"Hello, Chef," I said evenly, turning around and wiping my hands on my apron. I nodded in the woman's direction. She had a smile frozen on her face.
"This is my friend Barbara," Chef Dylan said, laying his hand on her shoulder gently. She advanced a step forward, sticking out her hand for me to shake. It was very cold.
"It's very nice to meet you," I said. "Sorry I didn't say anything earlier. I didn't want to interrupt."
"Oh, don't worry about it. We were just chatting." Barbara had a pleasant, musical voice that lilted up and down. Somewhere halfway between a newscaster and a professional singer.
"I should go," she added. "Don't want to keep you from your work any longer." Here, she smiled at Chef Dylan.
"I didn't think anything could keep him from work," I heard myself quip, before turning back to my prep area with a rapidly reddening face.
Barbara laughed. "See you soon, Max."
Max? Max?
I kept on chopping violently, feeling horrible and hating myself for feeling horrible. It was ridiculous that I'd assumed Chef Dylan was incapable of being fun and casual with someone he cared about. We'd been getting along so well in a professional venue, I had tricked myself into thinking that he felt comfortable with me as a person. That the Chef Dylan I knew at work was the warmest, friendliest Chef Dylan in existence. And seeing him act like an actual human being with someone - someone who wasn't me - had been a shock to my system.
"Sorry about that," Chef Dylan said, over the clattering of some utensils. "Don't usually let anyone wander around in my kitchen, as you know. But Barbara's..." He paused here for a moment, seeming to consider his words carefully. "...I've known Barbara for a long time," he said, finally.
I swallowed. The vegetables were ready. I considered saying nothing, but finally decided that would be a very strange reaction.
"It's just funny," I said, lightly. "Seeing you act like that with somebody."
"Well," he said, smiling. "I have a reputation to uphold with my staff. Friends are a different matter."
I wondered if he'd forgotten about yesterday. It hardly seemed possible, but he was in such a good mood, I almost considered it. I supposed I had Barbara to thank for that.
"Here," he said, gesturing towards a cutting board with some vegetables laid out near it. "Why don't you get those chopped for the special, and when you're done, come meet me in my office. We need to have a little chat."
No such luck.
***
I walked into Chef Dylan's office like I was walking into my own funeral. As usual, he didn't even bother acknowledging me until I sat down.
"Jill," he said, in a calm, measured voice - this was clearly a rehearsed speech. "I understand this is a high-pressure environment with a lot of stressors. But you've got enough kitchen experience that I shouldn't have to worry about you burning a sauce, when I ask you to keep an eye on it. Do you agree?"
There was nothing I could say to that. I hated the condescension in his tone, and the cool, collected level of his voice. I wished he would just haul back and scream at me, like he would anyone else. I didn't know what this meant, and it was horrible.
Finally, I just nodded.
"Don't take it personally," he said. "Just take it seriously."
Asshole.
I sat there fuming for a few moments, trying to think of something to say. Anything.
"Why don't you just talk to me like you talk to everyone else?" I asked, finally.
He looked up at me again, mildly confused. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean," I said, feeling the bitterness rise in my throat. "Why don't you just yell and curse at me?"
Chef cleared his throat. "Is that what you want?"
"I don't know," I said, feeling tears threatening to gather. I had to keep it together. I should just stand up and walk out now, but for some reason, I didn't. "I just don't want to be treated like a china doll."
"That wasn't my intention," said Chef, carefully. "I apologize if that's how it came across."
He was still doing it. He was holding something back, and I had the insane urge to just scream and throw things at him until I provoked an actual reaction. I had a feeling it wouldn't take much. He was already on the verge of cracking.
"I thought you didn't like it when I was a bully," said Chef. Already, the hairline fractures were starting - I could hear it in the raised tone of his voice. "No, before you point it out, those weren't your exact words - but I can tell what you're thinking."
"I don't want special treatment," I said. "That's all. If you're going to bully everyone, then bully me too." I paused. "Your words, not mine."
"I'm aware." His mouth was twisting into a bitter smile. "But you don't disagree, do you?"
Walk away. Just walk away.
"You know," I said, "you came on TV the other night. I actually watched it, unlike most of the time. I saw you talking to someone like you actually cared, and I thought about it, and I realized something. You only treat people that way because you demand the best of them. You want to shape them into something better. It's a challenge. Right?"
He swallowed, visibly, and nodded. "That's how I've always thought of it," he said.
"But then I realized something else," I said. "It doesn't matter. I don't think you've figured that out yet, Chef, to be perfectly honest. It doesn't matter, because the ends don't justify the means when you're just being a bully."
A heavy silence fell over the room. Chef Dylan looked at me, and I expected to see something in his face that would make me wince, but I didn't. He looked, in fact, like he didn't know what to say.
