by Lila Moore
“You’ve got a good palette.”
“If I’d guessed wrong would you have fired me?”
I meant it as a joke, but he didn’t laugh. Nor did he respond. He dug into his food and smiled. I followed his lead. We ate most of the food, then polished off four more beers. By the end of the meal, I was drunk and stuffed.
Moreau took a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and left it on the table.
We made our way through the crowd. It was close to midnight, but people were still streaming into the restaurant. It was no surprise; the food was amazing. Moreau positioned himself beside me. He put his arm around my waist and led me through the growing crowd.
Outside was just as crowded as inside. Servers carried food to the waiting tables. People ate happily. Food moved out from the tiny kitchen quickly. I was impressed. They were an efficient team. Moreau’s kitchen didn’t feel like a team. It felt like a dictatorship.
As we made our way down the street, Moreau kept his arm around my waist.
“Where are you parked?” he asked.
“I walked.”
“Where do you live?”
I stopped in my tracks. “I know what this is.”
“What?” he said, feigning ignorance. His eyes were alive with mischief.
“I know your type,” I slurred. Sober, I would never be this bold with my boss.
“My type?” he laughed. “Tell me, what’s my type?”
“You’re the stereotypical chef, boozing and slutting around with the women who work in your restaurant.”
“Slutting around?”
“You’ve probably slept with every girl who works for you.”
I was the only girl in the kitchen, but most of the servers and hostesses were women.
“You’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” He was toying with me, but I knew I was right.
“I’m not that kind of girl. I’m not going to let you chew me up and spit me out.” I took a step back, shrugging off his arm.
“I see. Will you at least let me see you home? A girl like you shouldn’t be walking home alone at this time of night.”
“What do you mean ‘a girl like me’?”
I realized I sounded pretty harsh. The alcohol gave me an edge I don’t normally have when I’m sober.
“You’re tiny with big eyes that are always searching for something. You look like easy prey. You’re like little red riding hood waiting to be eaten by the big bad wolf.”
“If you recall, little red riding hood got the best of the big bad wolf in the end.”
“Yeah, well this isn’t a fairy tale. I’d feel better knowing you got home safe.”
I didn’t trust him. I was sure he was trying to get into my pants, but I relented.
“Fine. You can walk me home.”
Moreau
I was dying to get her out of those clothes. She wore pair of tight jeans that hugged her ass nicely. They’d look better wadded up on my bedroom floor though.
As eager as I was to bed her, her words stung. Why was she so hung up on how many girls I’ve slept with? And what was that remark about me sleeping with every girl in the restaurant? I haven’t slept with all of them. Just Amber, Mackenzie, Jackie and Mel. Oh, and, Nikki. She was a trip. She called me night and day. When I tried to explain to her that it was nothing more than a one night stand and she needed to move on, she retaliated by spitting in every dish she took out of the kitchen.
I had to fire her immediately. Then she went to my investors and threatened to sue for wrongful termination. Luckily we had her on security cameras spitting in the food or else we’d be in real trouble. The investors were furious. They’d sunk millions of dollars into my restaurant. So far we were making money hand over fist, but they didn’t want to jeopardize the restaurant with a frivolous lawsuit. Not to mention the fallout if word had gotten to the public about the incident. We’d be shut down in a heartbeat. No one would eat our food again, and who could blame them?
The investors warned me to keep my dick in my pants. I was strictly forbidden from fucking anyone on staff. I was behaving myself. Or at least I had been until Roche walked into my kitchen.
She was a smart girl. She wasn’t like most of the chicks I hooked up with. I’d have to play it smart with her.
We walked a few blocks, passing drunk couples and a stoned man who harassed us, asking for money. I ignored him and kept walking, but Roche apologized.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any cash,” she said, looking genuinely regretful.
I smiled. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“In the city, we’re used to panhandlers. You just ignore them and walk on or they’ll harass you for blocks.”
I turned back and wasn’t surprised to see the man was following us.
“Hey,” I said. “We don’t have any money.”
The man started to argue with me. When he saw I wasn’t sympathetic to his obviously bullshit story, he grabbed Roche’s arm and spun her around. I grabbed him by the shirt and pushed him hard.
“I said, fuck off. If you so much as look at her again, I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you ever do.”
The man crawled away, cursing and insulting me. Roche looked rattled. She rubbed her arm in the spot where the man grabbed her.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. I guess you’re right. I’m not used to life in the city.”
I put my hand on the small of her back and led her on. I kept an eye out behind us, making sure the man didn’t return to retaliate. The further we walked the worst the neighborhood became. The restaurant was in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the city, but if you walked a block in any direction things immediately went south.
Roche’s apartment was in a dangerous area of town. I couldn’t believe she thought it was safe to walk to and from work.
“You need to get out of this neighborhood,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t own a six million dollar restaurant. I don’t have money to throw around.”
“You’re a mean drunk.”
“And you’re just mean,” she snapped.
I frowned. I definitely wasn’t getting laid tonight.
I walked her up the stairs to the front of her building. She fished around in her purse for her keys. She swayed a bit on her feet then unlocked the door.
“Goodnight,” she said. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Goodnight, Roche. Take care of yourself.”
