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“No cheese?”
I sigh. “No. No cheese.”
He shakes his head and pushes past me, running his hands along the counters like he might stumble upon a prepared bowl of cheesy pasta.
“Sir, you can’t be back here.”
“I can be wherever I like,” he shouts. “This is America, isn’t it?”
“It is, but this is a private restaurant and our insurance does not cover diners being back in the kitchen, so I have to ask you—”
“Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light!”
“Is that ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?” I ask, looking around to see whether anyone else can see this man or whether I’m having some sort of exhausted fever dream.
“What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?”
This is absurd. Truly absurd. Beyond calling the police, the easiest thing to do seems to be to give in to his demands, so I lay a hand on his shoulder and lead him to the corner of the kitchen. I pat the counter, and he jumps up like he is a child.
I listen to the National Anthem six times before I hand the man a bowl of whole grain linguini with a sharp cheddar cheese sauce on top. “Can you please take this back to the bar and leave me alone?”
He grabs the bowl from my hands, takes a bite, and then breaks into yet another rousing rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” This time in falsetto with accompanying dance moves.
I sigh and push him towards the door. “Come on, man.”
The dining room is loud enough that no one pays the man too much attention. Plus, he has been drunk out here for an hour before ambushing the kitchen. A few guests shake their heads at the man and then smile at me, giving me the understanding and recognition I sought from the kitchen staff. I lead the man back to the bar, tell the bartender to get rid of him as soon as the pasta is gone, and then make my way back through the dining room.
“She isn’t the chef,” says a deep voice at normal volume. “Chefs don’t look likethat.”
I don’t turn towards the table because I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing I heard them, of knowing they had any kind of power over me.
“Whatever she makes, it can’t taste half as good as her muffin,” another man says to raucous laughter.
I roll my eyes and speed up. I’m used to the comments and the cat calls. I’ve been dealing with it since I sprouted boobs. Even my father’s men would whisper things about me. It is part of the reason I chose a path outside the scope of the family business. I couldn’t imagine working with the kind of men my father employed. They were crass and mean and treated women like possessions. Unfortunately, the more I learn of the world beyond the Bratva, the more I realize men everywhere are like that. It is the reason I’ll never get married. I won’t belong to anyone.
I hear the men’s deep voices as I walk back towards the kitchen, but I don’t listen. I let the words roll off of me like water on a windowpane and step back into the safe chaos of the kitchen.
The kitchen seems to calm down as dinner service goes on, and I’m able to take a step back from micro-managing everything to work on an order of chicken tikka masala. While letting the tomato puree and spices simmer, I realize my stomach is growling. I was too nervous before shift to eat anything, and now that things have finally settled into an easy rhythm, my body is about to absorb itself. So, I casually walk over to where two giant stock pots are simmering with the starter soups for the day and scoop myself out a hearty ladle of lobster and bacon soup. Cal doesn’t like for anyone to eat while on service, but he has been in his office all evening, and based on the smell slipping out from under his door, he will be far too stoned to notice or care.
The soup is warm and filling, and I close my eyes as I eat, enjoying the blissful moment of peace before more chaos ensues.
The kitchen door opens, and this time it really is Makayla. I wave her over, eager to see how everyone is enjoying the food and whether the drunk patriot finally left the restaurant, but she doesn’t see me and walks with purpose through the kitchen and straight to Cal’s office door. She opens it and steps inside, and I wonder what she needed Cal for and why she couldn’t come to me. Lord knows I’ve handled every other situation that arose all night.
I’m just finished the last bite of my soup when Cal’s office door slams open, bouncing off the wall, and he stomps his way across the kitchen.
“Eve!”
I shove the bowl to the back of the counter, throwing a dish towel over top to hide the evidence, and then wipe my mouth quickly.
“Yes, chef?”
“Front and center,” he barks like we are in the military rather than a kitchen.
Despite the offense I take with his tone—especially after everything I’ve done to keep the place running all night—I move quickly to follow his order. Because that is what a good sous chef does. I follow the chef’s orders, no matter how demeaning.
Cal Higgs is a large man in every sense of the word. He is tall, round, and thick. His head sits on top of his shoulders with no neck in sight, and just walking across the room looks like a chore. I imagine being in his body would be like wearing a winter coat and scarf all the time.
“What is the problem, Chef?”
