“If you’re here, who’s minding the counter at Ann Taylor?” Mia deadpans. I glance down at my clothes, running a hand self-consciously over my blue button-up blouse. All the websites I checked told me to dress professionally. What have I done wrong?
Oren makes a noise beside me, and when I look over at him I can tell he’s biting back a smile. “Yeah, you’ll need to borrow some whites. I’ll grab you a spare set when we go back to the office to meet Chef.”Oh, right.My stomach drops as a wave of humiliation washes over me. Why didn’t it occur to me that I would need chef whites tonight?
“Speaking of which, ready to meet the big guy?” I nod silently, following him as he leads us to an office in the corner. We’ve no sooner approached the doorway when a tall man with a head of thick, dark curls and a scruffy beard emerges from within, his face bent over a thick pad of paper.
“Speak of the devil! Lexi, this is Amir, our executive chef.” Chef flicks his eyes upward, giving me a cursory nod before walking off. Oren shoots me a conciliatory smile. “Yeah, Chef’s not much of a talker. But his food is incredible.”
He steps into the back office, reappearing moments later with a white poly-blend chef’s coat and black pants in hand. I take a deep breath and try not to dwell on my faux pas. At least I had the sense to wear my work clogs.
Oren’s smile is warm and reassuring. “Don’t sweat it. A lot of people make this mistake on their first day.” He gestures to a bathroom beside the service exit. “You can get changed there. When you finish, I’ll get you set up formise.”
By the time 4P.M.rolls around, the kitchen is buzzing with energy. The air fills with thewhooshof ignited burner flames, the sizzle of fat in frying pans, and the clatter of steel pans on metal countertops.
Oren gives me a quick run-through of my tasks for the evening. Tonight’s special is a hanger steak served with carrot puree and a potato galette. I’ll be responsible for making the galettes, as well as helping anywhere else I’m needed. Oren grabs a Yukon gold from my station, using a chef’s knife to model how thinly each potato should be sliced.
“If you need any help, Mia’s your girl,” he says. I glance over at my cooking companion who has been steadfastly ignoring me ever since our introduction. Somehow, I doubt she’s going to be any help this evening.
“Where the hell are my pans?” A torrent of Spanish explodes across the kitchen before Corbin hands Juan a pair of stainless-steel saucepans. Juan snatches them, shaking his head in frustration.
Exhaling, I return my attention to my own station, taking a few deep breaths to quell the feeling of anxiety rising in my chest.
Concentrate,I remind myself.Now’s the moment to show everyone what you’ve got. Just stay calm and pretend you’re at home, in your own kitchen. Imagine you’re cooking for Mom.I bristle at the intrusive thought, worried it will throw me off my game entirely, but I feel pleasantly surprised when the thought instead sends a spark of joyful confidence through my veins.
I begin chopping the potatoes as quickly as possible, tossing them into a bowl of cold water to remove the excess starch. Oren comes by to chat with Mia about the carrots, modeling how to pass them through a sieve to achieve the ideal texture. “Not too soupy—we’re not making baby food here,” he instructs. She mutters a reply under her breath but resumes the task, returning the carrots to the blender so she can finish the puree.
Within minutes I’m out of potatoes, so I head to the backstorage room to grab another basketful. When I return to my station, the first thing I notice is that my knife has vanished. A quick glance across the flat top confirms my fear: Mia’s hand is firmly wrapped around the base of the eight-inch blade.
“Hey, I, uh… that’s my knife.”
“I’m sure you have another.” She smirks. “I’m sure your parents bought you a fancy set when you graduated from your fancy culinary school.” Her words slice through me like the Japanese blade in her hand. Cold. Sharp. Precise. I bite the inside of my cheek, blinking back hot, threatening tears. There’s no way I’m going to cry in front of this girl. Not here.
“Actually, my parents weren’t at my graduation,” I say quietly. “My mom died when I was fifteen and my dad was… otherwise engaged.” What I neglect to mention is that my dad wasn’t at graduation because I didn’t invite him. He would have brought Fran, and I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her there beside him, bleached teeth gleaming as she snapped photos on her iPhone. She didn’t belong there; it was my mom’s dream to see me become a chef, not hers, and I had no interest in an inadequate substitute. I could hear the hurt in my dad’s voice when I told him not to bother coming, that I probably wouldn’t even walk. But he didn’t argue. He never does. I appreciate that he respects my boundaries, but his acquiescence always stings a bit. Part of me wishes he would push back, that he would fight harder for me.
Mia stiffens slightly beside me, but keeps her mouth set in a firm line. Nevertheless, she slides the knife back to me, grumbling under her breath as she grabs another. I take a deep, steadying breath and get back to work.
A few minutes later, I’m ready to begin my galettes. Starting in the center of a skillet, I arrange the potatoes and shallots in a circular pattern, slightly overlapping the slices until the six-inch pan is completely covered. I press down with a spatula, letting the galette sizzle for a few minutes before sliding it onto a cuttingboard. Pinching off the edge, I pop a bite into my mouth. It’s hot but delicious.
Soon, I’ve gotten myself into a nice rhythm. Slice, circle, sprinkle, fry. My confidence grows in synchrony with the mounting stack of galettes at my station. Before I know it, an hour has passed, and Chef has begun circling the kitchen to taste-test each dish. He makes his way slowly down the line, nodding his approval as he samples Corbin’s sauce and Mia’s carrot puree. By the time he arrives at my station, my heart is thundering against my rib cage.
He takes a small bite of galette, chewing contemplatively before shaking his head. My stomach bottoms out, an unpleasant sensation of déjà vu snaking its way through my body.
“Too soggy,” he says quietly. “They need to be crispier. Again.”
“Again?” My eyes flit over to the stack of galettes I’ve been making for over an hour. “Like… all of them?”
Chef raises a single dark eyebrow. “Yes. All of them.”
Hot panic surges through my veins. Just like that, I’m back in the classroom, nerves fraying under the pressure. How am I going to be able to remake all these galettes in so little time? But before I can freak out any further, Mia grabs a bowl of potatoes and a peeler.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you, of course.” The peeler in her hand flies over the potato, flaying off its golden skin with expert speed. “Customers are still going to want their galettes, regardless of how hopeless the new kitchen staff is.”
“Oh, um. Thanks.”
She rolls her kohl-rimmed eyes. “It’s not, like, a personal favor. That’s just how things operate around here. Culinary school may be all about mastering technique, but working in a kitchen is about teamwork.”
Miraculously, we manage to remake the entire stack in a littleunder thirty minutes, and when Chef rotates through again, he smiles in approval.
