by Adriana Peck
Eventually, things between Mason and I reach a boiling point, and everything spills over.
Mason hands me a ticket: a simple cod fillet. Easy. I wonder if it’s for the critic. Mason hasn’t said anything yet. I make the dish the way the menu says, but when I hand the dish over to Mason he freaks out.
“The order specifically said baked, not grilled!” he practically shouts at me when I hand the dish over. He waves the order card at me, and I squint to read his scribbles he calls handwriting. I see no mention of baked anything, so I get defensive and snap back:
“Well, you should have told me that then!”
Mason scowls, slams the plate down on a countertop.
“Make the cod the right way, now.”
“I did make it the right way, you just didn’t bother to tell me the special instructions! There’s no way in hell this was my fault.”
“So you’re saying I’m to blame, then?” Mason asks. Unfortunately, I take the bait.
“Yes, it is!” I practically scream back at him.
Mason scowls at me. “I think we need to work on our communication skills. You especially. I’ll make sure to tell you everything from here on out.”
I want to rip my hair out. “Yes, I do want you to tell me things. I don’t think I could have been more clear before.”
“Like I said,” Mason says as he turns back to his patrons. “Communication skills.”
I cannot believe this. I grunt out of sheer frustration and stamp my feet like a child. I seriously cannot believe this. I cannot believe what Mason does to me. I cannot believe how much I adore him, and yet, at the same time, I absolutely can believe how much of a total ass he can be at times.
Just to calm myself down. I tell myself I’ll talk to Mason about all this later. Work on my communication skills with him. What. An. Ass. I get back to work on the cod. It’s coming along fine, and I double- and triple-check the order card full of Mason’s squiggles just to make sure I’m not messing things up like he’s saying I am. I’m going to be right. I’m going to prove him wrong, and then we can work on our communication skills. God, I already despise that phrase.
◆◆◆
I have no doubt in my mind that Mason’s going to want to talk about tonight later. He’s scowling more. I can tell he's not happy, and some part of me knows that to him, I’m the one that started all this.
Maybe he's right. But I don’t deserve all of the blame.
The night goes on. Dish after dish after dish after dish. Mason writes out his instructions clearer, and tells me with every new ticket if there are special instructions. Great. Communication skills are already improving, it seems.
Eventually the madness stops. The patrons stop pouring in, and the ones remaining finish their meals and pay their checks. When I look at the clock, I can see it’s already 12:30. Half past midnight, and we still have to close down the whole restaurant. I don’t see myself getting home before 2. And I haven’t heard anything about a critic showing up tonight. Mason locks the door behind the last customer as they leave, and turns to the kitchen to face me standing in the partition.
“Rosa?”
I duck, trying my best to hide. I know Mason wants to talk, but part of me wants to avoid any and all confrontation if possible.
“Rosa, we need to talk.”
I sigh, and stand back up. “Okay, Mason, let’s talk,” I say optimistically. Maybe he’ll apologize. Maybe he’s going to tell me how wrong he was tonight, how I am the one who managed to keep it all together on the first night.
Mason pulls me to the office in the front of the house and closes the door. I haven’t seen the office since we finished restoring the rest of the restaurant, and it looks like the office wasn’t touched at all during the renovation process. It looks like a dump in here. The inside of his office is mostly bare, aside from a desk separating two chairs and a filing cabinet. There’s a snowboarding poster framed, hanging up on the wall, a hobby I never knew Mason had. The walls are dirty, paint chipped and splattered with an unknown substance.
Mason sits down in his chair and invites me to take a seat opposite from him.
“Rosa, we dropped the ball tonight,” he says cooly. “About the tickets and the special orders. You know how important it is to get those right the first time. So why did you—”
I cut him off. “Mason, if the special orders were so important, you should have told me they were special. I would have done them the way you wanted the first time. It wasn’t like I was trying to sabotage your opening night.”
