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Typical chef, she thought, wincing at the unpleasant memories it brought back, and yet he seemed genuinely shocked as well as angry. Was his palate really that bad? Giving in to a sudden impulse, she entered the kitchen. Four pairs of eyes immediately focused on her—her server, a lanky teenage busboy with a red cap, a very human and very angry chef, and a sous chef who was… not human.
Blushing under the surveillance, she raised her chin.
“Did you actually taste your perfect food?”
He crossed his arms and glared at her.
“I created the recipe.”
Grabbing the plate the server had brought back, she thrust it at him.
“Try it again.”
Still glaring, he took a large, defiant bite and immediately gagged before rounding on the sous chef.
“What the hell did you do to my recipe, you idiot?”
She winced again, even as the sous mumbled an apology. Nothing that went wrong in the kitchen was ever the chef’s fault, she remembered bitterly. The sous chef’s mournful blue face only seemed resigned, but it was hard to believe that anyone with any level of skill could have made such an egregious mistake.
“Where did you prepare the vinaigrette?” she asked.
He gave her a frightened look but pointed to his station. Ignoring the chef’s outraged demand to know what she was doing, she inspected the station, then picked up the salt dish. A quick taste confirmed her suspicion.
“Someone has replaced the salt with sugar.”
The other four exchanged nervous glances, even the chef falling silent.
“I’m telling you, dude, we got ghosts,” the busboy said, grinning. “Ain’t that cool?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the chef snapped. “Which one of you is deliberately ruining my food?”
More nervous glances, but they looked scared rather than guilty. Before anyone could speak, another server bounced into the kitchen.
“Two bruschetta, two fish,” she announced cheerfully, then looked around. “Why the long faces?”
“The bruschetta is off the menu. Tell them they’ll have to have the salad with eggplant dressing.” The chef turned back to his stove with an impatient flick of his hand.
“But the woman is allergic to eggplant,” the server protested.
“Can’t you make some more dressing?” she asked, but the sous shook his head.
“No more octopus.”
“Maybe we could try rescuing the dressing?”
The chef ignored her, but the others gave her a hopeful look. Grabbing an apron from the stack on a nearby shelf, she wrapped it around her waist, washed her hands, and then forced herself to take another taste, considering her options.
“Do you have capers? And perhaps some soy sauce? Dill?”
“Those are not part of my recipe.”
The chef scowled at her as the sous nodded eagerly.
“Neither was the sugar. It’s a new recipe now. And you’d better check all the salt dishes,” she added as he reached for the salt on his station.
All of them had been filled with sugar instead, but she ignored the chef’s outraged swearing as she concentrated on correcting the dressing.
“What do you think?” she asked the sous.
