“I start and end my day with them. It’s relaxing.”
I hum a sound of agreement. “I should do this too. I like it.”
James stares at me a moment, then takes the little grocery store magazine from me and rips out the page I was working on. He folds it into a neat little square and hands it over for me to take home. I pocket it, feeling like I’m stowing away precious jewels.
“By my count, I’ve now told you three personal things about me and”—he pretends to count on his fingers before closing them all—“and none about you.”
I let my legs dangle again. “What do you want to know?”
“Why you had a panic attack in the kitchen the other day.”
I take in a huge breath and let it out through puffed cheeks, preparing to say it quickly. “Okay . . . so the truth is . . . I’ve been having panic attacks almost every time I go into a professional kitchen lately.” I pause. “There was this chef in the kitchen where I did my internship in New York, and he was”—I flinch as an image of his severe expression hits my mind—“brutal.”
“In what way?” James is mentally finding his shovel.
“Very much the stereotypical high-profile chef. He demanded perfection. He didn’t tolerate any softness. And he . . . hated me from the second I walked into his kitchen. I was berated a lot in front of everyone. My sauces were always a disgrace—even though I excelled at them in technicals. And my knife skills were apparently atrocious.” It was always something. Changing every day to where I couldn’t keep up or expect what he’d hate about me next.
I wasn’t enjoying New York, but I was actually doing well in school before that internship started my third semester. My decline happened rapidly after—keeping me from class, dipping out early when my hands would shake uncontrollably, forcing me to take a zero on the assignment. That anxiety bled into all areas of my life.
“Instead of firing me, he made me the official mascot for what not to do as a chef. He needed someone to take his aggression outon. When I’d take my short pee break, I’d cry in the stall, and then I’d come out and deal with his condescending comments about my puffy red eyes and lack of balls.”
James’s voice is pitched down to Batman level when he says, “Tell me his fucking name.”
“No,” I chuckle, because I know James. He will get on a flight and hunt that man down to avenge me, and then I’ll have to get on one too in order to bail him out of jail. “The point is, he made sure I—and everyone around me—knew I was not cut out to be a chef and that my imperfections and tendency to cry when under stress were downfalls.”
“Why didn’t you quit?”
“Do you know how hard it is to find an internship in an elite restaurant in New York? I kept thinking I could win him over eventually. That I’d get the hang of it at some point. And then it just became a matter of determination or pride, I don’t know. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me quit.”
“You’re really strong, Madison.”
I scoff. “I don’t feel strong. In fact, I live in terror that my confidence is gone forever. How am I going to be an executive chef and manage other people, demanding perfection when I can’t even achieve itmyself? Cooking in a professional kitchen is impossible lately because the fluorescent lights and the sterile metal countertops trigger me.” I heave a sigh. “I’m so sorry, James. I don’t want to let you down. And I should have said no to this job.”
“First”—he holds up his hand, thumb sticking up—“impossible to let me down. Second”—his index finger pops up—“maybe you can’t do it.”
I frown. “Now whose pep talk needs work?”
“I’m not done!” he says in amusement. “Maybe you can’t do it like that chef implied you should, but this isyourdamn kitchen. You can run it however you want. There’re no rules that say youhave to be a perfectionist to be a chef. You don’t even have to expect perfection from your staff if that’s not something you believe in personally.”
His words massage a knot of worry in my chest. The one that has set up camp in there.I can run the kitchen how I want.Is that true? Could it really be that simple? I’ve never really explored that idea because perfection was so ingrained in our practice at school. But maybe he’s right . . . maybe there’s another way.
He closes in a little. “I know you can do this, Madison—but I think you should do it in a way that brings you the most joy. Which is why I hated watching you lie to Tommy the other morning about liking the direction of the restaurant.”
“But . . . I don’t think I have enough experience to voice what I want.”
“Yes, you do. Be loud. Trust yourself.”
Trust yourself.Those are two words no one has ever uttered to me.Focus. You can do it. Keep going.Those are the phrases people say to me, and even though they’re meant to encourage, they’ve always implied that I’m lacking in some way. And I’ve been so quick to believe them. But James . . . he said,trust yourself.
Maybe it’s the toast and the hug and the soft, warm lighting, but honesty pours out of me. “The other problem is, my mind is blank. I probably shouldn’t even be telling you this, but I haven’t been able to come up with a menu yet and the opening is right around the corner. I can’t find my creativity and it’s killing me.”
“But you know what you don’t want it to be . . . which is what Tommy was full steam ahead for?”
I cringe. “Yeah. I really don’t like the direction of those designs. They would be perfect in L.A., but here it feels like a mockery in a way.”
“I agree.”
“But it’s too late.”
