Unfortunately, it’s a shitshow in here, too.
Fifty orders at once means there’s no time to stagger. Food has to arrive at the same time—or just about—hot and ready for their patrons to eat. Alexander counts his lucky stars that the majority of the party’s guests pick from the night’s specials menu, ordering roughly twenty lobster tails that have been prepared earlier that day in anticipation of high seasonal demand. It’s only a matter of time before they run out, however, and they still have an entire service to get through and other tables to worry about.
It’s chaos in the making, and Alexander only has so much time.
“I want the orders for nine, eleven, and fifteen!” he shouts from the front of the kitchen. “Monroe, where’s the escargot for table four?”
“Right here,” Eden says, taking the plate from Laurie, the on-call boucher, so that the latter can get right back to making seven more orders.
He rings the bell for service. A waiter shows up out of nowhere, popping into existence to spirit the appetizer away.
Eden is everywhere and nowhere all at once, hopping from one station to another to ease the load wherever she can. She tries to be helpful, but more often than not only ends up getting in the way. It’s clear that she doesn’t know the kitchen well enough yet, struggling to find the exact ingredient she needs or sometimes failing to hear his ticket calls.
Eden’s demonstration dish might have been the most delicious thing he’s eaten in a very long time, but her disorganization is a huge detractor. The more he watches, the more annoyed he gets.
I thought she was trained for this sort of thing.
He pushes the thought away. That can’t be right. It’s probably just the unfortunate combination of stress due to her first day being on the kitchen floor and the asshole party of fifty out front. It’s a terrible cocktail to be thrown into, but if there’s one thing Alexander’s always certain of, it’s baptism by fire.
“Rina, where the hell is that crème brûlée?” he snaps. “Drenton, Jesus Christ, how is this steak undercooked again?”
Nobody responds, individual tunnel visions blocking him out. They’re too focused on their tasks at hand to realize he’s even speaking.
That just pisses him off more.
“What the fuck guys? I need you to pay attention!”
“They’re doing their best,” Eden says.
Her words take him by surprise.
“Their best clearly isn’t good enough,” he retorts. “This is unacceptable. If you guys don’t get your shit together, you’ll be working at McDonald’s by the end of the week.”
Eden huffs, exasperated. “Yelling at them isn’t going to fix the problem, Chef.”
For once in his life, Alexander doesn’t have a response ready. His old sous chef neverhad the guts to talk back. It was always ‘yes, chef’and of ‘course, chef’and ‘you’re absolutely right, chef.’
Eden?
She’s proving to have a backbone, and Alexander isn’t sure how to deal with that.
He wants to yell at her, too, growing more and more frustrated with every passing second. But before he can even open his mouth, Eden expertly slips away to help the saucier like she knows he’s about to throw a fit.
Service drags on for endless hours, never letting up to give them an opportunity to breathe. It’s a marathon with no water available for its runners. It’s just one problem after another, and—despite his years of experience—Alexander begins to feel uneasy.
Nothing’s going right.
Peter nicks his finger with his knife and has to step away from his station to clean the wound and staunch the bleeding. Immediately after that, Rina and Freddie accidentally crash into each other, spilling massive amounts of whipped cream all over themselves and the floor. His chef de partie, Hector, slips in the mess, bringing a stack of plates tumbling down along with him. Shards of porcelain explode haphazardly across the tile floor.
“Stop! Everybody just fucking stop!”
His command slices through the kitchen. Nobody dares to move, not even to stir the pot that’s very clearly about to boil over.
Just like his anger.
There’s a throbbing pain behind his eyes, warning him of the skull-splitting headache awaiting him. He can feel his pulse in histeeth. His head is seconds away from imploding. His back hurts from having to carry this restaurant all by his damn self. Alexander wants to put his fist through a wall. He wants to sprint into the walk-in, lock the door behind him, and scream until his voice gives out.
The bitter fury almost gets the better of him. Just as he’s about to open his mouth to scream a string of less-than-appropriate comments, his eyes lock with hers.
