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“Excuse me?” The disbelief that he could have possibly cooked a dish imperfectly was laughable given the complaints I fielded this shift.
Instead of using the diplomacy I always tried for when dealing with sensitive and temperamental chefs, I smiled. “As dry as the Sahara.”
Rodrick laughed. “I don’t have time for your silly games, Pippa. Go back to the front of the house and worry about doing your job.”
Dear Lord help me find my calm. I let out an exhausted sigh and stared at him in those deep green eyes. “Table three wants another lamb because this one is dry. So dry they couldn’t eat but a few bites each.” I put extra emphasis on the word dry because that vein in the middle of his forehead was already pulsing and that amused me. “Just fix it because-,”
He cut me off before I could tell him who the lamb was meant for. “My lamb is not fucking dry. I don’t cook anything dry, so go back out there and tell your precious customers that’s how the lamb is cooked.” Rodrick shook his head and swiped a dismissive hand in my direction. “Just stay in your own damn lane, Pippa.”
I nodded, not at all unaccustomed to chef’s belittling my work, as if dealing with the customers wasn’t as important as the food they ate. “Whatever. You do what you want Rodrick, but the customers who paid for this leg of lamb says it’s too dry to eat.” I held up the platter and the sous chef moved to relieve me of the heavy piece of meat, until Rodrick held up a hand to stop him.
“Tell them to try it again.”
I shook my head. “Maybe you should try it, because they did, and it was, quote, not good.”
“That’s not possible.”
“That’s funny, because to those three customers it’s more than possible, it’s reality.” Reality that they overpaid for what amounted to lamb jerky, from their perspective.
Another bark of laughter sounded, this time derisive, and I knew another tirade was coming. “This coming from some backwoods hillbilly who’s spent a little time in fine dining establishments? Excuse me if I don’t bow down to your culinary expertise.”
“No, excuse me for thinking a chef might pull out a meat thermometer when all the customers say their steaks are too dry, or too rare. It’s not my culinary expertise they come for, it’s yours, and lately that is in serious question.” I was done arguing with this idiot who clearly didn’t have the sense the good lord gave him.
“Yeah?” Rodrick stood at six-foot-four and decided to use his considerable height advantage against me, looming above me as if I was supposed to be scared.
My heart raced, but I ignored it, too fired up to worry that today might be the day he lost it completely. “Yeah. Everything tonight has been overcooked as hell, but you’re incapable of taking any kind of criticism, so no one tells you, and the waitstaff gets stiffed on good tips. Because of you. Not some backwoods hillbilly, but the allegedly classically trained man-child dressed in his chef’s costume.”
“Take it back,” he growled.
“Get out of my face, Rodrick.”
He smiled because he knew he had me at a disadvantage with the cumbersome platter of meat in my hands. “If I don’t?”
I set the platter down on the expediting strip and turned to face him. “I’m not one of your kitchen slaves, I bite back.” I shook my head and took a step away, not in defeat, but retreat.
Rodrick’s hand reached out and grabbed my arm, causing a collective gasp among the kitchen staff. “Get your hands off me, Rodrick.” My heart thudded against my chest as my flight or fight instinct kicked in. “Let. Me. Go.”
“Don’t walk away from me.”
“Get your damn hands off me. I won’t tell you again.” He laughed and gave my arm a tight squeeze, a look of utter glee in his green eyes. He was getting off on hurting me and the yelp I let out when he squeezed even tighter, pushed me into action. “Ow!”
“Right,” he snorted. “Or what?”
What happened next, in hindsight, was ill-advised at best, but I was a southern girl at heart, and no one got to lay hands on me without paying the consequences. I grabbed the leg of lamb and swung it at Rodrick, hitting him right in his stupid, smug face. He hit the ground with a grunt. “Or you’ll regret it.”
He smiled up at me. “I regret nothing. You’re done here. Pack up your shit and get out.”
I smiled down at him and shook my head. “Maybe so, but that lamb you refused to make again? Was ordered by Paul Renault. Good luck getting your next job.” Without another word, I turned on my bright red heels and returned to the dining room.