I took her hand and kissed it. The move took her off guard. She wasn’t expecting gentleness from me. She’d already decided I was a monster. I squeezed her hand gently then released it. I turned to leave.
Beatrix
My alarm clock went off at four forty-five in the morning. Only a few short hours ago, I’d been out drinking with Moreau. I groaned and hit the alarm clock. It continued to buzz. I hit it again, then gave up and ripped the cord from the wall.
My mouth was dry and my head still swam with alcohol. I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. I reemerged twenty minutes later feeling a little closer to sober, but not by much. I drank two huge glasses of water, then grabbed a granola bar. As a chef, it felt sacrilegious to eat prepackaged food, filled with artificial flavor and preservatives, but I was running late. I had almost no time to cook for myself anymore. I had to grab something quick to eat or I’d go hungry. Plus, money was a concern. My job didn’t pay all that well considering I lived in the city where rent costs are insane. I lived in a studio apartment in a bad neighborhood and paid two thousand a month in rent. I had no idea how people survived in the city.
I headed out the door. It was still dark out. The city still felt awake though. It never slept. Energy flowed through the streets and back alleyways. You never knew what you were going to find when you turned a corner.
Around the corner of my building I was met with a homeless man sleeping on the sidewalk. He had a cup in front
of him half full with change. I dug into my pocket and left two dollars. It was all I had. I thought about last night. The way Moreau had knocked down the man who grabbed me gave me a strange rush. It was frightening, but the way Moreau handled it left me feeling turned on. I’ve never had a man stand up for me like that before.
I bought a coffee off a vendor who was just opening his stand. The rich Arabica coffee was just what I needed. Instantly, I felt better. I strolled into the kitchen at five twenty-eight. I was on time, and by on time, I mean thirty minutes early. I hoped that satisfied Moreau. He was in his office on the phone. He glanced at me as I entered. I nodded to him. He turned away. So much for us becoming friends. I hoped my refusing to sleep with him wouldn’t negatively impact my job. What if he was one of those creeps that fire you if you don’t put out? If that was the case, then I didn’t want this job. He could take it and shove it up his ass. I’d find a new place to work. No one should put up with a gross boss.
I put up my things and started to prep my station. The entrée preparer was already at his station. He gave me a dirty look, then turned his back on me. Why was I getting the cold shoulder from everyone today?
Slowly, more workers started to filter in. By Six o’clock the entire kitchen team was prepping for the day. We didn’t open until eleven, but there was a lot of work to do. I yawned as I made one of my sauces. It was one of the few things I premade. It had to sit for a while in the fridge before it could be served.
I left the mixing bowl sitting on the counter and walked off to get ginger from the back. When I returned I ground it into the sauce, mixed it then covered it in plastic wrap and put it in the freezer.
Moreau walked into the kitchen. His arms were crossed in front of his chest like he was looking for a fight. He walked along each station surveying the staff’s work. I held my breath when he came to me. I was in the middle of preparing a second sauce. He merely glanced at it before moving on.
I tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t meet mine. I’d been pretty drunk last night. I wasn’t sure what I’d said to him, but I had a feeling it was bad. Vaguely, I remembered accusing him of sleeping with all the servers. When I’m drunk, the part of my brain that filters my mean, judgmental thoughts disappears. I was probably awful to him.
A part of me smiled at the thought of giving Moreau a taste of his own medicine. Another part of me was terrified. What if this cost me my job? As the alcohol wore off, my creeping anxiety returned.
Before I knew it, it was time for lunch service.
I kept an eye on Moreau as he prepared his first dish. He plated everything beautifully. Colors flowed into one another like a work of art. It was almost too pretty to eat. He asked for the sauce I’d prepared earlier. I’d already fetched it from the fridge. I walked over to where he stood. Moreau tried to take the bowl from me and pour it himself. I pulled it out of his reach.
“No. I’ll do it,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “It’s my sauce. It has to be just right. If you pour too much it will ruin the dish.”
Moreau’s eyes narrowed. My stomach dropped. I waited for him to yell. Everyone in the room was watching. A hint of a smile played at the corners of Moreau’s mouth. He stepped aside. I leaned over and carefully drizzled the sauce on top of the pork belly, then added a couple of drops around the plate. It complimented Moreau’s plating well. I smiled. The first completed dish of the day. Now to do it four hundred more times.
A server walked into the kitchen and grabbed the dishes and took them out to the customers. I returned to my station and got back to work. Less than five minutes later the server returned with both dishes in hand.
“What?” Moreau snapped.
“The table did not like them. They said they tasted like rotten fish.”
“Bullshit,” Moreau replied.
He grabbed a piece of pork belly from the plate and tasted it. It barely hit his tongue before he leaned over and spat it out into the trash.
“Roche! What the hell did you put in this sauce?”
My mind raced over the ingredients I’d used. Had I missed something? No. At least, I didn’t think so. I was sleep deprived and a bit hungover. What if I screwed something up without realizing it? No. I’ve made that sauce a million times. I could make it in my sleep.
“I prepared it the same way I always do, chef.”
“Did you taste it?”
“Well, no,” I sheepishly admitted.
