"Yes, Chef," she said. I both loved and hated when she said those words to me. They could mean all kinds of things - yes, Chef, I respect your authority or yes, Chef, I respect the hierarchy but I think you're being a complete idiot. This time, I couldn't quite read between the lines.
"You have catering experience?" There was almost no chance she didn't, with her extensive resume, but at least it was something to say.
"Yes, Chef."
"You don't have to answer every question like that," I said, before I could stop myself. She looked up at me.
"Sorry," she said. "How would you prefer to be addressed, Chef?"
She was angry with me. I heard it now in her tone, though she'd been carefully suppressing it. You didn't speak that way to someone unless you were on the verge of murdering them in their sleep.
I should know.
Shaking my head, I made a quick attempt to backpedal. "No, no, I just mean - there's no need to be so formal all the time. Even when we're discussing work issues, you don't need to address me like I'm the captain of the ship. Especially when it's just the two of us."
"All right," she said, after a moment's consideration. I half-expected her to spit out yes, Chef in the same insolent tone, but she didn't. I wanted to really take her to task, to remind her that it didn't matter how respectful your words were, if you spat them out like poison. But I couldn't bring myself to do it.
I remember Giovanni's, and I couldn't.
There was nothing I wanted to do more than apologize. But I knew it didn't matter. Whatever I'd said, I couldn't even remember now, whatever I'd made her feel - it was too late to take it back. Much, much too late.
My mother had explained it to me once. Years later, I learned it was an old chestnut, something she'd probably stolen out of whatever books were the hellish precursors to Chicken Soup for the Soul. But at the time, I was just a kid, so I thought everything my mother said was pure invention.
Break a plate on the floor.
Now, tell it you're sorry.
Is it still broken?
Now you understand.
As an adult, I wanted nothing more than to laugh at the overly-simplistic sentimentality. People weren't plates. They grew back together in the places where they cracked. Stronger.
But then I looked at Jillian, and I still didn't know what to say.
***
"You're going to have to meet the donors," I said to Jillian, the day before the event. "So...you know."
This was accompanied by a vague gesture in the facial region. I didn't even know what I was talking about, but I knew it was a mistake as soon as I'd said it.
"Okay," she said, slowly. "So...what does that mean, exactly?"
"Nothing," I said. "I don't know. Just, uh, keep it in mind, yeah?"
She cleared her throat. "Chef, I'm afraid I really don't know what you mean. Is my appearance not professional enough?"
"No," I said, quickly. "Absolutely not. I just...I didn't want it to take you by surprise, is all."
She cleared her throat, smoothing her hands down the front of her white jacket. "So, is there something else you'd like me to wear? Or...?"
"Forget I mentioned it," I said. "Really, honestly, just...forget it."
She turned back to her station. Her hand was clenched around the handle of her knife in a way that I didn't like at all.
"You must have brought it up for a reason," she said, quietly.
I almost wished she would stab me. This quiet tension was so much worse.
"You don't need to do anything differently," I said. "Just, your normal uniform, everything - everything normal. Honestly. It's fine."
Fuck. Why had I opened my mouth?
Suddenly, the knife clattered onto the table. I jumped a little, but hid it well, I thought.
"If I'm doing something wrong, please, just tell me," she said. There was a slight quiver in her voice, and her lower lip was firmly wedged between her teeth. The nibble would have been adorable if she weren't so obviously pissed the fuck off. "I'm well aware that I'm out of my depth here, but I think you'll find that I'm always willing to learn and improve myself."
It had the sound of a prepared speech, and I briefly wondered how long she'd been bottling up that feeling of inadequacy.
"Jillian, listen to me." I had to gather my thoughts for a moment, and the look on her face wasn't helping with that endeavor. "If there's a problem, ever, I promise I'll address it with you directly. That's one thing you can count on. I never would have hired you if I wasn't confident that you'll thrive here. I don't play games. I know this restaurant will succeed with you here. All right?"
She let out a long breath.
"Okay," she said. "Thank you, Chef."
It wasn't quite the reaction I'd hoped for, but at least she hadn't killed me.
Yet.
***
One thing I loved about charity dinners was the simplicity. When everyone was ordering either "the chicken" or "the fish," it was hard to get things too muddled in the kitchen. Even without my proper kitchen staff yet, we were more than able to handle all the orders with just me, Jillian, and a prep cook borrowed from Chef Shaw. Aiden couldn't make it, but I counted that as a plus.
Jillian arrived looking fresh as a daisy, but I noticed her biting her lip more than usual even during the simple tasks. I'd managed to make her feel self-conscious about something that really didn't matter at all, and she had no reason to even think about.
Excellent.
It was my stupid instinct to try and guide her, to help her as much as I could. She couldn't work under me forever. I hoped she'd be working for me for a very long time, but if I was eventually able to promote her to head chef, she'd need to handle all these things on her own. Of course there was a selfish impulse to mold her into someone who'd represent me well - but I also did care about her. About her career.
In spite of appearances, I really did want the best for her.
