Eden falls into the swing of things quickly. She’s always had to be a fast learner. Necessity requires adaptation, after all. While the space is totally new to her, the functions of the equipment and the roles everyone plays is not. She can do this. She can be a second-in-command, even if she has to fake it until she makes it. The key is confidence. The second she wavers...
I can’t let that happen. I won’t.
So she watches and learns, rapidly acclimatizing to the way things work here.
Everyone’s so efficient. It’s a little frightening. People move fast and with purpose, preparing their mise-en-place for the night’s service. She learns the names of all the chefs, the waitstaff, the dishwashers. She acquaints herself with the location of the produce in the walk-in fridge, as well as the dry goods in the storage room. She even gets her own locker in the staff room past the kitchen office.
Alexander is notably absent during prep.
“Who’s the owner?” she asks Rina as she helps bring a huge bag of sugar over to the dessert station. “Or is this Alexander’s restaurant?”
Rina visibly shivers. “No, he’s not the owner. The real owner is…” She trails off. “Where did you work before this?” Rina asks instead, changing the topic completely.
“Oh, uh... Here and there.”
“Did you specialize in a type of cuisine?”
“Not really. I dabbled in this and that. Italian, mostly. French. I worked at an Asian fusion restaurant for a few years, too.”
It’s all a lie, of course, but Eden doesn’t want Rina to know that. If she keeps things general and non-specific, she figures she’ll be able to fly under the radar for a while. Forever, if she’s careful.
“Asian fusion,” someone behind them scoffs.
Eden and Rina turn to find Alexander standing there, a gray plastic bin full of dirty prep dishes in his hands. He holds it out to Eden, and she has no choice but to take it. Not unless she wants dishes to come crashing down at her feet.
“Yes,” she says, holding her head up high.Confidence. The key is confidence.“Do you have something against Asian fusion?” she asks lightly, putting on her best, most charming smile.
Alexander briefly swallows. “Take these to the dish pit,” he tells her instead of answering. “When you’re done, join me at the front of the line. We just heard from an unexpected party of fifty. They’ll be coming in at the start of service.”
Eden shifts. “Fifty? That’s—”
Alexander frowns at her. “What? You’re not nervous, are you?”
Shereallywants to kick him in the shin.
“No,” she grumbles. “I just think it’s inconsiderate to show up with a party like that unannounced.”
He snorts. “You and me both. Up front. One minute. Let’s see what you’re made of, Monroe.” He walks away without another word.
Eden takes the bin of dirty dishes to the pit as instructed, placing it down with a hard thump and rattle onto the metal counter. It’s then that she notices the ornate plate she’d used before to serve Alexander the saffron risotto sitting atop the pile.
It’s completely clean, every ounce of it savored.
Triumph rises in her chest. It feels like a win. Her head spins, high off the thrill.
Maybe I can do this, after all.
He loves his job.
He also really fucking hates it. Especially because of nights like this.
Eden wasn’t wrong when she said an unexpected party of fifty—fuckingfifty, what the fuck—was inconsiderate. It’s probably the biggest asshole move in the history of asshole moves.
No reservation. Not even a courtesy call ahead of time. They apparently just showed up at the front door and gave the poor hostess, Kay, a seriously hard time when she said there might be a wait. Poor girl was half in tears by the time she managed to get a word out to inform him.
They’re a bunch of hotshot investment bankers or something—Alexander doesn’t give a shit how much cash they want to throw around—and they deliberately spread out across multiple tables, spanning different sections so the waitstaff has no idea who’s responsible for whom.
He lets the maître d’ handle the seating arrangements. It’s in the kitchen that Alexander reigns supreme.
