***
The chef position was at Antonio’s, one of two five-star Italian restaurants in Vegas. Unable to contain my excitement, I practically pranced all the way from the bus stop and through the mahogany and glass doors, before skidding to a stop. Shy of nine thirty a.m., the restaurant wasn’t open yet, giving me the chance to gawk at its beauty in peace. I’d spent my entire life in Vegas, but had never seen the inside of Antonio’s. Dinner here wasn’t exactly in our family budget. Crystal chandeliers hung over mahogany tables draped with red and white checkered tablecloths to maintain the Italian feel. Pristine hardwood floors were accented with classy rugs that played off the colors in the drapes, the dark upholstered booths, and the custom moldings. I could almost picture my dishes on the table, placed before salivating guests who were ready to give us raving reviews. It was exactly the fine dining experience I’d dreamed of being a part of.
“Can I help you?” someone asked.
I snapped my jaw closed and turned to find the suited maître d’ watching me, his lips turned up in amusement.
Feeling shabby and underdressed in my standard white chef coat and pinstriped pants, with my hair pulled back in a bun and a backpack of my mother’s old recipes slung over my shoulder, it was an effort to keep my back straight and my chin up.
Confidence, Annetta, pretend you belong here.
“Hi.” I gave him my friendliest smile. “I’m here to interview for the job. The chef job.”
He nodded at my clothes. “I gathered that. Résumé?”
I opened my backpack and pulled one out for him.
He looked it over then nodded. “You’re early. Stay here and I’ll check and see if they’re ready for you.”
He drifted behind a mirrored wall, leaving me in the entrance with no clue what to do with myself. I picked up a menu and scanned the salads, appetizers, and entrées. There were a few dishes I didn’t recognize, but for the most part nothing sounded too difficult. The menu had room for additions, and I allowed myself to dream about adding a couple of my specialties. And removing a few of theirs.
“Fettuccini Alfredo? Seriously? It’s not even Italian.”
I smacked a hand over my mouth and glanced around, thankfully still alone. Nobody wanted the opinions of a freshly graduated chef with zero experience. Especially not before I got the job. Sliding the menu back onto the stack, I leaned against a booth and kept my mouth shut as I waited.
Three other people dressed in chef coats showed, clustering around me as they checked out the restaurant.
The maître d’ returned and showed us to an immaculate kitchen full of stainless steel industrial appliances. A few chefs were working on food prep, but we stepped around them and were each assigned to an empty station. A silver-haired stocky man with a slight overbite laid down his knife and turned to address us.
“Hello. My name is Frank. I’m one of the chefs here and I’ve been asked to explain the duties of the position. If selected, you’ll be responsible for directing the preparation, seasoning, and cooking of all dishes while you’re on shift. You’ll be expected to participate in the planning and pricing of menu items, the ordering of supplies, and keeping of records and accounts. You’ll supervise and participate in cooking, baking, and food prep, as well as the scheduling and monitoring of kitchen personnel. This is not an entry-level position. However, we find ourselves down a chef unexpectedly and need to hire someone today. But only if we find the right candidate.”
He paused, and his gaze drifted over us. I got the feeling he wasn’t impressed with what he saw. I straightened my shoulders and pasted a smile across my face, refusing to let some monotone who’d obviously memorized his script intimidate me.
“We are aware that sometimes skills speak louder than experience, so management is giving each of you a rare opportunity to impress their taste buds before they look at your résumé. You will be expected to prepare an original Italian entrée, not on our menu.”
He then proceeded to show us where all the ingredients were kept before dropping the bombshell. “You have thirty minutes. If you’re not done by then, throw your work in the trash and see yourself out to make room for the next round of candidates. If, by some chance, you have created something edible, your dish will be presented to management and you will continue on with the interview process.” Frank didn’t even give us a chance to ask questions before starting the timer and returning to his station.
The other applicants snapped to work while I stood there staring at the time. Thirty minutes to impress. What could I whip up in thirty minutes that would knock their socks off? Especially in a strange kitchen? I washed my hands and put on gloves while considering the recipes in my backpack. Their presence served as more of a security blanket than a necessity since I had most of Mom’s recipes memorized, complete with the revisions I’d made over the years.
My favorite recipe was one I rarely made because the ingredients were expensive.Linguine di Mare, linguine of the sea, called for a well-seasoned mix of calamari, mussels, scallops, and shrimp in a garlicy white wine sauce. Assuming I could find everything I needed, I could have the rest of the dish put together in the time it took the noodles to boil. Determined to make it happen, I set a pot of water on the stovetop to boil and got to work.
With four minutes to spare, I handed Frank my offering. He eyeballed it, then me, before grabbing a fork out of the drawer and tasting a sauce-drenched noodle wrapped around a scallop. His eyebrows rose as he chewed. Then, without a single word to me, he turned on his heel and whisked out of the kitchen.
I stared after him for a moment, wondering whether his sudden disappearance was encouraging or damning before remembering that my station was a mess. Turning to clean, I scanned the kitchen.
The applicant across the table from me looked as if she was about to burst into tears. She bent to collect her belongings, casting a furtive glance at the large garbage can at the end of the stations before heading out the way we’d entered. Curious, I took my scraps to the trash and peeked in.
“He took one bite and had her toss the whole thing,” said one of the two male applicants, his own entrée plated in his hands and ready for Frank to evaluate.
I felt bad for the girl, but happy for myself. At least Frank hadn’t trashed my meal. That would be humiliating, and I probably would have told him off. Wondering what gave Frank the right to be such a bully, I finished scrubbing down my station.
When Frank returned, he took the man’s dish.
The buzzer went off.
Frank looked past us to the second male applicant, who was still working on his creation. “Throw it away and see yourself out,” Frank snapped before disappearing again, plate still in hand.
The applicant didn’t even bother to clean up after himself before storming out, leaving only two of us.
