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He hitches a thumb over his shoulder, and Makayla gives me an apologetic wince. “Someone complained about the food, and they want to see the chef.”
I wrinkled my forehead. I’d personally tasted every dish that went out. Unless Felix managed to slide another dish past me with raisins in it instead of prunes, I’m not sure what the complaint could be. “Was there something wrong with the dish or did they simply not like it?”
“Does it matter?” he snaps. His eyes are bloodshot and glassy, yet his temper is as sharp as ever. “I don’t like unhappy customers, and you need to fix it.”
“But you’re the chef,” I say, realizing too late I should have stayed quiet.
Cal steps forward, and I swear I can feel the floor quake under his weight. “But you made the food. Should I go out there and apologize on your behalf? No, this is your mess, and you will take care of it.”
“Of course,” I say, looking down at the ground. “You’re right. I’ll go out there and make this right.”
Before Cal can find another reason to yell at me, I retie my apron around my waist, straighten my white jacket, and march through the swinging kitchen doors.
The dining room is quieter than before. The drunk man is no longer singing the National Anthem at the bar and several of the tables are empty, the bussers clearing away empty plates. Happy plates, I might add. Clearly, they didn’t have an issue with the food.
I didn’t ask Makayla who complained about the food, but as soon as I walk into the main dining area, it is obvious. There is a small gathering at the corner booth, and a salt and pepper-haired man in his late fifties or early sixties raising a hand in the air and waves me over without looking directly at me. I haven’t even spoken to the man yet, and I already hate him.
I’m standing at their table, staring at the man, but he doesn’t speak to me until I announce my presence.
“I heard someone wanted to speak with the chef,” I say.
He turns to me, one eyebrow raised. “You are the chef?”
I recognize a Russian accent when I hear one, and this man is Russian without a doubt. I wonder if I know him. Or if my father does. Would he be complaining to me if he knew my father was head of the Furino family? I would never throw my family name around in order to scare people, but for just a second, I have the inclination.
“Sous chef,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster. “I ran the kitchen tonight, so I’ll be hearing the complaints.”
His eyes move down my body slowly like he is inspecting a cut of meat in a butcher shop. I cross my arms over my chest and spread my feet hip-width apart. “So, was there an issue with the food? I’d love to correct any problems.”
“Soup was cold.” He nudges his empty bowl to the center of the table with three fingers. “The portions were too small, and I ordered my steak medium-rare, not raw.”
Every plate on the table is empty. Not a single crumb in sight. Apparently, the issues were not bad enough he couldn’t finish his meal.
“Do you have any of the steak left?” I ask, making a show of looking around the table. “If one of my cooks undercooked the meat, I’d like to be able to inform them.”
“If? I just told you the meet was undercooked. Are you doubting me?”
“Of course not,” I say.Yes, absolutely I am.“It is just that if the meat was undercooked, I do not understand why you waited until you’d eaten everything to inform me of the problem?”
The man looks around the table at his companions. They are all smiling, and I can practically see them sharpening their teeth, preparing to rip me to shreds. When he turns back to me, his smile is acidic, deadly. “How did you get this position—sous chef? Surely not by skill. You are pretty, which I’m sure did you a favor. Did you sleep with the chef? Maybe—” he moves his hand in an obscene gesture—“‘service’ the boss to earn your place in the kitchen? Surely your ‘talent’ didn’t get you the job, seeing as how you have none.”
I physically bite my tongue and then take a deep breath. “If you’d like me to remake anything for you or bring out a complimentary dessert, I’m happy to do that. If not, I apologize for the issues and hope you will not hold it against us. We’d love to have you again.”
Lies. Lies. Lies. I’m smiling and being friendly the way I was taught in culinary school. I actually took a class on dealing with customers, and this man is being even more outrageous than the overexaggerated angry customer played by my professor.
“Why would I want more food from you if the things you already sent out were terrible?” He snorts and shakes his head. “I see you do not have a ring on. That is no surprise. Men like a woman who can cook. Men don’t care if you know your way around a professional kitchen if you don’t know your way around a dinner plate.”
The older gentleman is speaking, but I hear my father’s words in my head.You do not need to go to culinary school to find a husband, Eve. Your aunties can teach you to cook good food for your man.
My entire life has been preparation for finding a husband. The validity of every hobby is judged by whether it will fetch me a suitor or not. My father wants me to be happy, but he mostly wants me to be married. Single, I’m a disappointment. Married, I’m a vessel for future Furino mafia members.
Years of anger and resentment begin to bubble and hiss inside of me until I’m boiling. My hands are shaking, and I can feel adrenaline pulsing through me, lighting every inch of me on fire. This time, I don’t bite my tongue.
“I’d rather die alone than spent another minute near a man like you,” I spit, stepping forward and laying my palms flat on the table. “The fact that you ate all of the food you apparently hated shows you are a pig in more ways than one.”
In the back of my mind, I recognize that my voice is echoing around the restaurant and the chatter in the rest of the room has gone quiet, but blood is whirring in my ears, and I can’t stop. I’ve stayed quiet and docile for too long. Now, it is my turn to speak my mind.
“You and your friends may be wealthy and respected, but I see you for what you are—spineless, cowardly assholes who are so insecure they have to take their rage out on everybody else.”
