She’s gone. Disappearing around the corner and into the kitchen.
What the fuck is happening?
Chapter Six
Summer
Chefs love to feed people. That’s a given.
When I heard Ezra’s stomach rumble, my instincts kicked in, and I went for the nearest kitchen.
Now that I’m standing in it, I’m trying to figure out just what the hell it is I’m doing, and not just because this place is depressing.
They have the basics, like bowls and pans, and not nearly enough seasoning from the looks of it, but that’s it. It’s evident that Stick Taps doesn’t spend a lot of time and effort on their kitchen, and I guess I get it. After glancing over the menu earlier, which primarily features simple dishes like Seattle-style hot dogs, chicken tenders, and mac and cheese bites, it’s clear they aren’t trying to impress people with their culinary skills.
It’s such a shame, because I think they might draw evenmoreof a crowd than they already do. They need an overhaul. They need someone to come in and make this place a go-to for drinksanddinner. They need—No.
I banish my thoughts right there. I amnothere to work in another kitchen. I’m here to pay off a debt to my father, and that’s it. Besides, I’m not even sure if I still want to be a chef. There’s no reason for me to get involved with another kitchen when I’m so uncertain.
Still, Ezra needs to eat, and this place is so lacking that it’s basically like cooking dinner for my father. No harm in making alittlesomething, right?
I move toward the industrial-size fridge they have—their one saving grace—and take inventory of what I’m working with.
It’s not much. In fact, it’s barely even stocked with ... well, anything. Where are the fresh herbs? Where are the ingredients for the salsa served with the chips? Where are all the eggs for their batter for the chicken tenders?
I slide my eyes to the freezer.
Ugh. It’s all frozen, isn’t it?
The door swings open behind me so hard that it nearly bounces off the wall. “What the hell are you doing?”
I turn to Ezra, who has taken up his usual stance—arms crossed over his impossibly big chest, his veins popping on his forearms, and his legs spread just a few inches apart. His dark brows are slashed together, his pouty lips flat, his strong jaw set. It’s all very authoritarian-like, as if he’s about to yell at me. Or take control of the situation.
A shiver rolls down my spine at the thought, and I quickly push it away before it can spread into something it shouldn’t.
“Where are your ingredients?”
He flinches at the question, like it was the last thing he expected. “What?”
“I thought this was a kitchen, so where is all the food?”
“Uh, I don’t know. The freezer? I don’t exactly come in here often.”
“Is that because nobody ever even orders food?”
He opens his mouth—I assume to argue—then he snaps it shut. He knows I’m right. I’ve worked here for only three days, but I think we’ve had fewer than twenty people actually place an order for food. They don’t even have someone who works the kitchen full-time, unless it’s for big events or weekends, according to Warner.
“Most people are here to drink, not to eat.”
“Yet you’re still smart enough to know that you need a menu.”
“A lot of cideries and breweries around here allow people to bring their own food. We don’t discourage that.”
“You would if you actually believed in your menu. I’m surprised this is what you have to offer, especially when you’re hosting so many weddings here now. Caterers want a usable kitchen, too, you know.”
Somehow his perpetual frown deepens, but I don’t care. I turn from him, looking for something to make.
I find some noodles, a couple of blocks of cheese that look like they’ve been destroyed by a toddler, and a few spices that will have to do.
