Ice slithers down my spine. This is really happening.
“You’re talented as hell, Jack. Truly. You have a special touch. But I can’t keep you on like this. Not here, and definitely not at Green Street.” My face must look like a fish right before its head is chopped off, because he continues, “I know you’ll land on your feet. Maybe in the future, once you’ve had some time to get your life together, we can talk.”
I’ve left restaurants unceremoniously before. There one day, gone the next, hopping ships like a harbor rat. But that was before Douglas. I bought into everything he said about my potential, put my head down and worked hard and kept my mouth shut when it came to personnel like Jimmy. I’m not stupid; I knew I was trying to replace what I lost with Sal with Douglas instead. He couldn’t be like a father, but I didn’t deserve a father anyway. A mentor would do. The thing is, I thought it was working.
“I know I haven’t been handling things well.” I swallow past a sudden lump in my throat. “I’ll be better, I promise. I’ll handle my shit.”
“I’m sure you know Sal wouldn’t want this for you,” Douglas says softly.
“He died,” I say, voice raw. Dull knives are more dangerous than sharp ones, and it feels like Douglas just stabbed one into me, old and rusty, and twisted it. “We don’t know what he’d want.”
“Listen.” Douglas squeezes my shoulder. I resist the urge to flinch. “Jack, you’re a good kid. This isn’t the end. I hate to do this, but it’s business, okay? Just business.”
“But—”
“Stay for the shift, end things on a good note. We’ll talk about severance tomorrow.” Another sad, tight smile, and he side-steps out of the office, leaving me alone.
Somehow, I make it to service without throwing up or punching Jimmy in his smug mouth. He must have known that Douglas was about to fire me.
I’ve been fighting the urge to leave, let him figure out this dinner rush on his own—but I don’t want to screw everyone else over. And truthfully, there isn’t anywhere to go. I don’t spend much time at my apartment. It’s just a box that holds secondhand furniture and my collection of cookbooks. I don’t have friends so much as coworkers; Hazel is the closest I’ve been with anyone lately, and still, it’s not much deeper than a friendly work connection. The last conversation I had with someone outside of work? It was with Gilbert, the old guy who runs the pretzel cart I like best in the city. A girlfriend? I haven’t had a girlfriend since the disaster that was Jessica Danes, and that was three years ago now, when I worked on her father’s yacht as their private chef.
I rub my aching breastbone. When things get difficult and I’ve overstayed my welcome, people cut me loose. It went that way for years, bouncing between foster homes in the county, having case workers and teachers take an interest in helping, only to abandon me after one incident too many. It was that way with Jessica, whom I should have known was too good to be true. And now it’s that way with Douglas, willing to shut the door in my face despite all my talent and grit.
I did this to myself—I always do—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. The only person who ever wanted me to stay was Sal, and I messed that up too.
I should have known that Green Street was too good to be true.
So, I stay. Service begins. I settle in at my usual station, poissonnier, turning over seafood dishes with speed. The hum of the kitchen fades away, reduced to the shouts of the expediter keeping us on track, the sizzle of fish in the pans in front of me, the tick of my multiple timers as I take on tables—two, three, even four at a time. People are loving Jimmy’s special, which I’m cooking; he’s by the pass, fiddling with garnishes. We’ll run out of snapper soon. I dab the sweat away from my hairline. Take a deep gulp of water, studiously ignoring the part of me that wishes it was a beer instead.
All the while, anger simmers in my bones like stock on the back of a stove. I roll my shoulders, grit my teeth. I finish a lobster Thermidor, one of the first classic dishes I ever learned to make, and pass it down the line. It’s a staple at Pastiche, something I could make in my sleep. Normally I smile whenever someone orders it. Not tonight.
Across the kitchen, Hazel is a blur of activity. Jorge hums to himself as he sears off steaks. Jimmy passes two dishes to a server, a pretty woman whose name I don’t know, with a wink. Hazel somehow catches the action and mimes vomiting into the vat of boiling water she’s overseeing. I try to laugh but can’t manage more than a pathetic wheeze.
“Um, Chef?” Another server pokes his head out from the pass. “We’ve got overcooked lobster. Table Nineteen.”
Jimmy takes the plate, poking at it with his fingers.
“It’s not over,” I say. “I checked.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
He nods—and then throws the dish, plate and all, into the trash.
The kitchen goes quiet.
“Re-fire Nineteen,” he says after a long, awful pause. There’s a smirk on his face.
I manage to keep my hands from shaking as I take out a fresh pan. Select another portion of lobster. I remember something about the pre-service meeting, suddenly. Bret Whittaker, a reviewer forThe New York Times, was likely to come in. He knows what I cook here, and he’s never reviewed me well.
My ears hum with energy. An angry buzz that means I’m about to do something really fucking stupid. When I was a teenager, it was usually a fight. Now...
I don’t give a shit. I don’t work here anymore.
I shove past Jimmy into the dining room with fire in my veins.
Chapter 2