Finally, I got up and walked away, hating myself and every decision I'd ever made in my life.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Radicchio
One of the more complex lettuces you'll find in an ordinary kitchen, radicchio is a welcome accent to any salad. At times, it is pleasant and mild; other times, it is bitter. But it always complements its surroundings.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Max
***
Under normal circumstances, I would have rather swallowed a box of tacks than ask Beckett for advice about Jill. But a few beers in, as we lounged in my office, it started to seem like a very good idea. I recounted the sauce-burning incident, as well as her strange behavior around Barbara - not to mention her outburst in my office.
"Do I really have to spell it out for you?" Beckett stared at me in disbelief. "That's what jealousy looks like."
I snorted. "You and your conspiracy theories."
"I don't think you know what the word 'conspiracy' even means."
"Well, I know you're wrong. Why the hell would Jill be jealous of my friend? It's not like she..."
Slowly, I was beginning to second-guess myself. I set my beer down, carefully.
"Eh?" Beckett prodded, looking very pleased with himself. I ignored him, because now he was just being annoying on purpose - but he did have a point. Jill was behaving the same way my dates always did. Not that most of them ever met Barbara. But when they did...
Surely she wasn't jealous jealous. Not like that. But there was something about Barbara that just made other women's hackles go up. I wasn't sure why, exactly. Certainly she was beautiful. Certainly if I'd ever had a chance, if the stars had aligned, I would've jumped at the chance to put a ring on her finger. But it wasn't meant to be, so we were friends.
Jill's just used to having all of your attention in the kitchen. Barbara threw off the balance. That's all.
The alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.
"Do you think she'll be at work tomorrow?" Beckett asked.
I shrugged. Really, I had no idea. She didn't seem like the kind of person to just up and quit a job without saying anything, even if she was having some kind of nervous breakdown.
"You're going to have to figure out how to deal with her, if she does," he pointed out. "There's a power imbalance between you t
wo, and it's not like you can just fix it. You're always going to be her boss, and she's always going to be intimidated by you."
"I know that," I said. "But that's no different than anyone else who's worked for me, is it?"
"Except it is." Beckett pointed at me with the neck of his beer. "It is different, isn't it? Why? I asked you a while ago, but you never came up with an answer."
I did know. But I didn't want to.
"It's just a strange dynamic between us," I said. "It always has been. From the first moment I saw her, I wanted to...I don't know...I wanted to do something for her. I felt like she deserved something better, and that I could give it to her."
Now that I'd stated it out loud, the truth was only becoming clearer. I dreaded what Beckett was going to say next.
"So, you finally got the chance," he said. "But it wasn't quite what you expected."
"She's not helpless," I said. "She doesn't really need me. Which is fine."
"Is it?" Beckett cut in.
"It's fine," I insisted. "I can't stand people who refuse to help themselves. I appreciate that she's much more self-driven and independent than I expected. She worked wonders with Aiden. I like all that about her."
"But she wasn't how you expected her to be," he said. "And maybe - you weren't what she expected, either."
I considered this for a moment. It was possible. When I dealt with her, I was over-compensating. The thing was, I didn't know how to be both diplomatic and genuine. Whenever I tried to be nice about something, I came across like a patronizing asshole. There was simply no way around it.
No wonder she hated it. But I just couldn't treat her in the typical way. Something about being in her presence just took all the wind out of my sails, and I found myself without the energy or the inclination to sling arrows.
"I think you're right," I said. "She expected something, and it wasn't what she wanted, but at least it was the devil she knew."
"There you go." Beckett tilted his beer in my direction again, this time as a sort of salute. "So you've got this power imbalance, and neither one of you knows how to deal with each other - you feel like you can't speak freely to her, and she knows she can't speak freely to you. So what can you do about it?"
I considered this for a long while.
"I'm going to give her a chance to take a shot," I said. "That's the only solution, isn't it?"
Beckett just looked at me. "I'm afraid to ask what you mean."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Concasse
Distinct from other types of chopping or mincing, a concasse is roughly chopped in large pieces. And sometimes, roughness is exactly what's called for.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Jill
***
I almost didn't show up to work the next day.
Honestly, I expected to get a call from Lydia, or a pink slip delivered to my door. But I didn't hear anything, so I assumed I still had a job, and my work ethic wouldn't let me blow it off. As badly as I wanted to, I just couldn't.
It had been completely out of line, the way I'd talked to Chef Dylan. On paper, at least. But I didn't really feel sorry. I knew it wouldn't really make a difference, but I felt like someone should have said it a long time ago.
He called me into his office as soon as I got there. That was no surprise. But this time, he spent even longer staring at his desk, gathering his words, than usual.
"I'm sorry about yesterday," I said, after I couldn't stand the silence anymore. "I was out of line and I apologize."
Chef Dylan considered this for a while. "Jill, do you think we're going to be able to make this work?" he asked, finally.
Wait - was he going to fire me after all? My heart plummeted into my stomach.
"I - I think so, Chef," I said. "I'm very adaptable."
He smiled, but he still wasn't looking at me. "I appreciate that," he said. "But are you only saying that because you're desperate to keep this job? Or do you really, honestly think that we can work well together?"
I bit my lip. "I don't really understand the point of that question, Chef."
