by Vivien Vale
I plate the steak and carefully slice a chunk of meat off with a serrated knife. There's a crisp char on the outside and rareness in the middle that feels like butter on my tongue.
"Fuck, that's good!" I can't help but yell out and slam my fist down on the countertop.
"You made me jump!" I look over to see my sous chef, Brit, walk into the kitchen. She's working overtime with me to get a few dishes perfected before our soft opening.
Any other day, and this late at night, it wouldn’t be Brit here with me. Maybe some actress with one of those fake smiles, too eager to have a taste of the Chef—but not today.
I can’t waste my time. Not now.
"Taste this!" I say, looking at Brit over my shoulder.
She walks over, and leans against the counter. I place a forkful of steak into her mouth. I watch as she chews slowly, and then closes her eyes, throwing her head back.
"My God," she says, shaking her head in disbelief. "You weren't joking. This is the best steak I've ever eaten."
I'm glad she agrees, but I can't help but want to make sure.
"Don't pull my leg—tell me the truth," I say.
"I'm serious! It's that good," she says. "This'll put The Pearl on Park on the map."
The way she drags her hand over her throat tells me that she means it.
But suddenly, I can no longer think about that perfectly caramelized steak.
Instead, I close my eyes and remember the doctor’s appointment I had last week. The one where my dreams of cooking the best food in New York were born.
It's an appointment that haunts me and drives me in equal measures.
The sanitized talk. The fluorescent lights. The sterile smell of it all.
Something showed up on the MRI, the doctor said, as I sat back in the hard plastic chair. He pointed to a white, walnut-shaped mass, and the rest of the appointment was a blur. I left, vaguely agreeing to a follow-up appointment, and ultimately making myself a promise to cook the best fucking food New York City's ever tasted.
"This is the best steak the Big Apple's got," Brit says, bringing me back to what’s in front of me.
That's exactly what I want to hear.
It's true; I'm a multi-tasker. I can juggle a dozen restaurants, and even more women, and still find time to scuba dive my way through St. Thomas.
It's what I do. And I'm good at it.
I'm not interested in half-assing my way through life.
I'm living large, and I know it. But I'm just getting started.
If you can handle the heat, go ahead…turn the page, and jump into the fire.
My name is Chef Palmer, and I'm going to give the world something they'll never forget.
Nicole
"Where are the vegetables?"
WHACK! THWAP!
Two line cooks look up at me. One shouts back, "We can't hear you, what?"
"I said, where are the—" but my voice is again cut off by the overhead noise.
WHACK!
WHACK!
THWAP!
The noise of construction workers a floor above us has put me on edge.
I can't think. I can't cook. I can't sear a piece of chicken without hearing what sounds like a dozen drag cars moving full throttle above my head.
The line cooks shrug their shoulders.
"THE PRODUCE—WHERE IS IT?" I say, struggling over the noise.
Danny, one of the two, finally understands what I'm asking. "Oh that. The driver mumbled something about a missed payment and took off."
I look around the kitchen and see that he's right. We haven't received our fresh produce this morning. Beyond a few stray onions, we have nothing.
How am I supposed to cook today?
I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair.
Stay calm, I repeat to myself.
"Okay, thanks. I'll give him a call."
"Sorry, I figured you knew."
"It's fine," I say, even though it doesn't feel fine at all. In fact, it's taking everything in me to not lose it today, but I have to keep my cool. "I'll get it sorted."
I walk out of the kitchen and into the main dining room. I look around at the tables, at the blue gingham table linens, at everything I've worked so hard to build.
Blue.
The color reminds me of my grandmother. I can almost hear her whispering into my ear, “A woman with no wrinkles is a woman without a story to tell."
I remember sitting on top of her knees, looking into her pale blue eyes as she hummed some old song from the forgotten 50s; in my memories, it’s always Doris Day and Dream a Little Dream of Me on her lips, and then she’d just wrap her arms tight around me and cradle me against her chest.
I’d close my eyes, surrendering to the warmness of her embrace, and the world would feel like a dream—blurry at the edges, but bright and comforting all the same.
She's the reason I started this restaurant. She instilled in me the love of food and the notion that anything is possible with enough hard work.
And believe me; none of this was easy.
In fact, it was the hardest thing I've ever done.
I washed dishes, I waited tables. I worked double shifts, and I saved every single penny I could get my hands on. I once worked through a fever of 104º, and I honestly thought I wouldn’t make it through the day.
But there was that dream.
