Ali shrugs. “Let’s get this party started, shall we?” She pulls two shot glasses off the counter and fills them practically to the brim with vodka.
“To finding true love.”
She places one glass in my hand and raises hers in the air.
“To our culinary futures,” I correct her. We clink and knock back our shots, wincing as we bang the empty glasses down on the counter.
“You’d better hook us up with something classier than Smirnoff when you’re at The Carlyle,” I croak, washing the shot down with a long sip of lemon seltzer. Even though we still have a couple of weeks left of classes, Ali has already secured her post-graduation job at The Carlyle hotel’s acclaimed restaurant, the same place where she did her externship. I’m thrilled for her—she’s so talented, and this is an incredible opportunity—and she is thrilled about the possibility of potentially serving celebrities.
“It’s a deal,” she agrees, filling up our glasses for a second round. “But for now, we drink this shoe polish like the peasants we are.”
We throw back another and I wipe my hand across my mouth, shuddering.
“Okay, I’m ready,” I say. “Let’s close out the school year like champions.”
BEFORE I KNOW IT,June has arrived. After submitting my résumé to a few different places, I end up interviewing at Olive & Pomegranate, an upscale Mediterranean restaurant in Midtown. Three days after my interview, I’m invited back for astage,a sort of trial-run to assess my skills in the kitchen and how well I interact with other staff. I spend the evening beforehand reading every article I can find about successfulstaging,and by the time I arrive the next morning, I’m feeling confident.
I’m just about to head inside when the pocket of my jacket vibrates with an incoming text. When I pull out my phone, I see Dad’s name, and I close my eyes for a moment before reading his message.Good luck on your first day, Loo!My heart swells at hisuse of my childhood nickname, yet my fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure how to respond. I appreciate that he wants to support me—he always has, even when I’ve resisted his efforts (and Fran’s, for that matter)—but it feels wrong to have one of his pep talks delivered via text. He should be here, wishing me luck in person while we linger over everything bagels and lox at Ess-a-Bagel. Not down in Florida, living a replacement life with a replacement wife.
It’s not that Fran is a bad person. It’s just that she was too soon. My dad met her in an online support group—she’d lost her spouse too, in a biking accident—and after that, everything happened so fast. My parents had been together for over twenty years; they’d built an entire life together. When she died, my world crumbled, and I expected that my dad’s would too. But he didn’t even seem to mourn her. He packed up and moved down to Florida to be with Fran before we even celebrated my mom’sYahrzeit. No matter how hard she tries, I can’t forgive Fran for taking my dad away from me. My mom was my best friend, and losing her was hard enough. But thanks to Fran, both of my parents were taken from me in one fell swoop.
Call me later and let me know how it goes, he texts now, but I shove the phone back into my pocket without responding before pulling open Olive & Pomegranate’s double doors.
Though the restaurant is closed, a young brunette hostess who introduces herself as Hannah leads me back to the kitchen. It’s early, and without the hum of appliances, the space feels peaceful. As soon as we step through the doors, I spot Oren, the sous chef who interviewed me. His hazel eyes crinkle in the corners as they connect with mine. He takes a step toward me, extending a hand.
“Alexa, welcome back!” His voice is kind but booming, a perfect match to his round, rosy cheeks and salt-and-pepper scruff. “Let me quickly introduce you to the rest of the team.”
He motions for me to follow him. The tour starts with a walk-through of the line, the cornerstone of the kitchen. It’sT-shaped and split into two sides: hot and cold. A fifteen-foot stove serves as the centerpiece. Directly across from theTis the pass: a stainless-steel table where cooks deliver their food to Chef for plating, and Chef passes it to waiters for serving. Oren leads me to the hot side first, pointing out the designated areas for cooking meat, roasting fish, and boiling pasta.
“Lexi, this is Juan, ourrotisseur.” He gestures to a balding man with meaty forearms, who jerks his head in greeting as he carves away at a thick slab of red meat. A gold wedding band gleams on his knife-wielding left hand, flecks of blood splattered across his thick fingers.
“And this is Corbin, ourpoissonnier.” Corbin is much younger than Juan, mid-twenties at most with a mop of curly blond hair. When he says “hello” with a wide, toothy grin, I notice his voice is tinged with an accent. French, maybe? I make a mental note to ask later.
Next, Oren introduces me to Stefan and Hank, theentremetiers. Stefan is scooping handfuls of diced vegetables into a blender, while Hank is working on a wine reduction.
“These are our vegetable cooks. If hired, you’ll be doing a lot of garnish work alongside these guys,” Oren explains. “For every steak Juan prepares, you’ll need to make at least half a dozen garnishes to go with it. Any part of a dish that needs to be wilted, roasted, pressed, grated, dressed—that’s where these guys come in.”
I nod, doing my best to take it all in and remember as many names as possible. We cross the room, walking around to the other side of theT.
“This is the cold side of our kitchen, where you’ll primarily be working,” Oren explains. I take a quick look around the bare-bones setup, a gleaming metal countertop with two induction burners and a convection oven. A roll-in freezer and a pair of lowboys flank either side of the small workstation. Goosebumps creep up myflesh, and I rub a hand over my arm absentmindedly. “Cold side” is a fitting description for this section of the kitchen; with an emphasis on refrigeration, there’s little by way of heat.
“Don’t worry, by the time service begins, you’ll be sweating,” Oren adds, as though he’s read my mind. Then he gestures to a sandy-haired man rolling out dough a few feet away.
“And this guy”—he walks over, throwing his arm around the other man’s shoulders—“is Ethan, our esteemed pastry chef.”
A flutter rolls through my chest as Ethan lifts his head. His eyes, a dazzling shade of cerulean, run over my face appraisingly. He’s not especially tall but he’s in great shape, with broad, muscular shoulders that fill out his chef’s coat. He brushes his hand on his apron before extending it toward me, raising one corner of his mouth in a half smile. “Welcome to the madhouse.”
Oren snorts as he rolls his eyes. “Don’t listen to a word he says, Lexi. He’s just salty because he’s about to lose a bet and be out twenty bucks.” He claps a hand against Ethan’s back. “Don’t worry, buddy. You can pay me back with drinks at Freddie’s later.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ethan shakes his head before returning his attention to his dough.
Oren flashes me a quick grin. “Freddie’s is the bar across the street where we hang out after work. You’re welcome to join us this evening.”
“Sure, I’d love to.” I’ll go to any bar he wants me to if it means I’ll be getting the job.
Oren rolls his shoulders in a stretch, cracking both sides of his neck. “Come on, let me show you to our garde-manger station. That’s where you’ll be working tonight.” We move down to the other end of the cold station, where a woman is prepping greens and separating them into metal bowls. Her dark hair is cropped in an undercut pixie that highlights her prominent cheekbones. The muscles of her strong, tattooed arms flex as she works.
“Hey, Mia. This is Lexi Berman. She’ll be helping you outtonight.” Mia’s brow lowers as she runs her eyes up and down my body, her mouth twisting into a smirk. She looks like she’s about my age, maybe a year or two younger, but the second her eyes meet mine, I have a sinking feeling we won’t be making friendship bracelets together anytime soon. I gulp when my gaze snags on the chef’s-knife tattoo behind her ear.
