James nodded and called out three dinners.
Dante and Roni plated and put them up for me to wipe down, add fries to the chicken breast dish, microgreen it up and call out the table again.
This was a completely unrealistic portrayal of a working kitchen, but it was nice. We were overstaffed compared to the kitchens from the stories my dad had told me or the ones I’d seen in TV shows. A lot of the food was prepared ahead of time and kept warm for just a few hours. It wasn’t a quick-fire kitchen setup where burgers came in and all had to be cooked to temperature, or where a fish would have to be filleted fresh.
The kitchen at Sunset Estates was a well-oiled machine. Until—
‘Chef Roni.’ Natalie came in from the FDR entrance. ‘I need a favor.’
Roni stopped scooping green beans and looked up over her greasy teal glasses, her dark eyes clouding with fury.
‘Oh, shit,’ James said under his breath. He tucked the slips into the front pocket of his white chef’s jacket and crossed his arms. I think we were both getting baked Alaska vibes.
‘What’s going on?’ Roni asked, her voice filled with authority.
‘We have a resident who brought family for dinner.’
‘Uh-huh.’ She went back to plating, now paying less attention. ‘That’s not so much a favor, happens all the time. Tell them welcome and we hope they enjoy the meal!’
‘It’s a six-top, and they want six filets. All well-done.’
I could tell Roni was trying not to cringe. The one thing Chef Roni hated making more than anything was a well-done filet mignon. But this was an old folks’ home, and old folks were more susceptible to foodborne illness, so she did it for them anyway.
‘Not a problem,’ she said through half-clenched teeth as Natalie handed the slip over to James. But I knew there was something else. Natalie hadn’t actually asked Roni for a favor yet, just to do her job. Trying not to smile, James tilted the dinner slip to me.
Shit.
‘They would also like A.1. steak sauce.’
Roni slammed her spoon down on the line, and it bounced, clattering loudly to the floor. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch the meltdown.
‘Absolutely not!’ she shouted. Roni never bought A.1. steak sauce, which meant Natalie was expecting her to stop serving on the line andcreatea gourmet version of it like she was Claire Saffitz. ‘I’m not stopping everything I’m doing so I can make a shitty steak sauce for them to slather over their expensive leather! They can use ketchup!’
‘You have a half-hour to cook the steaks – I’m sure you can whip it up in that time. We don’t tell the residents no.’ With that, Natalie smiled and left the kitchen.
Roni mumbled under her breath and flipped off the door Natalie had just walked out. She picked up the spoon from the floor and tossed it to the dish room, then grabbed a fresh one.
‘Dante!’ She launched into demands. ‘Start the damn steak sauce.’
‘Yes, Chef.’
Roni unwrapped each vacuum-sealed filet and began throwing them on the grill behind her.
‘Tommy!’ She threw the sixth and final filet on the grill. ‘Get back here and help me on the line.’
I turned to James, both of us looking surprised. This happened every once in a while, but the hierarchy was that the caller – usually Sean G. because he was nineteen and old enough to be in the kitchen – went on the line and then I would take over calling. I wasn’t supposed tobeon the line.
James hadjustturned eighteen; he was supposed to be back there. Or, hell,Ishould be the one whipping up the steak sauce, and Dante should stay on the line.
‘Come on!’ Roni yelled, whipping off her rubber gloves and tossing them into the trash. ‘James, you keep us movin’, all right?’
‘You got it, Chef.’ James used his hip to bump me out of the way and get moving. I walked as fast as my slip-resistant shoes would allow and went to the other side of the line. My muscles felt tense, like they were about to pop from excitement. I glanced up at the rest of the serving staff, but none of them were paying attention anymore. To them, the excitement was over. They had their own shit to deal with, and none of them realized what a big deal this was.
James did; he gave me a toothy grin and two thumbs up as I put on two pairs of food-prep gloves Roni handed me.
‘All right,’ she said, pulling on her own fresh gloves. ‘You know how it’s done, right?’
‘Yes, Chef.’