When I talked to Barbara about this whole situation, she always developed this tolerant smile, like she was just indulging me in some silly childish whim. And maybe that was all it was. I had a feeling she was holding something back. I hated that, but I hated the idea of finding out what it was even more.
I knew her well enough that I could imagine it, anyway. She's not a child, Max. You need to start treating her like an equal, or she's going to resent you even more than she already does.
When the entrées were all out, we finally had a moment to breathe. Jillian immediately started tucking her hair back under her hat, and trying to delicately dab the sweat off of her forehead.
"Think we should make an appearance," I said, a few minutes later.
"Do they even care about seeing me?" She leaned against the prep table. "Aren't you the main attraction?"
"Come on," I said. "I can't talk to all of them at once."
She sighed, turning around and trying to peer at her reflection in one of the stainless steel shelves.
Before I could stop myself, I said:
"You look beautiful."
Instantly, I froze. If there was anything less appropriate to say in this situation, to try and undo the damage I did - well, I'd be hard-pressed to come up with it.
Jillian turned and stared at me, then bit her lip again, before swallowing reflexively. For just a moment, my heart stopped beating.
And then, she smiled.
***
"Thank you so much, I appreciate it.....yes, next week....thank you, thank you....yes, it's one of my favorites..."
I could hear snatches of Jillian's rapport with the customers as I conducted my own, and she was doing quite well. I was distracted, but it hardly mattered. Every once in a while, I enjoyed the opportunity to coast on reputation alone.
A few people wanted me to sign their cookbooks, and still a few more wanted to know some obscure detail about an episode of one of my shows. All of this was normal, and I pretty much had a script laid out for it.
By the time I'd made
my way around most of the room, Jillian and I were just a table apart and I was struggling to focus on my own conversation. I finally forced myself to tune out for a few minutes, only to drift off at the end of one of my scripted answers. I shook my head to clear it, said a polite goodbye to one table, and took a step back.
Then, I heard Jillian's voice.
"...and then - exactly, right? I was thinking it was complete bullshit. So I said..."
"Jillian!" I said, sharply, striding over to her and laying my hand on her arm. "Would you come back to the kitchen, please? Right away."
The patron she'd been addressing looked taken aback. Well, what a fucking surprise. Even I knew that you didn't talk to rich donors like that. Not at a fancy charity dinner. Not ever.
I'd made a mistake.
"I'm so sorry," I said, to the middle-aged man that was left slack-jawed by her familiarity. "This will be dealt with immediately."
I strode off before he had a chance to say anything - perhaps a questionable move from a customer service perspective, but I needed to find out what the hell Jillian was thinking.
"What's wrong?" she demanded, as soon as I walked into the kitchen. The anger was starting to rise up in her again, and I could see the fire starting in her eyes.
"What's wrong? Really?" Normally I'd have taken her into my office, rather than hashing this out in front of the temporary staff, but she started it. "You can't talk to people like that. Not customers, not donors, ever - but especially not at an event like this. It doesn't just reflect poorly on this restaurant, it reflects poorly on the charity as well."
Her face went bright pink, then chalky-pale. "What...what do you mean?" Her voice was shaking a little. "I didn't...he...we were just talking, he..."
"You can't chat with customers like they're your friends from college." I was dimly aware that everyone in the kitchen was staring at me, and maybe the sound of my voice could carry out into the dining room - and really, that was worse than what she did - but at the moment, I didn't care. "That might fly at the greasy spoons you used to work at, but not here. Never here. Understood?"
She was still pale and quivering, but at least partially with rage. I could feel my nostrils flaring. I was practically daring her to defy me.
Finally, she spoke, in a voice like sharpened steel.
"Yes, Chef."
I walked back out to the dining room, intending to apologize properly to the man she'd offended. There was a look of concern on his face. I crouched down by the table, speaking as quietly as I could.
"Sir, I wanted to apologize for what happened a few moments ago."
He cut me off before I could get any further.
"I'm a little confused. Is something wrong? Is the chef all right?"
I blinked.
"Yes, sir," I said. "She's...she's fine. I'm very sorry if her behavior was crossing a line."
His forehead crinkled. "Not at all," he said. "She was hilarious. It turns out, I'm in business with one of her cousins - don't ask me how that came up, but it's a small world, isn't it? I'd love to talk to her again, if she can get away."
My heart froze in my chest, and then sank as low as it could possibly go.
"I'll just go and check," I said. "I'm very sorry for the misunderstanding."
When I returned to the kitchen, Jill was gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Demi-Glace
A rich, fragrant demi-glace is one of the most decadent sauces a chef can have in their repertoire. Time and care must be taken for the proper result. If your intention is to cut corners, it's best not to start at all.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Jill
***
"You're not going to believe this!" I shrieked into my phone, loud enough that a few passersby turned their heads.
Shelly took a moment to process this. "You, uh...okay, I've had a few drinks, I got nothing. What happened?"
"I was standing there talking to one of the donors, and suddenly Chef Dylan comes up to me and practically drags me into the kitchen to yell at me about how I was - I don't know, being too familiar, I guess. The guy was friendly. I was just taking his lead. But I guess maybe I cursed..."
