counter, and start chopping assorted vegetables. My work is fast and frantic. I glance over my shoulder at her. "You think you can do this? You think you can hold a knife? It’s not too fucking complex for you, is it?”

Suddenly she runs to the back of the kitchen, storming out through the exit door to the alleyway. For the first time in my long, twenty-five year career I actually feel bad going off on a trainee. I ask Claude to hold the fort while I run out after her.

When I get outside I see Melanie sitting on a wooden crate. Her knees are pressed together and her head is buried into her hands.

"Melanie."

She snaps her gaze to mine. Her mascara is smudged. "I'm so sorry, Mr. DeLuca. I'm just . . . I'm just really nervous."

“No. I’m sorry. I'm sorry for snapping. But that's what I do. It’s just who I am in this place. Nothing personal. I just want the best from of my workers."

Shaking, she pushes to her feet and rubs at her eyes.

"Were you crying?" I ask, half smirking.

Her brow furrows. "No."

"It must be the onions then?"

A nervous giggle pushes from her lips.

I close the distance between us and wipe away the tears from her pretty eyes. “Are you feeling composed now?"

She pauses before taking a sharp breath and nodding. She seems slightly defiant now, recharged again. There is a new strength in her that was lacking only a few moments ago. It reminds me of when I first started in the trade—that combination of almost breaking down but not wanting to quit. What she lacks for in skill she makes up for in steely determination.

"Come on then,” I say with a warm tone. “Let’s get back to work."

"Yes, chef."

As we start back through to the kitchen, I briefly look down at her and whisper, "Call me chef in the restaurant, Vince when we’re alone."

She smiles up at me. “Yes, Vince.”