“It’s steak. It’s fine.”
It’s also tender, juicy, and cooked unlike any other steak I’ve ever tried before.
After tastingthissteak, I know why I’ve never enjoyed them that much before. It wasn’t prepared by Wilder fucking Amante.
Rubbery, brown, dripping with grease is how I remember it when my dad ran the diner when Rory and I were growing up. A burnt potato on the side that was still hard in the middle, and that was the steak special. There was nothing special about it. But plenty of people ordered it just the same.
“Fine?” Charlie’s brows reach for the tube LED lights overhead, head jutting forward.
Wanda laughs, like she’s in on some secret, and walks away, tutting. I think I catch a “only around chef,” as she goes.
The other staff all have things to say, too, but their new head chef pipes up, quieting them down. “We all have different tastes. Let’s not begrudge the boss her opinion.”
What, is he being understanding now?
Seriously, what a dick.
Does he think he’s going to win me over by pretending to be humble?
He fucked over any chance of winning me over when he strolled into town, too big for his britches, the same air oftoo good for this placethat Rory used to have when she came back from New York.
A shame, too, with the bone-deep attraction my system can’t seem to turn off or shake when it comes to him.
The way my nerves start zinging to life when he’s around is beyond annoying. It’s the kind of itch a hate fuck would scratchjust right, but even I have standards.
The only person who has ever gotten off my shit list once they were on it was my sister, and even she is barely off it some days. Afraid that’s where Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tattooed lives now. So I’ll have to settle for getting my kicks from watching Wilder kick rocks come the end of summer when he fucks off back to his precious Big Apple, or wherever is unlucky enough to get him next.
I wish I could say the rest of the tasting is a disaster, that Tracy gets food poisoning, Wanda can’t stomach the burger, and even Charlie can’t find anything nice to say about the cold dishes.
Unfortunately, my ears are subjected to undue quantities of babbling praise, more uses of the Lord’s name than in church on an Easter Sunday, and, yes, moaning throughout the entire tasting.
Luckily for me, everyone else was so far up Wilder’s ass, asking about how he cooked this, or how that drizzle was made that I don’t think any of them caught the occasional noise that came out of my own mouth completely unbidden—a whimperhere, a sigh there—as I regretfully took part in sampling every item like a good manager should.
Fine. So what if his burger is different than the one Samuel always served me when I was growing up at the tables out there?
We’re still serving down home food to good people, and that’s what matters. It doesn’t have to be my dad’s recipes to carry on the legacy.
Just because there are words like “savory crepe” and “fresh greens” on the menu doesn’t mean Heights Bites isn’t going to be a place good people can unwind after a day at the factory or laboring out in the sun.
At least that’s what I’m doing my damndest to convince myself as the last of the back of house staff finish cleaning up from the tasting. Even Dishy is done for the day as they pile out the back door amongst laughs and relaxed waves.
Huffing out a breath, I head for the office upstairs, wishing the chef my sister stuck on me left with the rest of the crowd.
But, like a boil on my ass, he follows.
“Safe to say that went well.” His cheerful whistle scrapes fingernails down the chalkboards of my eardrums.
A grunt is all he gets from me.
If he wants a pat on the back or a “good boy, Chef,” he picked the wrong diner to work at.
My sneakers squeak on the final stair before landing on the boards of hardwood that make up the small office area on the top floor.
“No feedback from you, Boss?” His voice is probing, almost innocent in that way of his where everything is out in the open with him. Nothing goes unsaid.
To be fair, I’m usually aneverything out in the openkinda gal too. Though most people don’t tend to appreciate the truths I lay out there.
Bitchy is the term I got the most in my younger years, and those people were not wrong. It’s a lifestyle choice for me. The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve embraced it.