“Really? Because that’s what it feels like. And something else, Rosa. The critic never showed.”
I gasp, covering my mouth with my hands. “They didn’t?”
He shakes his head. “Nobody took the table reserved for Deporte Magazine. So as far as we know, we’re definitely not getting any press tomorrow. Any good press, at least.”
“Well, for all we know the critic wanted to stay anonymous. Maybe he sat at another table so we’d remain impartial?”
Mason shakes his head again. “We’d know it if they came. And no critic came tonight. We let down our customers, botched our opening night, and now we aren’t even going to have a review in the city magazine this month. I’m not sure how this continues on without crashing and burning.”
I don’t know what to say.
“I don’t know if things are working out here, Rosa,” Mason says quietly after a long pause. He looks down at his desk, twiddling his thumbs. I look back up, staring at the snowboarding poster. It’s a guy decked out in an all-white getup, his board attached to his feet as he flies through the air in a pose that’s obviously staged.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think Chef Donna can handle things back here,” Mason says. “She and I didn’t have any issues with the order cards. It’s the same thing back at the Porto. I don’t know if I can trust you to run my kitchen if you can’t even read an order card.”
I feel hot tears sting my eyes as the world starts spinning around me. I don’t know what Mason wants from me anymore.
“What—what are you saying, Mason?” I stutter nervously.
“I’m saying…I think you should go, Rosa.”
I don’t say anything, so Mason continues.
“Rosa, you’re fired. Don’t worry about coming back in tomorrow.”
And that’s that. After everything we’d been through together getting the place up and running. The back and forth at the Porto. The kiss in the pantry, and the subsequent dives into our own once Mason’s place was built by his contractors. The dates. Coffee and wine.
All of that, gone.
I stand up, the tears flowing now. Mason can’t look at me, his eyes are fixed downwards, staring at his desk. I turn around and storm out of the office and out of the kitchen, grabbing my purse and coat as I exit. I can’t look at the rest of the staff. I can’t let them see me like this.
The tears really start to flow on the long walk home alone.
Twenty-Three
I get back home in a daze. As soon as I’m up the three flights of stairs, I slam open my apartment door and fling myself on my bed as soon as I can. I let it all out. Ugly crying doesn’t suit me, but sometimes it’s a necessary evil when you’re feeling more alone than you ever have in your entire life. I let it out, sob after sob after sob.
After what feels like hours, I’m able to collect myself and drag my limp body from the bed. I feel like I’ve made a million different mistakes starting when I was fired from the Restaurante Porto. I knew I was a failure. I knew I’d mess this all up. And now I have nothing to show for anything.
I’ve ruined my life, and there’s no coming back from this.
I pull out my phone, desperate for human contact. Dad. He’d know what to do in this situation. As I punch in his number, I can predict exactly what he’s going to say:
“I told you so,” his absolute favorite phrase. But he’s the only one I can talk to right now. Everyone else in my l
ife is an old boss or an old flame or an old coworker. All I have left is Dad.
My father, hardened by years of manual labor working outside in the sun. Dad, breaking his back so Ma could keep hitting the books and studying to become a world-class chef. My Dad never gave up. I remember being a child and seeing my Dad leave for work for the construction site every early morning. He’d always kiss my forehead as I slept, thinking he wasn’t waking me. Little did he know, I was always awake just to see him go. Dad never got back until late at night anyways, and Ma would always save his dinner in the microwave for him. Sometime’s I’d be up that late, two or three in the morning, and I could hear Dad warming up his food and eating it in front of the TV, alone. I always wanted to go out and join him, but I knew he’d just send me back to bed every time. Dad always told me that the most important things one can have in a day are eight good hours of sleep and a hot meal. That’s all you need.
Right now, I need some advice. So I dial his number and hold the phone up to my ear.
Dad answers on the first ring.
“Rosa? Is everything alright?” His oaken, solid voice warms my heart.
