I’m informed by a bodyguard who swoops into the kitchen and checks the storage closet that Rae Rose (Amelia) is on the premises and about to exit her vehicle. Paparazzi are apparently swarming outside. It still catches me off guard to see her like this: as a celebrity. The version of her that belongs to the rest of the world. But I don’t have time to dwell on it. Life is moving at warp speed around me.
Tess plays bouncer at the kitchen door. Every now and then I hear her, over the clatter of pans, telling Mabel or Phil or even Emily to go back to their seats—Chef Walker will greet everyone after service.I could kiss her.
As the night goes on, I expect to find my rhythm. I never do.
We’re moving too slowly. My kitchen hand is working double duty—plating and washing dishes—and it’s dragging down the whole line.
It feels like a haunted house where everything is a warped version of what it should be, and I want to scream around every corner. Something’s scorching. Something’s boiling over. Counters are a mess, and even though someone’s yelled “BEHIND!” at least ten times in the last twenty seconds, we’re still colliding like bumper cars.
I want to hide in the pantry to catch my breath, but a saucepanof our citrus-infused rémoulade hits the floor. We have to make it again, while still being behind on the orders that needed it in the first place.
My confidence is a drooping sail, and life shows no mercy. The printer continues spitting out tickets like it’s alive. Like it hates me.
A young waiter bursts through the doors, sweaty, pale, and wide-eyed. “Uh, Chef. Tiny problem.”
“Jason,” I say ominously as I bend over the heirloom and fried green tomato stack, carefully drizzling black pepper molasses sauce over a goat cheese mousse. (Della would still call this dish too fancy-schmancy, but I dedicated it to her anyway.) “I don’t have time for tiny problems.”
“Okay . . . how about huge ones?”
I lift my eyes and glare. “You’ve got ten seconds.”
“Sort of like table twelve,” he mutters, with a weak attempt at humor.
“What about table twelve?” I grit out.
Jason winces. “Remember how he has a walnut allergy . . . ?”
“Oh my god. Tell me he didn’t get the sweet potato gnocchi.”
Jason cringes. “He got the sweet potato gnocchi.”
“Shit!”
I barrel past him. “Tess!” I yell, though I don’t need to—she’s right there. “EpiPen! Now!”
She doesn’t flinch. Just reaches into her half-apron and pulls one out.
“You carry one on you?”
“I’ve worked in restaurants for fifteen years. Of course I carry one.”
And I do kiss her this time. But only on the cheek, because HR and all that.
Then I’m hurtling through the dining room toward table twelve.
“Hi,” I say to the man who I’m pretty sure was my third grade teacher, looking like something is tingling on his tongue. I smile and extend the EpiPen. “So sorry, but you’re going to need this.”
I turn to his wife. “We’ll be sending you home with an extra dessert.”
Tess appears behind me. “Go back to the kitchen. I’ll take care of them.”
I weave through the throng of tables. If this were any other night, I might pause to take it all in: the sight of my restaurant full of people I love.
My family and Mabel are tucked into a corner table, hidden from paparazzi lenses. They’re laughing, waving when they spot me, oblivious to the shit show that’s happening in the kitchen.
Phil and Todd are center room. James’s parents are in the cozy booth on the far wall.
Everywhere I look, I see someone I care about. And I can’t enjoy a single second because only a quarter of the tables have food, and a server just dumped water in Todd’s lap, and something smells like it’s burning.