He sighed. "I don't know. I like you, Jill. I want to keep you around here. I want to watch you succeed, and I want to be a part of it. But I get this sense that you don't like me, and you never will. That's not usually a problem for me, but for some reason..." Finally, finally, he looked up at me. There was a shadow under his eyes that told me he'd missed a lot of sleep. I hoped I wasn't the cause. Who was I kidding - I knew I was the cause, and deep down inside, I liked it.
"...for some reason," he continued, at last, "this is different."
What the hell could I possibly say to that?
"Chef, I appreciate your concern, and I know I haven't quite been myself lately. You've seen my resume. You know I've been out of work for a while, and I think I just need to get back into the swing of things. I know that's a poor excuse, but it's true. I'm not screwing up because I dislike you."
I'm screwing up because I like you. Way, way too much. Almost as much as I hate you.
"Objectively, I'm a bastard," he said. "But some people appreciate it more than others. I think you'll always resent me, Jill. Am I wrong?"
I caught myself chewing on my lip again. "Since you're asking," I said, "it's not just the way you treat people. That's the tip of the iceberg."
"Oh, is it?" he said, smiling humorlessly.
Ugh, why had I opened this can of worms again? What a terrible idea.
"I just appreciate people who are a little more humble," I said, fully aware of how horrifically passive-aggressive I sounded. But it was the only way to soften what I wanted to say. "That's...that's it. Really. I know that's not who you are, and it's fine."
He let out a derisive snort of laughter. "Humility's a fucking joke. You really think those people don't give themselves every bit of credit they possibly can? You think they don't pat themselves on the back when no one's looking? They know how to say what sounds good. I never had that talent. Never cared to develop it. Everybody swoons when somebody says they saw further on the shoulders of giants, but nobody's willing to admit they are a giant."
You're so full of shit.
I bit my tongue, and measured my words.
"Not everyone is like you," I said, as calmly as I could manage. "Some people happily share credit for their success."
"I've never tried to take credit for something I didn't deserve." Chef's eyes flashed. I'd finally pushed him too far; I could feel it in the air, crackling like a live wire. "I've always given back to everyone who helped me, tenfold. I've always acknowledged it. But false humility? If that's what's required to be a decent person, then I guess I never will be."
I didn't know what to say to that.
There was a strange noise coming from...somewhere beneath us, I thought. In the heavy silence, it seemed to grow louder and louder, almost like a train was driving through our basement. No, not a rumbling like a train - but a rushing sound -
A panicked yell echoed in the stairwell. Moments later, I heard footsteps thundering upwards, and then Aiden came bursting into the office, his eyes wider than I'd ever seen - and that was saying something, for him.
He panted incoherently for a moment, making little sounds that seemed like they wanted to be words. Finally, Dylan snapped.
"What the fuck is it?"
I could tell by the way Aiden stepped back, cowed even in the midst of his panic, that he'd never seen this side of good old Uncle Max before.
"The - the - the water," Aiden managed, finally. "Something's broken. It's all over."
Chef was halfway down the stairs before Aiden even finished speaking, pushing him aside to get through the door and down into the basement. I followed on his heels, and the rushing noise grew louder and louder. Before I knew it, I was standing in a half-inch of water, and rising. Instinctively, I started splashing across the floor to look for the main water shutoff, but Chef was already cranking the antique-looki
ng red handle. I started looking around the room, trying to determine the source of the leak, but I didn't see any water rushing directly from the pipes that ran through the room. It almost seemed like it was coming through the walls, or the ceiling, or...
Chef hurried past me, sloshing the water high enough to splash into the tops of my shoes. I winced at the cold sensation of it spreading on my socks, and cautiously followed him upstairs. He was assuming the leak must be coming from the kitchen, or the bathroom, since it seemed to be above us - but even so, it should have abated when he shut off our supply, and I could hear it rushing louder than ever.
"What's going on?" Aiden didn't seem any less panicked than before, and the rest of the staff was all gathered in the dining room, staring.
"Don't know," I said. "But I don't think it's coming from in here."
One of the neighbors? Or...
Maybe not. Maybe it was even bigger than that.
I ran outside, and my ears were immediately filled with an even louder rushing sound - I realized it hadn't been coming from the basement after all, but from next to it. Hurrying around the corner, I solved the mystery in an instant.
A geyser was leaping out of the street, in a surreal display that had caused pedestrians and even drivers to slow down, stop and stare.
The water main.
When I turned around, the restaurant staff was all hovering behind me, Chef Dylan at their head. He looked momentarily speechless. But only momentarily.
"Aiden," he said. "Get the rest of the servers to help you get everything out of the basement that's not nailed down. Put it in the hallway, or the dining room, or wherever you have to. It doesn't matter. Just get it somewhere dry and safe." He paused, waiting for Aiden to react. "Go!"
After a moment's hesitation, Aiden leapt into action.
"Beckett," Chef went on. "Call all the reservations we have on the books tonight. Everyone who left a number. Tell them we have to close for the night, and suggest an alternative somewhere else - the North End, maybe. There's no telling how much of this neighborhood's going to be knocked out by this."
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