Palmer
I've messed up more dishes in a single afternoon than I have in my entire professional career—too much salt, too little salt, too much flame, not enough flame.
As much as I hate to admit it, I can't get Nicole out of my mind. Everywhere I turn, I'm reminded of her.
I'll never be able to look at another pasta dish without remembering that night at her apartment.
And just when I think the day can't get any worse, it does. Oh, it gets so much worse.
I'm standing in front of a hot skillet, searing a fresh tuna steak and getting ready to squeeze just the right amount of lemon on it when Brit bursts through the kitchen doors.
"Have you seen this?" she says. Her eyes tell me she's wild with frustration.
I look down and see her cellphone in her hand. The browser is open on her screen, and it appears to be a published article.
"Doesn't look familiar," I say, shaking my head.
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but read this."
By the look on her face, I know it can't be good. I grab her phone and begin scrolling.
"Among the dishes offered by Chef Palmer's Pearl is a dry fish akin to prison food,” I read out loud. “I was too timid to try some items on the menu for fear of developing digestive problems, and that's putting it mildly. The risotto was inedible—having taken on the consistency and flavor of what I can only describe as wallpaper paste."
I roll my eyes.
"Oh, it gets better," Brit says. "Keep going."
I continue reading it aloud.
"I wouldn't wish for a natural disaster to strike anyone's restaurant, but if it did, then no one would have to eat the food offered by The Pearl on Park, and that wouldn't be such a bad thing.
“There literally isn't a single redeeming dish on the menu, unless you count the glass of ice water that accompanied my food. Chef Palmer's dishes are where hopes and dreams go to die. Hot mush, gummy waste, and lukewarm puddles are all apt descriptions for the food I tasted, which is a travesty.
“Even my salad looked as if someone squeezed an entire bottle of cheap dressing on it just to watch every piece of lettuce drown in its own misery. The steak was so overcooked that it resembled the grey innards of an unidentifiable animal."
My voice is now beginning to shake and I tighten into a ball.
"That's going too fucking far—I know I make the best fucking steaks!"
"This is bullshit," Brit says. "These are all lies. It's as if he's purposely trying to ruin you."
I look back down and continue reading the review. If I've read this far, I might as well finish.
"Chef Palmer's restaurant is a bungled and lack-luster attempt at bringing another fine dining destination to New York City. Even the foods that might deserve mild praise, like the grilled asparagus spears, were under-seasoned and could be procured for cheaper if you simply went to a nearby deli.
“As far as the potato soup goes…well, let me just say that it was as thin, murky, and unappetizing as dirty dishwater. As a kid, I was once dared to eat a worm freshly dug up from the school playground. I recoiled, and got so far as to place its wriggling body on my tongue before spitting it out.
“In retrospect, I'd gladly eat that worm before placing another ounce of Chef Palmer's food in my mouth. In summary: Eat at The Pearl on Park at your own risk."
I knew Percy Whitman was an asshole, but I didn't realize he could sink this low. This is possibly the worst review I've ever read. What the hell does Percy have against me?
"Can we survive this review?" Brit asks. She's visibly worried, and I don't blame her.
But if there's one good thing about me, it’s that I'm not a quitter. I have the resolve of a stubborn bull.
"Of course we can," I say. "We're going to keep making high-quality food, and win customers over one meal at a time."
"Uh—Chef—" she says, tapping me on the arm.
"Leave the worrying to me. I have everything under—"
"No, uh, I mean, the tuna," she says, pointing to the pan. "I think it's on fire."
"Ahhhh, fuck," I say, removing the skillet from the heat. The tuna is ruined. I was so caught up in reading Percy's review that I completely forgot about the dish that I was working on.
"Shit, this was supposed to be for table 7," I say, as a thin line of sweat zigzags down my temple. I can't believe how many meals I've fucked up today.
First, it was Nicole, and now it's Percy. I just can't focus. Even though we're busy, the best thing I could do right now is probably remove myself from this kitchen.
I need to do something about all of this.
I need to get my head on straight.
If I don't, I'll be helping everything Percy said come true, and I can't afford for that to happen.
"Brit, I need you to do me a favor," I say.
"Anything, Chef."
"I need to hand over all kitchen operations to you today."
"To me? Are you sure? It's so busy, and—"
I cut her off. "Look at me. There's no one I trust more."
With that, I unbutton my Chef coat, toss it to the side, and grab my car keys.
There's only one thing that can help me right now.
I need to find Nicole.