“You didn’t taste the sauce before sending it out to the customer?” I looked at my feet. “Don’t look down. Look at me.”
“I’m sorry. I-”
“Save the excuses. Taste this.”
He shoved the plate at me. I dipped my finger in the sauce and brought it to my tongue. It tasted like spoiled fish. I couldn’t even swallow it. I sipped some water and spit into the trash. My mind raced through what the sour ingredient was. Nothing I added to the sauce had a flavor even close to this. Had one of the ingredients spoiled? No. I would have noticed. Besides, the restaurant got fresh produce every day. Nothing we used had a chance to spoil. Besides, there were about a dozen people who would have noticed before the ingredient ever got to me, including Moreau.
I shook my head. “I have another bowl I prepared earlier,” I said. “I’ll get it.”
“Another bowl of that?” He looked at me like I was crazy. “I’m not serving more of that to my customers.”
“I don’t know what happened. I’m sure the other bowl is fine.”
If it wasn’t, I was dead.
“Go home,” Moreau replied.
“What?” Tears started to well up in my eyes. Panic set in. “I can fix this just give me a chance.”
“Get out of my kitchen.” He turned his back on me.
“But-”
Moreau started barking orders, screaming that he was pulling the dish from the menu. My vision fogged. I didn’t want anyone to see me cry. This wasn’t the time or place for it. You had to be tough to survive in the environment. I took a deep breath and swallowed back my urge to cry.
As I walked past the entrée preparer, he looked up at me and smiled. Moreau gave him my job. He was thrilled. When asked if he could handle the responsibility, he shouted: “Yes, chef!”
He sounded like a Marine being sent into combat. I would never be that tough. Maybe Moreau was right to fire me. I gathered my things and left.
Moreau
What had gotten into the girl’s head? A few drinks and one late night and she screwed up that badly? It didn’t make sense. If she was that easily thrown off her game by a couple drinks, then how dependable was she? This business is long hours, no sleep and little appreciation for the hard work you do. If she can’t shake off what happened the night before then she’ll never last.
I tried to put Roche out of my mind as I continued with dinner service, but she kept popping into my head. The way she’d demanded to pour the sauce on the dish herself. I was proud of her in that moment. She was doing what I’d told her to do: stand up for yourself.
It was her job to make sure the dish was perfect. Roche took pride in her work. She just needed to learn how to speak up for herself. She’d done that beautifully, then the whole thing blew up in her face.
I tried to concentrate on the new fry cook. I could smell something burning. If he hadn’t properly cleaned the fryer after last night’s service I’d kill him.
“What’s burning?” No one answered me. “Hello? Can you not hear me?”
“I burnt the chicken, chef.”
I started to lay into him, spelling out every way in which his whole existence was a disaster. My heart wasn’t in it though. I kept thinking about Roche. The way her eyes filled with tears felt like a knife had been plunged into my gut. She was so sure she’d nailed the dish.
I glanced over at her station half-expecting to see her there, fiercely concentrating, perfecting her work. Instead I was greeted by the lizard smile of Marcel. He was good at his job, never complained or appeared bother
ed by my demands. He was on time and he worked hard. His food was excellent. And yet, there was something about the little rat I couldn’t stand.
He nodded to me as I passed. Something didn’t add up. I left the idiot fry cook and headed into the walk-in freezer. I found the extra sauce Roche had prepared. I stuck my finger in and tasted it. It was delicious. It tasted nothing like the previous sauce. How could she have screwed up so badly with the ingredients she used? The sauce we’d served to the customers tasted like it was made with rotten fish heads. This tasted perfect.
I searched through the freezer. Everything was impeccably organized, the food fresh and clean, ready to be served. I moved a box on the floor and was instantly hit with a fishy smell. There was a white bucket hidden in the corner. I pulled it out and opened the top. I covered my nose. Instantly, I knew it was the source of the Roche’s foil tasting sauce. The bucket was full of dirty, fetid water. A couple weeks ago we’d had oysters on the menu. The shells and bad bits had been discarded into the bucket. For some reason, it was never cleaned.
I had a hard time believing one of my prep guys would miss something this egregious. They were excellent at their job. More importantly, how had this rotten oyster water ended up in Roche’s sauce?
No way was it an accident. Did she do it on purpose? Was she trying to sabotage the restaurant because I’d hit on her last night? No. That was insane. Roche looked heartbroken when I sent her home. She wasn’t trying to sabotage me. Someone was trying to sabotage her.
Beatrix
I walked in circles. The buzz of the city disappeared into a droning background noise that left me disoriented. I passed in front of the restaurant three times before I realized I was circling around it.
Fired. After only a day and a half of work. It was pathetic. If word got out, I’d have a hard time finding a job at any respectable restaurant. The only job I’d be able to find would be flipping burgers at a fast food place.
I finally managed to find my way home. I walked into my place and collapsed on the bed. I buried my face in the pillow and cried until I fell asleep. I woke to someone calling my name.
“Roche? Are you in there?”
It was Moreau. What was he doing here? I jumped up and went to the door. He wore a leather jacket and jeans. His hair was shaggy; it hung in his severe eyes.