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Alfie expedites orders for me, making conversation as I carefully slice my signature beef Wellington, quirking a smile at the brilliant ruby color of the meat.
Nailed it.
We’re the only restaurant in a fifty-mile radius that serves beef Wellington, and that’s because it’s a bitch to make. It took me two solid years to perfect, but it’s our top seller and the reason I was promoted to head chef last month after only three years of kitchen experience as an assistant cook. Cooks generally need five years and a degree for such an esteemed title, but our old manager, Davis, promoted me anyway.
Swiping the sheen of sweat from my forehead with a dish towel, I glance up at Alfie, then start cleaning the plate. “Not really. Can’t be worse than Davis and his cringey jokes that teetered on the brink of sexual harassment.”
“Yeah, well, at least Davis was fuckin’ funny. Heard this guy is a real jackhole.” Alfie snatches two tickets, then reads them off to me. “Another Wellington, medium rare, and a mushroom risotto.”
I nod my head at Santiago, who’s on the fish station, and pull him over to start the risotto since Lawson is behind. Again.
The restaurant I work at was recently bought out by Pauly Marino, a bigwig in the culinary industry owning multiple Michelin-star restaurants in Chicago, Vegas, Seattle, and New York City. It was renamed Bistro Marino, and buzz surrounding the new ownership has circulated throughout our North Shore suburbs, exciting many but terrifying some—mainly the staff.
Alfie reads me another ticket, then sighs. “Last time some executive prick took over a kitchen, I got the ax.” He slides two fingers across his neck. “I got too many high-limit credit cards I’m hiding from the wife to get cut from the payroll, man. My side piece appreciates the finer things, you know?”
I ignore him, drizzling hollandaise sauce over asparagus, then sending over the two plates for table twenty. Washing my hands, I gear up for a new round of orders while simultaneously checking on my line cooks and various stations.
The kitchen doors slap open, pulling my attention to the blue-blood-looking man strolling in, smartly dressed in a pristine heather-gray suit, slicked-back inky hair, and a shadowing of dark stubble framing his jaw. Bronzed skin showcases his Italian descent, and while his belly is round and swollen behind the suit jacket, his eyes are razor-sharp.
Pauly Marino.
My new boss.
Smoky tobacco and bergamot overpower the aroma of sautéing garlic when he sidles up beside me, hands linked behind his back. “Name,” he deadpans.
I flip the egg that I’m frying for a burger, offering him a tight smile. “Brant Elliott, chef.”
His coal-like eyes narrow as he looks me up and down. Intimidation emanates from him, and I’m pretty sure I should be pissing myself like Lawson to my right, but I stay focused, sliding the perfectly fried egg onto the beef patty.
Pauly makes a sighing sound that reeks of condescendence, leaning over to inspect my handiwork. “Those your beef Wellington dishes my customers were eating?”
He poses the question in a way that makes me want to deny all responsibility, but I nod as I garnish the burger. “Yes, Chef.”
“That is interesting.” Lips pursing with thought, he arches an eyebrow and saunters behind me, presumably off to unnerve another victim. “That is very interesting.”
Interesting sounds almost identical to “you’re fired,” but since Pauly doesn’t actually say those words, I keep working.
I work my ass off all night, delivering what I believe to be fifty-seven damn good beef Wellington dishes while overseeing the rest of our menu offerings and trying to decipher Pauly’s assortment of long drawn-out sighs that Alfie has dubbed “the sighs of death.” I’ve always been pretty good at reading the room, but hell, I can’t figure this guy out.
When the kitchen finally closes and cleaning commences, I pull off my white jacket and join the rest of my staff and coworkers in the main dining area for an impromptu meeting with Pauly before we all clock out for the evening.
“Line up,” he orders, sitting in a half-circle booth and sipping an amber liquid over ice. His top three shirt buttons are undone, revealing a sprinkling of dark chest hair. Pauly skims his fingers over his jaw, eyeing us as we dutifully obey his command like toy soldiers. “I would like to formally introduce myself to all of you. My name is Pauly Marino, and I am your former boss.”
My heart stutters.
Uhh…former?
“While I appreciate your dedicated service to previous owner Mark Davis, I am a very particular bastard who prefers to handpick and train each member of my team. I wish you all the best of luck in your future endeavors and hope you will come visit me and my restaurant again soon.” Pauly gives us a curt nod, then flicks his wrist as if shooing us away. “Discard your aprons by the hostess desk, please. I will have your final paychecks mailed to you.”
I exhale a hard breath while my coworkers begin to disperse, mumbling their profanities and disbelief. Alfie slides two fingers across his neck again, mouthing “Told you.”
Shit. I guess this means I’m unemployed.
June is going to be crushed. She was beyond excited for my promotion and even ordered me a custom-made “head chef” T-shirt with the money she’s been earning from working part-time as an assistant dance coach for the little local girls. The odds of me scoring another position like this one, with the awesome salary to boot, are slim to none.
As I rub at the nape of my neck, still processing the news, I pivot to exit the dining area. That’s when I’m stopped.
“Except for you, Mr. Elliott.”