A dream that burned hotter than any fever ever could. That unrelenting need to do something, as small as it may be.
Then one day, I simply made it happen.
All those pennies, the long hours, the exhaustion...I just threw them all into the pan and stirred. I added a lease to the mix, a healthy dose of anxiety, and then I just closed my eyes and bet it all.
It’s been a year now.
That anxiety remains, along with all the penny counting. The dish washing, table-waiting, and frantic cooking are all part of the process as well. But now I do it all in a place I can call my own.
The Old Tale is my restaurant, and it's huddled among New York's high rises. You can almost feel the way time bends once you step inside.
Thousands of people rush by the door every day, barely noticing this small bistro that seems to exist in a universe of its own; but for the few people that step inside, they have no choice but to leave the rush and frenzy of New York City outside.
There’s nothing fancy about The Old Tale. No glamorous logos, no overpriced menus or waiters wearing a suit and tie.
The wooden tables in the small dining area proudly display their age, and even the dim glow of the lights is a throwback to a time when restaurants and cafés weren’t supposed to be a natural extension of a shopping mall.
You could dig out this restaurant by its roots, slam it down in a crowded street from the 50s, and no one would bat an eye.
It doesn’t feel like a restaurant—it feels like home, a shelter from the cold embrace of a city that doesn’t remember your name.
But sometimes, you can’t fight the city; a small restaurant is just a small restaurant, after all. And now there’s the sound of drills and hammers, a backdrop to the hoarse shouts of construction workers pacing back and forth.
Sometimes it feels like I'm fighting against a rising tide that's whispering its warning—get out or we’ll drag you back with us.
That tide has a name: The Pearl on Park.
And it's going to completely change this neighborhood—bringing Park Ave into a working class corner. Its doors are still closed, but I can already feel the inevitable trot of progress. Soon enough, these streets will belong to expensive European cars, and boots and jeans will give way to polished shoes and creased dress pants.
Then the rents will go up, and The Old Tale will become a gnarled wreckage lying at the bottom of the ocean.
"Someone looks deep in thought." A voice breaks my concentration and pulls me into the present.
"I didn't see you come in. It's good to see you, Percy," I say, looking over to find a familiar face. "Wh
at are you doing here today?"
"Just enjoying some of this city's best cooking, is what I'm doing," he says.
I lean over and give him a hug. "You're too kind."
"And you're too humble," he says, returning the smile.
"Well, humble or not, I hope I can just survive The Pearl over there," I say, pointing across the street. "I mean, how can I compete with that?"
Percy shakes his head. "Don't worry about that place. Fancy flagstone tiles, porcelain dishes, and silver cutlery don't make a good restaurant."
"Maybe not...but it seems to help," I say with a laugh.
Percy Whitman is one of the biggest food critics in the city. He's known me ever since I opened The Old Tale, and if it weren't for his early, glowing reviews, I wouldn't be here today.
“I wouldn't worry about it," Percy says. He places both hands into his pockets and rocks on his heels as he says this, as if it's the most casual thing in the world. "Chef Palmer is a Grade-A asshole and even though I've never been to one of his restaurants, he's never impressed me much."
"I've heard he has talent," I say, not willing to believe that his presence in this neighborhood isn't going to be disruptive. "He's become a huge celebrity."
But Percy continues to shrug away my fears. "I doubt Palmer's all that."
"I guess we'll find out," I say.
"I plan to review every one of that asshole's restaurant’s, including The Pearl on Park," Percy says, and his face flushes pink as soon as the words leave his mouth. "You'll see."
Palmer
I dip my finger into the sauce and press it against my tongue. It's bland and devoid of depth.
"Are you fucking serious? This tastes like cardboard," I say. "Fix it."
Everyone is on edge as I drag my finger against my chef's coat, wiping away the sauce. The rest of my staff scrambles.
We're all working harder than we've ever worked in our lives. I smile, seeing my junior chefs work overtime to make tonight a success, but my joy fades away as quickly as it comes when I peep through the window of the swinging kitchen door, and spy none other than Percy Whitman.
The man.
The myth.
The dream-maker and the career-wrecker of this city.
But that's all bullshit because he's just a grade-A asshole.
He walks through the elegant glass doors of my restaurant, and I watch as the hostess seats him. She's friendly and gracious.
Shit. I can't remember a time when Percy showed up a restaurant on opening night.
He takes a few steps in and smiles, showing off a row of teeth more crooked than a broken fence. That matches his review ethic, I think to myself.