He knows. A father always does, somehow. I spill the beans.
“Dad, you were right. You were right about everything,” and I find myself in tears once again. I can’t hold them back, not even to say hello. I dump my feelings out on the floor like a mental patient. I tell Dad about everything, about Mason and his new restaurant, about the difficulties getting the restaurant open, about the special order cards and about the fight Mason and I had in the office that left me running out in tears. It all pours out, and Dad listens.
After I rant and rave for what feels like hours, Dad finally speaks up:
“Rosa, you know I love you, right?”
I sniffle, but still smile. “Yeah, Dad, I know.”
“Good. Because you should know that first and foremost. I’ll always love you no matter what. Your Ma was a good woman, you should know that too. And she never gave up, even when things looked tough.”
I already know where Dad’s going with this, but I humor him. “What do you think I should do?”
“I think you already know, Rosa. Somehow, I know you can predict the words I am going to say to you. What am I going to say?”
“That I should never give up, that I can work things out with Mason if I try hard enough.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Dad mumbles. “Exactly. A father’s advice is best given when the daughter already knows what he’s going to say. And what I will say is this: if the job is not right, quit. A job is a job. A paycheck is not greater than your sanity. They will always come around. If this Mason guy is worth the struggle, then go to him. You will know what is right in your heart when the time comes. And I trust your heart, Rosa. It was always good.”
Dad always had a knack for these sorts of things. As I mull over his words, I find that they give me the strength to feel a sense of optimism for the first time tonight. I thank him, tell him I love him.
Things can certainly feel hopeless when you let it wash over you. Sometimes it can feel like you’re drowning. Dad threw me a lifeline, and for that I’m eternally grateful. But I was still fired from the last two jobs I held. Even Dad can’t remedy the black stains on my résumé. And going back to Mason would just end in humiliation.
He and Carly deserve one another.
All I have left is my cooking. It’s late, but I stumble my way to my kitchen and flick on the light. I take out some dry pasta, some canned tomatoes. I figure some homemade pasta can bring me back to reality.
As I fill up the pot with warm water, pouring salt in to lower the boiling point, I can’t help but compare this to Mason and I. Carly is the salt, lowing our boiling point. And tonight, things just bubbled over.
I need some space. I need to get away from everything. From restaurants, critics, and dinner rushes.
I’ve got my cookbook plans. And that’s all I’ll need.
Twenty-Four
Work. Work. Work. No weekends in sight for years to come, no veterans on my staff to weather me through the dinner rushes. Things are getting pretty shitty right about now, I won’t lie.
I fired Rosa a week ago. Things have been ruthless here ever since, and I’m one hundred per cent regretting the decision I made to let her go. It’s ridiculous. I can’t believe I could be so short-sighted. She was my head chef, the person who made the menu I serve every day from scratch. She helped me build this place from the ground up. She installed my appliances, kept them running. Rosa wrangled my new staff, got them acquainted with a menu she designed for me.
And then I fired her after a simple mistake in communication. One that was probably my fault to begin with.
What was I thinking?
Each day I learn more and more how much work Rosa really did around Sebastian’s Eatery. Finding a replacement hasn’t been simple, either. I’ve tried promoting from within, but the only chef I’d remotely consider for the job would be Chef Jeremy, but I honestly can’t stand the idea of him making tweaks to the menu and bossing the rest of the staff around in the kitchen while I’m out front. I just can’t trust him nearly as much as I trusted Rosa. Chef Donna’s been filling in for Rosa in the meanwhile, and it hasn’t been a total disaster. I’d say Head Chef Donna is a train-wreck compared to the atomic bomb Head Chef Jeremy would be. Neither of them hold a candle to Rosa Bertolini, and that’s a fact.
No, seriously, what was I thinking?
