Page 154 of Neap & Spring

Then the sauce breaks.

I see it happen and I’m already moving through the steps that will bring it back because I’ve done this before. I can fix this in ninety seconds if I’m left to it. I know exactly what to do. Callum’s sauces break all the time. I know how to fix this.

“Lane.”

“Give me ninety seconds, Chef, I can bring it back.”

“Stop.” The word carries across the kitchen loudly.

He comes to my station unhurried. He looks at the sauce and he looks at me, and then he does something he’s never done before.

He stops service.

“Everyone, stop your stations,” he says, voice carrying across the stainless steel. “Now.”

The kitchen goes quiet. Everyone stops what they’re doing, every cook slowly turning toward my station.

Toward me.

“I want everyone to see this,” Stellan says, gesturing to my broken sauce like it’s evidence in a trial. “I want you all to understand what happens when someone gets a position they’re not ready for.”

My face is burning. I can feel every set of eyes on me.

“Six months,” he continues, picking up my pan, holding it up for everyone to see. “I’ve given her six months. Six months of my time. My kitchen. My reputation. And this is what I get.”

He throws the pan onto my station with a clatter that echoes, sauce splattering.

“Do you know what she told me when I hired her?” He’s not looking at me anymore. He’s addressing the kitchen like I’m not even here. “She told me she trained at Le Cordon Bleu. Won some award there. And I thought — good, someone with fundamentals. Someone who understands technique.” He turns back to me now, and his expression is almost pitying. “But women always do better in school, don’t they? When the pressure’s not real and they can smile at their instructors and get second chances.”

Someone shifts uncomfortably behind me, but no one speaks.

“This is a broken sauce,” he says, as if explaining the situation to children. “In my kitchen. On the most important night of the season. From someone who’s supposed to have trained at one of the best culinary schools in the world.” He picks up the spoon to taste the sauce and winces theatrically. “You know what I think? I think Paris felt sorry for her and gave her a distinction she didn’t earn because she showed up and tried really hard and probably looked good doing it.”

My throat is closing. I can’t speak. I can’t move. I forget how to breathe.

“Some people,” he continues, his voice going softer now, “are built for kitchens like this. They have the instinct and the talent. The spine.” He looks at me dead-on. “And some people mistake their passion for ability. They love the idea of being a chef. The romance of it. The little white coat and the fancy kitchen. But when it comes to the actual pressure of professional cooking” — he gestures at my sauce — “this is what you get.”

I feel my chest crack in half.

“Maybe,” he says, and now his tone has gone almost gentle, the way you talk to someone you’re letting down easy, “you’d be better suited for a different kind of kitchen. A little bistro somewhere, where it doesn’t matter if the sauce breaks because the customers don’t know the difference anyway.” He pauses. “Or maybe you’re better suited not cooking at all. Have you considered that? That maybe this isn’t for you?”

The kitchen is frozen. Every person is watching this happen and doing nothing.

“Do you know what I tell people when they ask about you?” His voice carries to every corner of the kitchen. “When a journalist asked me last week about my team and the young talent I’m developing here” — he shakes his head slowly — “I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Because all you are is effort. You work hard, you stay late, and you try so desperately to get my attention. But effort without talent is just noise. And I don’t have room for noise in my kitchen.”

He picks up my pan and dumps the sauce, pan and all, into the trash. The sound of it hitting the bottom echoes in the silence.

“Derek,” he calls. “Bring someone from prep. We need an actual chef on this station.”

And then he just walks away.

“Everyone back to work,” he says over his shoulder. “We have forty covers waiting, and we’ve wasted enough time.”

The kitchen starts moving again, slowly at first. People returning to their stations, avoiding my eyes, the sound gradually building back up.

I’m still standing there.

My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking.