By the time I return from the washroom wearing the chef coat, he’s waiting for me with a look of impatience on his face.
It’s not monogrammed to show I'm his sous chef.
I’m going to prove to him that he made the right choice by hiring me. I’m going to earn my sous chef monogram.
'Thank you for believing in me, Chef. You won’t regret it." I school my features.
He doesn’t acknowledge my gratitude. Simply thrusts a chef’s skull cap at me, then steers me toward a station with a hand on my lower back.
The touch is brief but proprietary.
I pull away, not liking the shiver that courses down my spine.
If he notices, he doesn’t comment.
Instead, he points to a station at the center of the pass. The pass isthe altar of The Edge. It’s the final, unforgiving bridge between the chaos of the kitchen and the elegance of the dining room.
This is where every plate passes under James’ assessing gaze. Where he inspects, dissects, and approves.
And as the new sous chef, I occupy the square foot of stainless steel directly to his right.
I have the most prestigious, suffocating, and high-pressure spot in the entire restaurant.
I’m the one who controls pacing, ensures all components come together. I’m the last filter between James’ genius and the rest of the world.
I’m literally his second-in-command.
It’s thrilling. And overwhelming. My hands go clammy. My chest constricts.
I’ve worked in high pressure kitchens, but I’ve never felt the weight to deliver as much as in this instance.
A chuckle wells up. I manage to bat it aside.
Whenever I’m nervous, I tend to laugh or giggle. It’s normally in the middle of a serious moment.
It’s gotten me in trouble before. I’m going to have to watch myself around James. I have a feeling he’s not going to appreciate my sense of humor.
"Plate and expedite." His voice is a low, dangerous vibration. "Now."
The command in his voice resonates with something deep inside. I’m moving before I can stop myself, and step into the slot.
The heat lamps above the pass glow with an aggressive, amber light, pinning us together in a private, sweltering bubble. To my right, the grill hisses.
To my left is James.
I can feel the tension emanating off his body, the absolute focus of a man who expects the universe to bend to his timeline.
My heartbeat ramps up. I feel so alive. It feels like I’m on the edge of something momentous. Like today is the first day of a brand-new career.
I center myself, then grab a plate and start arranging the seared scallops, roasted baby vegetables, and dollops of purée.
My hands move faster than I expect, following the rhythm I’ve seen him use.
Then I step forward and slide the plate onto the pass.
He takes a damp, white cloth and wipes the rim of the plate in three distinct, circular motions.
One.
