A what?
He stares at me like I’m a six-headed dragon or something. A what? He repeats back to me. A toastie?
I don’t know what that is, I tell him, feeling a little embarrassed, like I’m missing something here, or like I don’t know something that I should probably know.
Do you not have toasties in Canada?
Maybe not, I say, pointing to a bus on the side of the road, But we do have lobster rolls.
Finn pulls over and we each order a massive lobster roll, deciding to share a basket of fries between us, like the happy couple we are not. We make our way over to a bright blue picnic table, bringing our provisions with us.
I’ve not had a chance to ask about your life at home. What do you do for work, Violet? Finn asks me, leaning down to bite into his lobster roll. He groans with pleasure at the taste, and I have to focus really hard on the question he just asked me.
I’m… I trail off. Sort of between jobs, right now. I guess. I try not to flinch at my own answer, feeling embarrassed to admit to him that I’m unemployed.
He looks over at me, a question written in his expression, but he only says, There’s a story here, I reckon. Go on then.
The condensed version— I start, but he cuts me off.
We’ve got time. The whole version, if you will.
I sigh. The whole version?
The whole version is a gaping wound that I’m not sure I’m ready to open up again. But I find myself speaking before I can talk myself out of it.
After we finished school in New York, I went back home to Victoria. I loved restaurants growing up. My dad would work as a line cook sometimes, and when I was little I would hang around restaurants a lot. I loved the food and the atmosphere—the hustle. But when I went to school, I realized I didn’t really love to cook.
Finn smirks. You say that like it’s a problem.
Well, when you’ve gone to culinary school, and done a culinary arts degree, it sort of is a problem. I wasn’t sure what to do next. After I moved home, I got a job as a hostess, but I felt like I was wasting myself or something. Not that that isn’t a good job to have, I don’t mean that, I say, feeling flustered. But I had spent all this money on a big fancy school in New York, and I could have done that job without being thousands of dollars in debt.
I think of how to continue. I guess I felt really lost after university, you know?
He smiles at me, an easy, understanding smile. I do know. I look at him curiously, but he only urges me to go on. I take a bite of my own lobster roll first, and am delighted to find that it’s delicious.
Anyway, after a few months of being back home, I was feeling restless but not sure what to do or where to go. It felt like I was completely frozen. But thankfully someone we went to school with in New York, who was working in Toronto at the time, called me about a job. A chef they knew was starting a kind of food agency. And my friend thought the idea was good, but was adamant that this guy needed some help pulling it off. And this person had thought of me, because of how organized I’d been while we were at school.
A food agency? What is that?
The idea was that you could hire this chef—well, it was only him to start, but soon we had dozens of chefs working for us—for private events or holidays. Sometimes people want private chefs at home, which eventually expanded into wellness services and meal plans as well. Then there would be in-flight chefs or people to cook on private yachts for our clients. It got pretty big, pretty fast, and our clientele always seemed to find new places or ways to use us as a high-end food service, I pause, biting into my own lobster roll and mulling over how to continue.
I was hired on as his assistant. This chef, Gabe, that’s his name, was the face and the vision of the whole thing, I shrug a little sheepishly. I just sort of made everything run smoothly behind the scenes.
I know I’m not being entirely truthful here. I basically ran the entire business behind the scenes. I knew our clients and type of clientele, and our chefs. Which meant I knew whose personalities would mesh well, which wait staff to bring in and who to keep away from the same events. Gabe occasionally worked events, but mostly he shmoozed and found us new clients, while I kept everything running like a well-oiled machine.
This sounds class, Violet, Finn says, reaching over for a handful of fries. So, then what?
I feel a knot form in the pit of my stomach. I’m used to being very much in control and being seen as someone who is put together. Composed. Goodie-two-shoes that I am, I don’t exactly love admitting that I was fired.
I was let go, I tell him slowly, a little shocked that I’m admitting this much to him. After a client’s event went sideways. I shake my head, trying not to remember it. It was really bad.
Finn frowns. You were let go after one bad night? After you worked there for how long?
About eight years. I have never openly admitted to anyone that I think Gabe didn’t like the credit I was getting. And used my one and only mistake as a reason to get rid of me.
As if he can tell I don’t want to get into the details of what happened, he asks, And then you went back to Victoria?
I nod. The timing was good, in a way. My Nan had recently fallen at home, and hurt herself pretty badly. She was living by herself, which she had been since my Opa passed away, and suddenly needed someone around full-time to take care of her. So I moved into her place, I take a deep breath before adding, before he can pry, That was over a year and a half ago now. So, yep, been pretty much doing nothing since then. I feel the flush of embarrassment anyway.
