Palmer
I dip my finger into the sauce and press it against my tongue. It's bland and devoid of depth.
"Are you fucking serious? This tastes like cardboard," I say. "Fix it."
Everyone is on edge as I drag my finger against my chef's coat, wiping away the sauce. The rest of my staff scrambles.
We're all working harder than we've ever worked in our lives. I smile, seeing my junior chefs work overtime to make tonight a success, but my joy fades away as quickly as it comes when I peep through the window of the swinging kitchen door, and spy none other than Percy Whitman.
The man.
The myth.
The dream-maker and the career-wrecker of this city.
But that's all bullshit because he's just a grade-A asshole.
He walks through the elegant glass doors of my restaurant, and I watch as the hostess seats him. She's friendly and gracious.
Shit. I can't remember a time when Percy showed up a restaurant on opening night.
He takes a few steps in and smiles, showing off a row of teeth more crooked than a broken fence. That matches his review ethic, I think to myself.
He removes his hat and tips it in an arrogant gesture. He combs his hand through his blonde hair, and his eyes scan the crowded dining room.
The only thing paler than his face is the table cloth in front of him, I think.
Brit bumps into me. Her hair rivals the flames of any kitchen, and she has the personality to match. She trips and spills a bowl of tomato soup on the ground…and me.
"I'm so sorry," she says, bringing her hands to her mouth. She's frazzled.
I reach over and place a hand on her shoulder.
"Take a deep breath, Brit," I say. "It could've been worse."
She gives me a reluctant smile and scrambles off. I grab a towel, soaking up the red remnants of soup and then set it on the counter.
I look around the kitchen … at the steaks drizzled with the finest brown butter sauces, and realize that even though it hasn't been the smoothest of nights, it hasn't been bad either.
This is the dream. This is still the dream. We're pulling off a lot of great plates.
I turn and head out of the kitchen. It's time I mingle with the patrons.
Immediately, a crowd of three women catch my eye. They're seated near the bar—three blondes in red. One of them turns to me and smiles.
I walk over and make an introduction.
"Evening, ladies," I say. "How are you enjoying the food?"
"Oh, you must be the chef!" one of the women smiles. "I adore your food!" She brings one hand to her chest, resting it on her cleavage.
I smile.
The two other women blush as I look into their striking blue eyes. If I had more time, I'd probably sit a minute and share a drink with them, but it's opening night, and time is precious.
"Well," I grin, "Just wait until you ladies try the desert."
With that, I leave them with a smile, and watch as their faces turn a shade of red that matches their dresses.
I walk past another guest, an older woman in her 60s. She reaches up and grabs my coat. "You must be Chef Palmer! I just love your food."
I nod my head in appreciation. "Thank you, ma'am," I say, giving her a quick smile before taking her hand and giving it a quick kiss.
Then I move on and head back into my bustling kitchen.
As soon as I enter, one of my line cooks, Alex, says, "Chef! I've plated the appetizer for table five!"
I approach it, eyeing it with the suspicion. "What is this?" I ask.
"Sir?" Alex says with a blank expression.
"Is this cat food? Do you think we're feeding feral cats?"
"Chef, I don't understand, I—"
I stop him mid-sentence. "Plate it like you mean it!" I say. "This isn't an all-you-can-eat buffet. This is fine dining. Make every plate reflect that."
“Yes, Chef," Alex says, and hurries off.
I let out a sigh and lean against the stove. A million thoughts zap through my mind, but they're all cut short when I feel a searing pain against my elbow. I look down to find flames licking the edges of my sleeves.
Fuck.
I hear Brit. "Hey Chef, I was wondering if—"
Her voice stops as soon as she eyes the situation. Then I hear Alex's voice over the growing heat of the flames.
"Chef, I re-plated the appetizer, and—"
He takes one look at the flames licking my sleeve and grabs a bucket of dirty dishwater and throws it onto me.
The flames instantly disappear, but now I look like a used mop.
"Fucking dishwater, Alex?" I ask, crossing my arms.
Both Alex and Brit give me a blank stare.
"What are you two waiting for?" I say. Move!"
They both scramble off to plate a never-ending row of orders. I grab a towel and dry my face, and then peer back out into the dining room.
Despite what I currently look like, I decide to walk back through the dining room, and gauge the crowd's experiences.
As I walk past one table, a piece of conversation catches my attention.
"Look, do you see this rice? It's overcooked. It's like paste. I mean, what chef can mess up rice?”
“And this fish? It's drier than the Sahara,” the voice continues, and I swivel around to see who’s talking.
"It's not flaking apart. It's a hard, dry slab…a fish brick. And don't even get me started about the soup."
I can't help but stop and stare when see who this is coming from.
I can hardly believe my eyes.