The twinkly lights framed Red Brick Cuisine’s front door with a soothing glow. The dimly lit dining room was filled with crowds of people peacefully enjoying their food. 

 

But inside the kitchen was a totally different story—complete chaos.

 

The kitchen was filled with every sizzling, smoky, and savor scent ever imagined. A million staff members were bustling about and bumping into each other. And the person in charge of all the chaos, the person standing in the middle of the kitchen shouting orders like she was a field general in a battle, was me.

 

My dirty blonde locks were tossed into a now-disheveled bun and under a hair net. My chef’s hat practically dangled off my head and I was surprised my outfit was still a pristine white. That was remarkable considering it was already halfway through the evening and it was one of the busiest nights I had ever seen.

 

 I scurried back and forth in the kitchen, making sure everyone was working quickly. It was my responsibility to ensure all the orders went out correctly and on time. It was a crazy busy Saturday night, a bit more than usual. It wasn’t even a holiday. Of course, being in Chicago always guaranteed bustling crowds, but this was more than our medium-sized kitchen was used to. That didn’t mean I couldn’t handle it though.

 

Being the sous chef of the restaurant meant the manager was down my throat to get orders out no matter how well my staff and I did; it would never be fast enough for him. He was an entitled asshole. It wasn’t unusual for a restaurant manager to have an attitude. It seemed to come with the territory of being a manager. It was like the stress of a busy night drowned out any sense of humanity they might have had buried deep down inside of them. Sure, they had to deal with the front of the house and make sure all the customers were happy, but I worked the kitchen. It was the heart and soul of the business.

 

“Where’s that escargot for table thirteen, Evelyn?”

 

I ignored him. The plate was coming soon enough.

 

“Ms. Page!”

 

The manager's shrill voice met my ears and it took all my willpower not to roll my eyes and snap at him with a bitingly sarcastic remark. I hated it when he called me Ms. Page. I did, however, turn around and direct his attention to the plate in my hands.

 

“Would you like me to start a personal delivery service as well, Jameson?”

 

He looked at me with a scowl. I could tell he wanted to assert his authority over me. It was the only thing a self-respecting asshole manager would do. Sure, he was kind of my boss. But I thought of us more as equals, especially in that moment. The head chef of the restaurant was gone for the night, so that meant I was the head chef.

 

Jameson stood there fuming for a moment. Maybe I was a little too snippy, but I didn’t care. He snatched the plate from my hand and turned to the nearest server. “Get that damn plate on thirteen will you?”

 

Jameson gave one last menacing glare toward me before turning on his heel and walking out of the bustling chaotic kitchen. I pressed the backs of my hands to my burning cheeks, which were hot for reasons more than just the temperature of the kitchen. Jameson always made my cheeks burn red in stressful situations.

 

“Don’t let him get to you,” Charlene called out from the salad station, not looking up from the sliced carrots she was neatly arranging on the restaurant’s signature salad.

 

I gave her a look of slight resignation and shrugged before heading off to the other end of the kitchen. I reached out and took the growing pile of order tickets with a deep sigh. It felt like I was never going to be done with orders no matter how much I kept the kitchen staff motivated. I clutched them in my hand and reminded myself how well I was doing. Despite how busy the place was, everything was going out in an acceptable amount of time.

 

With both the head chef and owner of the Red Brick out of town, I was completely in charge of the kitchen. The responsibility didn't frighten me; I welcomed the challenge. So even now that more orders continued to pile in, I knew I would manage to catch up. What I really needed to focus on was keeping my kitchen motivated. I made quick work of distributing the order slips between different staff members before standing in the middle and clapping my hands. I clapped so hard my palms stung, but it was necessary to get everyone’s attention over the sounds of the kitchen.

 

“Let me just say,” I spoke loudly over the sizzling food, and the banging pots and pans. “You've all done a great job tonight. You've not only kept up the pace, but you've survived through the stress and the demanding front house. Now we just have to push a little more. We only have a few hours until closing time. I know I can count on each and every one of you because this is the best damn kitchen staff in Chicago. So let’s get this shit done and finish strong!”

