“What are you doing?”
“Vegetables!” he replies, looking like he might pop a salute my way any second.
“Your station is stocked, Chef. Everything you need should be there,” I remind him.
“Yes, Chef!”
Does he think I’m a drill sergeant?
“I forgot, Chef,” he says in apology, running back to his station.
“I know. We’re not in dry runs anymore, Charlie. Now show me you can make the best damn salad ever served on Main Street.”
“Probably the first,” Samuel corrects.
“So it’ll be no problem to be the best,” I add.
Charlie flusters, holding the metal bowl in his hands. “What goes in a strawberry salad again?”
“How many times did we run through this, Chef? You’re cold, you tell me. What kind of lettuce?”
Charlie drops to his knees in front of the lowboy and digs through the containers there, emerging with several.
“Green and red!” he shouts, triumphant.
The sizzle of the chicken breast on the flattop hisses loudly. At least Samuel didn’t forget what goes in his part of the ticket.
I clap my hands to Charlie. “You got this, Chef. Let’s see it.”
He dumps about twice as much lettuce as he needs to in the bowl out of nerves, then puts half of it back.
“Nice,” I tell him, as Violet and Wanda both trail through the doors with orders in hand. “What next?”
“Berries!” he shouts way louder than he needs to.
“Keep going,” I tell Charlie, turning to face the waitstaff.
They both call out their orders just like we practiced, then hand me the tickets for expo and I jump behind my station to help Samuel with the next six covers.
“Order up!” Charlie calls, holding his hands up from the plated salad, his chest heaving like he ran the Manhattan 10K that used to go right past the bodega, not walked fifteen feet between stations.
“Missing anything on that dish?” I ask him, dropping a knob of butter in a fresh pan.
“Chicken!” he realizes, slapping his head.
“Bring it over, Chef’s got it ready for you.”
“I’m a line cook. Chef’s a strong word,” Samuel protests. “The deep fryer doesn’t win any Michelin stars.”
“You’re all chefs by my call,” I tell him, with an elbow nudge.
“Ready for chicken,” Charlie announces, putting the plate on the line like we drilled.
“Chicken,” Samuel echoes, in a perfect exhibition of what we’ve spent a week practicing.
He plates it beautifully, and calls, “Hands.”
Keeping the pans going on the fire, I turn to quickly double check it and it looks just like it should.
