Cooking is mostly about preparation. There are rules to follow. Systems in place to ensure consistency. Diners won’t be coming into Pastiche until the evening, but we have a million things to do before the first reservations walk in. There’s meat and fish to be butchered and portioned out, sauces to complete, components to finalize. A million garnishes to prepare, which is what I’ve been doing while contemplating the merits of puking in the graffitied staff bathroom.
Across from me, Jimmy, our sniveling dickwad of an executive chef whose idea of getting fancy extends only as far as adding a smear of purée to the plate, fiddles with options for the special. We have fresh snapper today, the flesh firm and gleaming; he’s thinking of doing a take on al forno. It’s tomato season, after all. Hazel passes by with flour on her hands. She’s working the pasta station, focused on making the homemade cavatelli we’re known for. Jimmy stops her, offering a spoon for her to taste.
“Delicious,” she says. She glances sidelong at me. “Douglas is here.”
“What? Why?”
She shrugs. “You know, Jimmy?”
Jimmy ducks his head. I think I catch a smirk, but I have dark spots swimming at the edges of my vision, so it’s possible I’m imagining it. Hazel purses her lips, tucking a dark curl back underneath her bandanna.
Douglas Winfield strides into the kitchen. He looks as impeccable as he did the morning he accosted me outside the French Laundry, asking how much it would take to get me to work for him. Full suit, knotted tie, salt-and-pepper hair parted with precision. Hispale blue eyes find me first. He looks a little like Jorge did outside, on the edge of a grimace.
“Sir,” Jimmy says, making a big show of wiping his hands on a towel before reaching out for a shake. “Thanks for coming in.”
“Always a pleasure, Scazzero.”
Douglas does a visual sweep of the kitchen, nodding at what he finds. The stainless steel is spotless. Everyone is quiet, efficient, and focused. Then again, anyone can make the daytime prep seem fluid. Never mind that Jimmy does a shit job running the kitchen during service, that he’ll disappear into the office after finalizing the special and argue with his ex-wife loudly enough we can all hear, then do a few lines of coke in the bathroom. Not that I haven’t done the same—minus the ex-wife part. But my name isn’t on the menu.
Maybe Douglas is here to tell me that Green Street is moving along faster than planned. When I agreed to come work for him, it was with the promise of upward mobility. In a few months, Green Street will be the latest jewel in the Winfield Group’s portfolio of restaurants—and I’ll be its chef de cuisine. Once I’m there, I won’t have to pretend that Jimmy’s food is anything special, or fire people on his behalf, or any of the other shit I’ve been grinding through for years, same as at the dozen other places I’ve worked since culinary school. When we first agreed to the promotion, Douglas promised me free rein over the staff, the menu, even the wine list. Everything.
“Hartman, can we have a word?” Douglas asks.
My stomach knots. That doesn’t sound very congratulatory.
I follow Douglas into the cramped office. The fluorescent light overhead flickers ominously. He leans against the wall. Peers at the whiteboard, which is covered in chicken scratch—mostly mine—and several unfortunately realistic dicks. Uncut. Probably Hazel’s doing. She has an art degree. Got into cooking to pay off her student loans.
“What’s up?” I ask, after a minute or so of him staring. “Sir?”
Douglas scrapes his hand over his jaw. “Jack, I have to let you go.”
“Let me go,” I repeat. The words take on meaning slowly through the haze of my headache. “As in...”
“As in we’re moving on from you.”
“You’re kidding.” I wait for Douglas to laugh, say something about razzing me, but he doesn’t. He looks as serious as a doctor giving a patient very bad news.
He grimaces. “No.”
“But—”
“We’d like you to ride out another few weeks to help the new sous acclimate. And we’ll offer severance, of course.”
My head throbs as I take a quick mental tally of the three months since Sal’s death. I’ve been late more than I should, but I’ve only missed one full shift, the day of the funeral; it was easier to get drunk than face what I was missing. I’m not the first or last chef to drink a little on the line. I’m notokay, but I’m functional. Mostly. I’ve been remembering to take my Adderall. I know I’ve fucked up, but I’m a good cook. A great cook. Better than Jimmy, or anyone else on this staff. I have a James Beard award underneath my belt, for fuck’s sake.
“Jimmy says—”
A red haze seems to descend on my vision. “You’re going to believe Jimmy over me? Fucking Jimmy Scazzero?”
“You’ve been a mess for months!” Douglas finally snaps. “You’re late constantly, if you show up for work at all, you smell like the floor of a goddamn bar, you made that server quit—”
“She was as much a server as Chili’s is fine dining.”
“That doesn’t fucking matter!”
My mouth snaps shut. If I was covered in gasoline instead of sweat, Douglas’s look would set me on fire.
“Look,” he says finally, with immense patience. “I didn’t want it to come to this.”
