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When we reach the kitchen, Jadyn turns to me. “What in the world, Gianna? How did you become Elizabeth’s server?”
I explain the unfortunate news about Pamela. Jadyn looks around the kitchen to see if anyone’s listening. “Don’t let Henrique know. I’ll take over her table.”
Crisis averted. As soon as I turn in Elizabeth’s order, the entire kitchen is swept into a chaotic dance of chopping, sautéing, stirring, and garnishing. In the middle of the frenzy is Lucas, the director of this culinary dance, calling out ingredients, rushing around the kitchen, grabbing the scallions and garlic. The process takes more time than it should and everyone is falling behind.
I grab a pad of paper and start drawing. It’s a rough sketch of a detailed workflow envisioning what needs to happen without making the chef run around.
If everyone knew what Lucas needed next, and someone acted as his assistant, he could shave off so much time, making the kitchen more efficient. But it means someone needs to be Lucas’s right hand.
Next to the picture I list all the things Lucas needs and how each workstation should be set up to gain maximum efficiency. My OCD excels at organizing and structuring systems, which is why my internship is a perfect fit. Every research project needs a plan and process, otherwise it fails.
From across the kitchen, Lucas melts butter, swirling it slowly in the pan, then adds shrimp into the melting concoction. He pushes the shrimp around until they’re soft, knowing how much heat to create the most succulent appetizer ever.
For a moment, Lucas glances across the kitchen and his gaze catches mine. He blinks, like he’s pulled back to reality, his lip hitching up to one side into a gorgeous half-smile.
Is he smiling…at me? I turn around to make sure someone isn’t behind me. No one is there.
When I turn back, Lucas is focused on his cooking, unaware of the chaos around him. Every once in a while his eyes flick toward mine and I glance away, my face heating.
Finally, Lucas examines his culinary masterpiece: a shrimp appetizer with an Asian peanut sauce.
“Perfect!” he murmurs. “The shrimp is ready.”
Nobody responds. They’re all absorbed in their tasks.
I rush forward, determined to get this dish to Elizabeth Mack as fast as possible.
As I’m about to reach for the plate, another woman leans in at the same time. Both our hands tug at the plate before she lets go.
And that’s when everything falls apart.
Anyone who knows basic science understands that an object in motion stays in motion. Including food.
The shrimp sails into the air as if someone had launched it with a slingshot.
It’s an impossible rescue, but I’m lunging for them anyway, oblivious to anything—or anyone—who’s in my way. Unfortunately, I don’t see the kitchen assistant who’s handing off a second dish for Lucas to finish, and I slam into him, knocking the pork skewers from his hands and dousing my shirt in sriracha sauce. The shrimp and pork bounce across the tiles like rubber balls.
Suddenly, the kitchen goes deathly silent, all the chopping and sautéing screeching to a grinding halt. My shirt is splattered with sauce, and the pork and shrimp are ruined.
Henrique storms into the kitchen, his eyes sweeping over the mess. “What is going on here?”
My mouth drops open, but no sound follows.
He points at the shrimp and pork. “Are these Elizabeth’s appetizers?”
It’s obvious who caused this accident. I’m covered in sauce.
“This is a disaster!” he says. “Clean up this mess.”
I drop to my knees and begin plucking shrimp and pork off the floor, my face as hot as the sauce on my shirt.
Suddenly, Lucas steps forward, the only one brave enough to face Henrique. “It’s not her fault. We run a very busy kitchen. Too many bodies in a small space. Accidents happen.”
I can’t believe Lucas is sticking up for me. In front of everyone. But especially Henrique.
“An accident? This kitchen is disorganized,” Henrique huffs.
“This isn’t the time to discuss how I run the kitchen,” Lucas says sharply to Henrique.
