I would have helped if I wasn’t on my way in with a full, uneaten dish in my hand.
Walker stared me down as soon as I set it on the counter, causing a blanket of heat to cross my face, the redness coming through my cheeks.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Sorta.”
He eyed the food and then me. “And what would that be?”
“So, this is a kid’s dinner?—”
“Of course it is, Alivia. Adults don’t come to Charred for chicken strips.”
“Right. Well, the little girl who ordered the chicken strips won’t eat them. They’re”—I held up my fingers to air-quote—“‘too fancy’ for her.” My hands dropped. “It’s the mom’s thirtieth birthday, and they’re here celebrating. The mom felt terrible and asked me if I would box them up.”
“I don’t need a play-by-play. Box up the damn food and get it back to them.”
“I’m coming to you because I have an idea.” The idea had hit me out of nowhere, but I never considered how Walker would react or how I would feel pitching it to him. My stomach was suddenly in knots. “I was wondering?—”
“Come over here.” He pointed at the spot next to him—behind the counter.
I’d never been back there before. That area was reserved for the chefs.
I brought the plate and quickly joined him.
“I can’t wait to hear this,” he voiced.
I sucked in a deep breath, the closeness only adding to the anxiety in my stomach. “The mom told me the daughter is used to nuggets, not strips, and that’s the problem, even if they’re basically the same thing. What if I chopped up the chicken?—”
He held up his finger and pointed at me. “You mean, what if Keith chops up the chicken? He’s the sous chef this evening, not you. Your role doesn’t involve chopping anything. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Chef. Sorry.” I filled my lungs again. “What if Keith chopped up the chicken and formed a nugget with the help of some panko or breadcrumbs, dipped it in an egg wash, coated it in more breadcrumbs, and gave it a quick toss in the fryer? That would give it more of a chicken-nugget look and feel, and that might be something the little girl would eat.”
“Keith, are you hearing this?” Walker said to his chef, who was standing only feet away at the gas burners.
Walker’s expression was unreadable.
“Sure am,” Keith replied.
“What do you think of Alivia’s idea?” Walker asked him.
Keith looked at us from over his shoulder. “I think it’s brilliant. The only problem is that the kitchen is slightly backed up. By the time someone finished that task, her whole family would be done eating.”
Walker stared at me silently. “Did the mother ask for an alternate option for her daughter’s dinner?”
“She asked for nothing aside from boxing up the chicken,” I told him.
“So, you’re telling me that you came up with this idea?”
Oh God.
I didn’t know if this would earn me a scream or if I would get reprimanded for creating more work for the kitchen—or both.
I shoved my hands into my apron, putting pressure on my stomach as I whispered, “Yes.”
His hands went to his hips. “Why do you want to do this, Alivia?”
“I don’t want the little girl to be hungry.” The emotion was there, but I did everything to hide it. “I want to try my hardest to get her something she’s comfortable eating. And if she doesn’t like it, then at least I tried.” This was all about me. That wouldn’t sell him. I needed to make this about him. “From a restaurant point of view, an effort like that can go a long way in a customer’s eyes. Think of how much that family will appreciate this.”
