Onceinside, you were immediately transported to a different world where waiterssilently bustled back and forth in all black, contrasting vividly with thestark white linens and the softer white interior brick. Accents of greenwrapped around the windows and dotted the tables in the small centerpieces. Thelighting was rich and warm, continuing to appeal to the diner’s softer sense.
Thehostess greeted us from behind a large podium she could barely see over. “Hey, Kaya.”She smiled.
“Hey,Erin.” She was a nice college-aged girl, studying to be a sports broadcaster. Ionly barely knew her, but she was a hard worker and didn’t start drama—hard tocome by in the restaurant industry. I stepped up to her stand and wrapped myfingers around the edge of it. I dropped my voice some so my parents couldn’thear me ask, “Someone called my mom to confirm reservations earlier?”
Shescanned her reservations list. “What name would it be under?”
“Swift,I think? Or Dana.”
“Oh,here you are. Yep, it looks like Chef Shaw added you at the last minute.” Shemet my gaze. “Lucky. I’ve been trying to get my parents a res here for months.”
Ismiled at her, but it wobbled. “This is the first time they’ve been in and I’vebeen working here for years. Keep trying. You’ll get a reservation eventually.”
Likewhen you sleep with Wyatt. Or almost sleep with him—he’s super accommodatingafter some third base action.
Shesighed, and I could already tell this was only a temporary gig for her. Shewasn’t going to wait around years to squeeze in a reservation. We’d be lucky ifshe lasted the summer. “How many are in your party? All the reservation says isgive you the best table. But I don’t know how many to set it for.”
Ifshe didn’t know the particulars of our reservation then who had confirmed itearlier with my mom? Wyatt? Leaning forward, I scanned her paper from anupside-down angle, which meant I couldn’t read it at all. “It says that?”
Sheturned the list around for me and sure enough, in Wyatt’s slender, scratchyhandwriting, it said, “Swift— best table.”
My stomachdid a teeny somersault. I read it three more times to be sure I wasn’t somehowhallucinating, or my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me, forcing me to see what Iwanted to see.
Wait.Did I want to see that?
Iclosed my eyes and I was back on the cold steel counter in the kitchen, Wyatt’shead between my legs, my sense of reality and common sense exploding into amillion particles of light and fire.
God,what the hell, Wyatt? What were you doing to me?
“Ican seat you when you’re ready,” Erin said softly, her eyes narrowed withconcern.
Shiftingmy shoulders, I forced my brain to focus and stepped toward her. My parentsfollowed as we made our way past blissed-out diners on the verge of food comas.I soaked in every second of this rare vantage point.
Ididn’t hear from customers or reviewers or critics. As the mere sous chef, myname wasn’t attached to anything in the restaurant. Blogs didn’t rave about mytalents with protein or sauce expertise. Yelp reviews didn’t recommend thisrestaurant because of what I could do with risotto or the genius way I servedBrussel sprouts. All the accolades went to Wyatt. And Killian before him.
Still,I knew the plates on these tables were a team effort. And not thanks to me.There was an entire staff hanging out back of house, working, sweating, slavingaway to create the most perfect dining experience possible.
Theseseparate elements came together to create a full menu that was nothing short ofa work of art. Each recipe was carefully crafted and endlessly finessed. Andeverything was a living, breathing organism that was constantly changed andtweaked and studied to make sure it was always the best version of itself. Thatthe diners were always getting our most perfect end-result.
Thoserabbit legs? They had to be braised for two hours prior to service to make themeat fall-off-the-bone tender and then pan-seared in duck fat at exactly fourhundred degrees to lock in the juices. They had to be flipped exactly halfwaythrough the sear to ensure a nice crispy texture on the entire outside.
Thatfilet could only be flipped once, right near the end to make sure the grillmarks were uniform on both sides. Flipping it too early would overcook it.Flipping it too late wouldn’t give both sides a chance to finish. And I madesure all my beef rested before I ever plated it.
Wehad only recently decided to add soft-boiled quail eggs to the asparagus. Andthe microgreens to add a fresh, springy taste to a tried and true favorite.Wyatt had perfected those two elements when he took over for Killian. Theadditions had blown the previous dish out of the water. The yolky eggs added richnessto something familiar, and the microgreens added brightness and a burst offlavor to a dish that had been done and redone for years. The asparagus feltcompletely new now and so much better than before. Our diners flipped out overit.
Erinled us to a table in the center of the dining room, with a perfect view of thekitchen and the rest of the restaurant. It was the best table and I wonderedhow many other reservations she had to fight off to save it for us.
Shehanded out our menus and assured us that Kim would be over shortly to take ourorders.
Mydad leaned across the table and mouthed, “Wow!” It was all I needed to relax inmy seat and finally let go of my fear. I didn’t even know what I was afraid of.Only that I was afraid. Wyatt and I had once been friends. And we’d once beenenemies. I didn’t know what we were now.
Us.
Our.
We.
Himand I.
