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Time has gone so quickly since I got off the ferry this morning. The lunch serving was problem-free today, but dinner has just been a shitshow. We were booked to capacity all night in the restaurant, with more diners sitting in the bar. It’s getting later in the night, but from all reports of the waitstaff, at least the party of eight in the bar are having a great night. Quite often we get the quiet, serious diners who have loads of money but can’t seem to crack a smile. Or couples, where one partner is trying to impress the other by bringing them out to such a high-end venue. But this group in the bar tonight is loud, laughing and enjoying the food and a whole lot of margaritas. My idea of a night out.
Not that I get one often. I live to work, not intentionally, but that is just what happened. But over the years, it has gotten me to where I am today, at the top of my game. The harder I work, the easier living is. I started with nothing, and I don’t want to go back there. I’m not rich by any means, but I am comfortable, and I make sure my mum is too. She hates it when I do things for her, telling me she doesn’t need it, but the satisfaction of seeing her driving a car that I know won’t break down on her makes me worry less about her when I can’t be there.
“I don’t know what the drama is!” I hear one of my junior chefs mumbling under his breath with one of the waitstaff, standing there with food on the plate she has just brought back. One thing I pride myself on is having excellent hearing above the noise, so I’ve always got my finger on the pulse in my kitchen.
“Because you served her up a plate of pure fat, you dickhead. Not one piece of meat on that plate. No wonder she didn’t eat it.”
Feeling the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise, my fists are clenching.
I need to give him the chance to sort this out. It’s the only way he’ll learn.
“Well, sometimes you get that. It’s just as tasty, so she missed out,” he replies to her, making Brea, the waitress, huff as she slams the plate down in front of him and turns for the door.
“I’m not charging her for that meal, and that’s on you,” she calls over her shoulder, flicking her ponytail as she storms back out of the kitchen.
Stupid little shit.
“Dirk!” I call across the kitchen. You need a loud voice in here because things are never quiet, and if they are, you should worry. A noisy kitchen is a busy kitchen, which leads to a profitable kitchen, and that means I’m doing my job right.
“Yes, Chef?” He looks up from where he is plating up a steak. We are almost closed for orders for the night, so everyone is trying to push out the last meals on the lists.
“Since when do we serve up food that is not to my standard?” I walk closer to him, wanting to hear every part of his explanation.
“Never, Chef.” I can see his pupils getting wider the closer I get to the plate that is sitting on the counter next to him.
“Correct.” I poke the leftover food on the plate with a knife that was lying next to it. My muscles tense as I see what it is. “Then… what… the fuck… is this?” I draw every word out, trying not to explode but loud enough that everyone in the kitchen gets quiet, listening to what is about to go down.
“Sorry, Chef, I didn’t see that. I swear it had plenty of meat on it.” The sweat now beading on his forehead is not from the hot plate he has been working over all night.
Wrong answer, buddy!
“Are you trying to tell me the customer is a liar?” I hiss, pushing the plate to the side, probably a little too forcefully, as it almost flies off the other side of the counter.
“No, Chef.” He looks scared that I thought that, and he’s dreading what I will say next.
“Get that meal plated and out of the kitchen now, before we have another upset diner who is out there spouting that the food in Nic Weston’s restaurant is disgusting. Because it’s not your name they will be using when they tell every friend they have what a bad meal they were served from my kitchen, is it?”
“Sorry, Chef.” His hands work double speed to plate his meal and make it look perfect.
“Then when you’re done, get your fucking ass out there and apologize to that customer and organize a free drink at the bar for her. I don’t care how much you grovel, but she better be leaving here tonight happy and feeling satisfied. Understood?”
“Yes, Chef,” is his reply, but he’s a little less confident and quieter than before. He looks down, afraid to make eye contact. And so he fucking should!
I demand the best in my kitchen and nothing less. And I respect this kid enough to teach him that, otherwise he has no place working in a restaurant like this.
Turning back to check on the rest of the kitchen, all faces are on me, and as soon as I make eye contact, they are scrambling to look like they’re busy and weren’t watching me rant.
“Get the last dishes out now!” I shout, demanding their attention but also reminding them to keep their head in the game.
My kitchen is my domain. No one fucks with my place.
* * *
By the time we have finished with service and the clean-up routine is almost done, I’m checking on tomorrow’s bookings, triple-checking the supplies on hand and the orders that are due in the morning.
“Well, that was an interesting night.” Flynn, my sous chef, the man I trust to be in charge when I’m not here and my best friend for years, drops onto the stool next to me at the counter I’m doing my paperwork on.
“If by interesting you mean a shitshow, then yes, you’re correct,” I say, scribbling down in my order book to talk to the supplier of the lamb we had trouble with tonight. If they can’t supply the highest quality I expect, then I’ll find someone who can.