 

“Hear! Hear!”

 

“Whoa Evelyn!”

 

I knew a few of the staff members would think I ended my little rousing speech on a cheesy note, but that was just my style. Besides, cheese is delicious.

 

 The rest of them let out a playful cheer and got back to work. It seemed like my words of encouragement helped their hands move a little faster. I walked up to my station and quickly got to work, feeling confident I could leave everyone to do their own task for a while.

 

As I got back to work I drew in a deep breath to calm my nerves. I looked down at my cutting board and imagined it resting on the gleaming countertop of my own restaurant. After having such a crazy-busy night, I felt even more confident that I could handle my own business. I swept my knife across the cutting board and cleaned the surface as I pictured the tasteful sign hanging outside my imaginary restaurant’s door. It would read ‘Evelyn’s’ in a lovely cursive font. The thought alone made me smile.

 

I turned to my grill and started throwing ingredients into a pan, loving the way the splash of colors danced around each other before coming together. I already had an idea of what I wanted my restaurant to look like. I loved the intimate feeling of the Red Brick, but I also loved bright and bold colors. I wanted sophistication, that was for sure, but that could come in many shapes and colors. Then again, every time I closed my eyes and imagined my future restaurant something entirely different came to mind. It wasn’t something with tons of color, but it certainly wasn’t plain and boring. It was beautiful and inviting in its simplicity.

 

My smile grew when I pictured the name of the restaurant, ‘Evelyn’s’, written out neatly on the window or on a nameplate over the door. Even that was simple, but lovely. I had every intention of making my dream come true.

 

As I plated the dish I was cooking I thought about the perfect location popping up for sale. Even from the photographs online I could tell it was exactly the sort of space and location I needed. That place was going to be mine. I was determined.

 

The moment I clicked through the photos online I called up my dad to fill him in. I insisted he take a look through the pictures as I told him all about my plans. From one hour spent looking at the picture I had already planned out the floorplan for my future restaurant.

 

When he told me he would be more than happy to front me the money, I was over the moon. I was a talented chef, there was no doubt about that. I studied at a top culinary school, was a natural, and had a real passion for it. Now my focus was on gaining experience. I was smart enough to know how necessary that was. I only wanted to practice my cooking a little more to prove to myself that I really could handle opening up my own business.

 

I wanted to be involved in everything, right down to creating the menu and being able to cook every item on it. I thought I had a lot more time to build up my experience, but now that such a prime location was available I knew my time was fast approaching. This wasn’t an opportunity I could pass up, especially since my father was willing to provide me the money. Of course, it was something I would have liked to do completely on my own, but there was no shame in accepting help.

 

When another order came in I decided to take it instead of delegating it to one of the junior chefs. I had done enough walking around as the head chef for the night and was eager to keep cooking. As I worked on the new order, I looked up from the grill and out into the dining room. It was a nice restaurant, but it looked a lot different from what I envisioned my own place would look like.

 

As I looked around and took notice of all the couples enjoying a date night together, I couldn’t help but wonder if romantic couples would like my restaurant.

 

My eyes wondered over to a young couple sitting closer to the kitchen. It was obvious how in love they were. They were holding hands across the small table and gazing into each other’s eyes. It looked like a sweet picturesque scene from a romantic movie. I watched them for a moment, noticing how interested they were in what they had to say. They looked genuine.

 

There was always a small part of me that felt a little pang of jealously inside my heart when watching couples like them. Even though I loved my career, I always felt like something was lacking in my life.

 

I’ll be honest, my love life was garbage. Especially in comparison to my cooking career. My heart ached when I saw the guy lean across the table to kiss his date. I had always been a hopeless romantic, but after what felt like a million failed relationships, I had pretty much given up on the idea of my happy ending. I was never going to find the right guy.

 

I finished up the filet mignon and put the finishing touches on the order of lobster macaroni and cheese. Looking down at the plate, I smiled. I always prided myself on my lobster mac and cheese, easily one of my most unique and delicious specialties.