And that’s not mentioning the space she left in my life when I sent her packing. Rosa was the person I’d been spending what little free time I had with, whatever little I did have. I can’t believe how lonely things are without her, and I also can’t believe how lonely I used to live before Rosa came into my life. Every night I’d cook dinner alone, shower and go to bed alone after watching old TV reruns alone. After Carly left, things got bleak. But with Rosa, the daily life became somewhat tolerable. Our four weeks of heaven as we set up the restaurant are over, gone for good.
I’d say that Rosa made life worth living again.
Now that I’ve chased and caught my dream of opening my own restaurant, I wonder what else there really is to living. I’m like a dog who caught the car I was chasing. Now what? As I lay alone in my bed in the dark of night, looking up at my ceiling, I wonder what Rosa’s doing. If she’s also looking up into the pitch-black, thinking about me.
She’d probably be right to forget all about me. All I’ve done is cause her hurt and suffering, no wonder she never called or came back to the restaurant after I fired her. How could I be so selfish?
Days go by in a homogenous blur. Wake up, breakfast, shower and head to Sebastian’s for opening. Prep before Chef Donna shows up to ruin my menu on a daily basis. Snap at Chef Jeremy for being late, again. Get the panicky dishwasher Johnny ready for the day and pretending I care about his sixteen-year-old boy problems as he spills them out for me to listen to as his emotional hostage. Then I can start getting the lobby ready for the rest of the wait staff before they come in.
Tonight, I’m really struggling. One of my waiters called in sick again. Now I’m rushing to cover their half of the restaurant while the rest of my staff plays dumb. The restaurant’s especially packed tonight, and I’m bouncing from table to table, writing down orders, filling up water glasses, and bussing plates to run back to the dishwasher. It’s insane how busy all this gets, and how much mental energy it takes to let it wash over you. The only other person who could keep their cool in a rush was fired by me, so now I get what I deserve.
As I drop off a stack of order cards with Chef Jeremy, I hear a familiar “Mason!” coming from the entrance. It’s Rupert the contractor, coming back to visit me. He’s got a beautiful woman on his arm, a slender brunette with smile lines in a terrific cocktail dress. Rupert’s out of his normal contractor garb tonight, dressed in a well-fitting suit and tie.
I greet Rupert with a surprising warmth, direct him and his date to a table where I can easily chec
k on them whenever I need. Drinks are on me tonight, I tell them. Rupert shakes my hand, congratulates me on the grand opening.
“Is Rosa back there?” Rupert asks me, and my heart skips a beat. I don’t have the heart to tell him I fired her over a silly spat, so I stretch the truth:
“She’s on a leave of absence. Things weren’t working out so well,” and I find myself cringing as I lie to one of my regulars who I consider a friend.
Rupert sighs, shrugs his shoulders. “Things happen, I guess. Wouldn’t you agree, Marcy?”
Marcy, his date with the smile lines, shrugs her shoulders and says: “Things happen.”
They’re perfect for each other.
I take their drink orders and run them over to Alex the bartender, and I tell him to put it on the house tab. Rupert and Marcy are drinking on me tonight.
I go to the kitchen, check in on the staff. It’s chaos back here. Chef Donna can’t keep things together. The dishwasher is having another panic attack. Chef Jeremy’s on his phone constantly, and Rosa told me she had to tell him to wash his hands constantly. I snap at Jeremy to get off his phone, scrub his hands and get back to work, then I finally manage to ask Chef Donna what in blazes is going on back here. She’s panicking, scattering flour over countertops and throwing down hunks of dough that look horribly underprepared.
“Boss, I’m trying to keep things together back here, I really am,” Chef Donna panics as I interrogate her. She can’t make eye contact with me, instead she stares down at her dough she’s kneading incorrectly, pounding it into oblivion. If anyone could mess up kneading dough, I suppose it’d be Chef Donna.
“What, do you need help with the dough, now?”
I can see Chef Donna can’t keep things together. She shakes her head, and I see tears forming in the corners of her eyes. How do I always manage to find the ones that cry on me?