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I don’t have time to question anything, I drive down the long winding path to the practical complex and then decide to follow it towards the back of the building.
There are two burly men standing outside the back door.
I manually crank down my window. “Am I okay to leave my car here?”
They exchange a look. “State your business.”
“The hired chef?” I ask, relaying the address I was given. “Is this the right spot?”
They whisper back and forth for a bit, one even speaking into a radio, the other shrugging in response. “Yeah, park here. We need to search you first. He will be ready for his dinner within the hour.”
Search me? This must be more rich people shit.
“Okay, sounds good.”
I don’t expect for them to immediately rip open my car. One of the men lugs me out, while the other starts his search.
“Sorry, I haven’t cleaned it for awhile,” I advise sheepishly as he holds up the borrowed shirt my nose bled all over with a raised brow. “Broke my nose.” I tip my head showing him the crooked nature of it.
He throws it to the ground. “What’s this?” He brings out my black canvas bag next.
“It’s my knives?” I ask. “I need them for cooking.”
He unrolls it on the hood of my car. He eyes them warily. “You need all of this for one meal?”
The other dude is still holding me, but I shrug out of his hold to point at the knives. “They each have different uses and I wasn’t really told what I would be cooking for him. I mean, I can just use the ones in the kitchen here if that’s easier?”
Why am I getting the nineteenth degree? Maybe next time I should dress like a chef.
I point to my chef coat in the back seat. “Can I put that on? I didn’t see the message come through to get here and I was honestly running late, so I know I don’t look my best self, but I promise I will deliver the best meal for…”
Fuck, what was his name?
The dude judging my knives quirks his lips. “Sure. Yes you can take the knives in, just know you have eyes on you.”
“Sounds good!”
This is decidedly not worth the fifty bucks. I hope it will lead me to more clients.
At least that’s the dream and hope as I shrug into my chef coat and roll back up my knives.
As I do, I spot my bottle of cinnamon tucked in with the sharpener.
Perfect, I thought I lost that.
And then I am shoved through the back door and trucked through a maze of hallways to an industrial kitchen.
“Ensure his dinner is ready at 5pm.”
And then they’re gone. My attention sweeps around the room, excitement filling my gut.
This kitchen is amazing.
Better than any restaurant I have stepped foot into.
Exploring the cabinets and fridge, I figure out exactly what I am going to make.
And then I fall into the bliss that is my passion.
