My phone dings in my pocket, and once my hands are free for a moment, I check it. A photographic text from Bel. She and Fritz are both giving me a thumbs up, and the little message beneath it readsGood luck! We fucking love you!
I smile at the screen before placing it back in my pocket and continuing my work. I worry for a moment that my lack of reply might be taken poorly, but I know better. Bel is perfectly aware of how busy I will be for the hours I’m down here. She must know that I’ve only a few minutes before my possible employers seat themselves at the table designated just for this purpose in the dining room.
The restaurant itself is closed, so thankfully, there won’t be any maneuvering around other patrons or possibly being in the way of another chef. Today is just about me and my creations.
As I’m placing the final touches on the appetizers, a man I’ve come to know quite well, Marco, pops his head into the kitchen, “You ready?” he asks. “It smells amazing in here.”
I grin at him in thanks and let out a breath, “Yeah, I believe so. Are they seated?”
“They just got here. You wanna start with wine?”
Gods above, I’d kill for a glass right now.But he doesn’t mean me.
“Yes, will you grab the Riesling and serve that, then I shall bring out the bread and and appetizers?”
He grabs the chosen bottle and walks toward the entryway to the dining area. I peek my head around to watch him serve the wine. He’s been one of their restaurant managers for years, through several concepts and chefs, so it’s no surprise to me that their faces light up at seeing him.
How Fritz convinced him to assist me is a mystery, like most things he accomplishes. As he pours the wine, he makes conversation with the two men and woman I’ll need to impress today for this to work out.
Wine poured, and my three judges seemingly pleased, I emerge from the kitchen, plate of bread in hand.
“Hello again, Caspian,” Stila greets me. I politely smile and nod in greeting, to which she gives a friendly laugh, “Are you nervous?”
“Immensely,” I admit.
“Don’t be,” she shrugs. “We are thrilled to get to try your recipes, we’ve heard nothing but complaints about how impossible to resist it is from Fritz.”
I do laugh at that, “I’m afraid he might be biased.”
Cedric beside her grins, “I guess we’ll just have to see. What do you have for us?”
My third critique, the hotel manager, Liam, comments, “It smells fantastic,” bringing a bigger smile to my face as I place the loaves before them.
“This is a pesto focaccia.” I explain, “I planned for this to be the bread at each table before anything else. It can be eaten by itself or dipped in the aged balsamic glaze there. If you’ll start with that, I’ll be back shortly with appetizers.”
“Wait, wait, wait, slow down,” Stila holds up a palm. “Please, sit down. We’d like to discuss the name and concept for a moment before we are too consumed with your dishes to concentrate.”
Marco pulls out the fourth chair, urging me to sit.
I rub the back of my neck, “I would love to, however, if I’m not back in the kitchen in 34 seconds, there’s some very expensive fish that’s going to burn.”
“Of course, of course,” Cedric waves me off, “By all means, we can talk once we’ve all eaten to our hearts content.”
I take countless trips back and forth, bringing plates of meat, seafood, pasta, and a lovely mushroom and eggplant dish. By the time they’ve eaten several bites of everything, my nerves have finally vanished, lost in the background as I work tirelessly to finish everything in a timely manner.
The final thing I present is a tiramisu made with white chocolate custard and crushed pistachios. When I place it before them, I ask if I may join them now.
“Please do,” Liam answers, gesturing at the fourth chair. I sink into it, the most difficult part done. It’s finished; I tried my absolute best to give them what they were looking for, and now all I can do is wait and hope it was enough.
“Okay, tell me about the name. Ava… something?” Stila asks.
“Averla,” I tell her. “It’s Italian for bird.”In a way.It is, in fact, Italian for a particular type of bird that is notorious for its vicious eating habits, making me grin each time I think of it, and the word itself is beautiful.
“And why would you name it after a bird?” she prods.
“Well,” I explain, “Because I believe in having an elevated experience, like flying. In Italy, I noted that they love to eat outside and truly take their time, enjoying the air around them and the beautiful sky they are blessed to have. I want the experience here to be much the same.”
“And the menu?” Cedric waves a hand for me to continue speaking.