"What'd you say?"
"Bullshit."
Shelly snorted. "That doesn't even qualify nowadays. Did that really upset him? I've seen this shows - I mean, talk about the pot and the kettle."
"It's different," I said. "Or, I guess, that's what he would say. He said it reflected poorly on his restaurant and on the charity." I took a deep breath. "But I was just trying to make the guy comfortable. He started it, he was talking that way and I just followed his lead. That's what you're supposed to do, right?"
"I dunno." Shelly sounded like she was rummaging through a cabinet. "So did you get in trouble, or what?"
"I guess. I don't know. He just scolded me, mostly. But he was fucking mad, I mean madder than you've ever seen him on TV. It was awful."
"You gonna quit?"
I hadn't even considered that possibility.
"Can't afford to," I said, which was true. But it wasn't my only reason for staying. I felt defiant. I felt, now more than ever, like I had something to prove.
***
The only way to move forward, I decided, was to apologize.
I still didn't feel like I'd done anything wrong, for the situation. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I'd been taking a risk by talking like that. Anyone could have heard. And while people don't generally bring kids to an expensive charity dinner, it still wasn't really appropriate for the situation. The wording, the volume of my voice, the way I started laughing when the guy talked about my cousin - I actually cringed a little, thinking back to it.
I just wasn't used to being in these situations. But, like I'd told Chef Dylan, I could learn.
That was all supposing he didn't fire me.
I got to work early. Chef wasn't in the kitchen, but I found my way to his office and tapped lightly at the door.
"Come in," he said, after a moment's hesitation.
I stepped into the room, my heart thumping at a million beats per minute.
"I wanted to apologize for last night," I said, before he even looked up.
"Jillian," he said. "Sit down."
Oh, God.
I was starting to feel lightheaded. Was I going to lose my job over something so stupid? I couldn't believe it. But at the same time, people had been fired for a lot less...
He didn't stay anything for a long moment. I finally found my voice again, and briefly debated whether I'd just be digging myself in deeper if I kept talking. Eventually, I couldn't stand the silence anymore.
"I understand that my behavior wasn't appropriate for the venue, and I'm very sorry. I got carried away with the conversation I was having. But I can promise you that the patron in question was not offended. And I promise I'll be more careful in the future."
Chef Dylan was looking at me searchingly, and I wondered if he was just trying to intimidate me. He was never at a loss for words. So what else could it be?
"Thank you, Jillian," he said. "I appreciate that."
After that, he was silent for so long that I almost stood up to leave.
"I shouldn't have dressed you down in front of everyone," he said, finally. "Especially without knowing the whole story. You're right, it wasn't appropriate. But I've done worse, in my time." He smiled a little. "Just make sure it doesn't happen again."
"Yes, Chef," I said. "Thank you, Chef."
***
Working next to him wasn't as awkward as I expected, after that. I felt strangely calm. After everything, I was okay. I was alive, and he didn't seem angry. Maybe that was the upside to his impulsivity. Once the anger was vented, it was gone.
I could learn to live with that.
"Salt?" Chef barked at me, while I kneaded some dough.
"One second, Chef." Couldn't he see that I had my hands full?
"Never mind," he snapped. "I'll get it. Excuse me."
His body pressed against mine, flattening me against the counter. He was reaching for the shelf right above my head, but I had to believe he could have done it a little less awkwardly.
"Excuse me," I muttered, trying to squirm away.
"Sorry," he muttered back, snatching the box of salt, but making no effort to give me more room. I tensed, and then relaxed, feeling a hot prickling blush creep up the back of my neck.
His grip faltered and the box started to slip - right into me, and I grabbed for it, our arms somehow intertwining as he fumbled. He let out a little snarl of frustration.
"I was going to get it in a second!" I snapped, before I could stop myself. His proximity was making my skin tingle and I didn't want to know why, but fucked if it didn't make me angry.
I shoved the box towards him, and he had to hug it to his chest before it spilled all over the floor. He was still just a few inches away.
"The fuck is wrong with you?" he demanded. "If I ask you for salt, give me the fucking salt!"
"I was busy!" The tension was crackling in the room, rising higher and higher. I felt like every hair on my body was standing on end. I'd had enough. Enough of walking on eggshells, of being afraid and intimidated all the time.
"Get this straight," he growled, slamming the box down on the counter. "You're never busy when I ask you for something. Never. Do you understand? I ask you to jump while you're in the middle of dismantling a nuclear bloody bomb, you say 'yes, Chef, how high?'"
"Are you trying to piss me off?" I demanded.
He threw his hands up in the air - literally. I wasn't sure I'd ever seen a person do that. "Am I trying to piss you off!" he repeated. "Am I trying...fucking hell, Jillian, I really thought you were smarter than that. Where would that get me? To piss you off? What do I accomplish by making you angry? I'm trying to get your attention. I'm trying to teach you how to reach your potential. Fuck's sake."
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