He seethed like a rabid dog. I could’ve sworn I saw some frothing spit hang from his deep jowls. When he didn’t move away, I arched an eyebrow, which urged him into action.
I heaved a sigh of relief the moment the door swung closed. It was ass-crack o’clock, and my head was pounding. Rubbing my temples did nothing to soothe the ache, but they always did it on TV, so I thought I’d try it. Maybe if I rubbed hard enough, I’d pierce my brain and be excused from the shit show.
Nope. Still here. Brain fully intact.
A sniffle brought me back, pulling my attention to the lanky kid on the other side of the room. I often forgot how intimidating Brandt could seem to other people, having dealt with him for so long.
Tobias looked scared shitless. His glasses were crooked and wet with tears that pooled down his cheeks. Poor kid’s cheeks were splotchy, his eyes bloodshot as he made a valiant effort to hold the rest of his tears back.
I felt bad for him. Being on any end of Brandt’s rage was uncomfortable at best, but Tobias had proven to be… fragile. The dude stood to be at least six-foot-four, his body disproportionate to the rest of him.
We took care of our own around here—excluding The Rant—making sure everyone was fed, but it didn’t seem to stick to Tobias. He was skin and bones, his uniform barely hanging onto his frame.
None of the other cooks or servers knew him very well. Hell, I bet I knew more than the rest of them simply by knowing his age as his hiring manager. He was meek, skittish, and soft-spoken despite his looming silhouette. I don’t think I’d seen him speak to anyone outside of necessity in all the time he’d been with us.
Tobias was terrific on the grill. What he lacked in communication, he made up for with spectacular talent.
He did great at his station. It was outside of that where he struggled. His prep was clumsy, and his surroundings were usually cluttered and disorganized. The lack of communication due to his crippling shyness often caused issues with plating food.
All these issues were well-known and manageable. Something had changed recently, though, and now he was on Brandt’s shit list.
Right around the time I introduced Crew, Tobias had started fucking up more. The meat he’d grill would come out undercooked or overcooked, with no in-between. There had been more mishaps with lack of time communication, causing parts of a meal to turn cold during the wait.
The last night he worked with us, his station had gotten so disorganized that another cook slipped on some discarded ingredients and took a fall.
She ended up being okay, aside from a few bruises. It was the principle of it, though. Not only did I need to put more time into Tobias’s training, but I also needed to figure out why he was suddenly falling into such bad habits. Especially seeing the correlation between this and when Crew showed up, along with how he’d looked at Crew like he’d seen a ghost.
“All right,” I started, “wipe your tears. Take a minute to compose yourself. Brandt is an asshole, but he’s all bark and no bite. Well, he could technically fire you. His little outbursts are all an intimidation tactic.”
Tobias took in a deep breath, straightening to his full height. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Iverson. I?—”
I raised a hand, silencing him. “Let’s assume nothing has happened. All is forgiven. Clean slate and all that. Wash up and grab some veggies to prep.”
His eyebrows pulled together in confusion.
“Don’t ask questions, just do it. I’m not gonna yell at you like Rant did, but I’m also not going to repeat myself. It’s too damn early in the morning to hear myself talk this much, nonetheless hearing the same shit out my mouth a million times over.”
He nodded, doing as I said. Once he was at the sink, washing his hands, I followed alongside him. When he pulled the vegetables out of the cooler, I grabbed a handful of celery after him. Our knives hit the table in tandem, my first chop sounding the same as his.
We were not boss and employee. We were not expert and novice. I was doing the grunt work right along with Tobias, unafraid and secure in my position.
“Right now, we are the same. I am a coworker, not your manager,” I spoke as I sliced, mine much more uniform and quick than Tobias’s. “I’ve been cooking a lot longer than you. That is a fact, not a way to demean you. I have more practice and more techniques under my belt. I am a coworker who is willing to do the work with you and show you better, more efficient ways to do things. I will not do it for you. This is no excuse to disrespect me. It is also not an excuse to ignore me, so you will have to speak to me during this. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Chef.”
My hands stilled. I blinked a few times, wondering if something had gotten in my eyes or if I’d had too much caffeine, and that was why my heart was pounding at that simple term of respect.
I should have brushed him off. Told the kid we didn’t call each other Chef—we were just a small restaurant that thrived on chaos rather than the peaceful ebb and flow something classier would have.
I didn’t. I allowed myself to be respected in the way I’d always dreamed of. The dream was smoke and mirrors, but I still had it. During the hours I’d pour myself into the fine, exquisite dishes I prepared at home, I would pretend to hear people behind me. They’d call out to me, my name never leaving their lips.
“Yes, Chef.”
“Hands, Chef.”
“Heard, Chef.”
The reality was colder. Harsher. This was why I didn’t think of the future. It only made me feel panicked, or disappointed, in where I stood.