He removes his hat and tips it in an arrogant gesture. He combs his hand through his blonde hair, and his eyes scan the crowded dining room.
The only thing paler than his face is the table cloth in front of him, I think.
Brit bumps into me. Her hair rivals the flames of any kitchen, and she has the personality to match. She trips and spills a bowl of tomato soup on the ground…and me.
"I'm so sorry," she says, bringing her hands to her mouth. She's frazzled.
I reach over and place a hand on her shoulder.
"Take a deep breath, Brit," I say. "It could've been worse."
She gives me a reluctant smile and scrambles off. I grab a towel, soaking up the red remnants of soup and then set it on the counter.
I look around the kitchen … at the steaks drizzled with the finest brown butter sauces, and realize that even though it hasn't been the smoothest of nights, it hasn't been bad either.
This is the dream. This is still the dream. We're pulling off a lot of great plates.
I turn and head out of the kitchen. It's time I mingle with the patrons.
Immediately, a crowd of three women catch my eye. They're seated near the bar—three blondes in red. One of them turns to me and smiles.
I walk over and make an introduction.
"Evening, ladies," I say. "How are you enjoying the food?"
"Oh, you must be the chef!" one of the women smiles. "I adore your food!" She brings one hand to her chest, resting it on her cleavage.
I smile.
The two other women blush as I look into their striking blue eyes. If I had more time, I'd probably sit a minute and share a drink with them, but it's opening night, and time is precious.
"Well," I grin, "Just wait until you ladies try the desert."
With that, I leave them with a smile, and watch as their faces turn a shade of red that matches their dresses.
I walk past another guest, an older woman in her 60s. She reaches up and grabs my coat. "You must be Chef Palmer! I just love your food."
I nod my head in appreciation. "Thank you, ma'am," I say, giving her a quick smile before taking her hand and giving it a quick kiss.
Then I move on and head back into my bustling kitchen.
As soon as I enter, one of my line cooks, Alex, says, "Chef! I've plated the appetizer for table five!"
I approach it, eyeing it with the suspicion. "What is this?" I ask.
"Sir?" Alex says with a blank expression.
"Is this cat food? Do you think we're feeding feral cats?"
"Chef, I don't understand, I—"
I stop him mid-sentence. "Plate it like you mean it!" I say. "This isn't an all-you-can-eat buffet. This is fine dining. Make every plate reflect that."
“Yes, Chef," Alex says, and hurries off.
I let out a sigh and lean against the stove. A million thoughts zap through my mind, but they're all cut short when I feel a searing pain against my elbow. I look down to find flames licking the edges of my sleeves.
Fuck.
I hear Brit. "Hey Chef, I was wondering if—"
Her voice stops as soon as she eyes the situation. Then I hear Alex's voice over the growing heat of the flames.
"Chef, I re-plated the appetizer, and—"
He takes one look at the flames licking my sleeve and grabs a bucket of dirty dishwater and throws it onto me.
The flames instantly disappear, but now I look like a used mop.
"Fucking dishwater, Alex?" I ask, crossing my arms.
Both Alex and Brit give me a blank stare.
"What are you two waiting for?" I say. Move!"
They both scramble off to plate a never-ending row of orders. I grab a towel and dry my face, and then peer back out into the dining room.
Despite what I currently look like, I decide to walk back through the dining room, and gauge the crowd's experiences.
As I walk past one table, a piece of conversation catches my attention.
"Look, do you see this rice? It's overcooked. It's like paste. I mean, what chef can mess up rice?”
“And this fish? It's drier than the Sahara,” the voice continues, and I swivel around to see who’s talking.
"It's not flaking apart. It's a hard, dry slab…a fish brick. And don't even get me started about the soup."
I can't help but stop and stare when see who this is coming from.
I can hardly believe my eyes.
Nicole
"He's like candy on a stick," Sarah smiles, sliding back into her chair.
I roll my eyes. "Are you serious? If you mean the kind of candy that melts and sticks, and gives you the world's worst toothache and puts you into a dentist's chair, then … okay, I can see it," I say, letting out a sigh.
I love Kate, but she can be one of the most dramatic people you've ever met, and she doesn't have the most rational mind.
"What's with you?" Kate asks, eyeing me suspiciously. "A bit harsh, don't you think? He looks good enough to eat—those eyes, and that smile. Don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about."
"It's just that I'm not buying into the hype," I say. "Sure, he has the name and the money, and that Michelin star, but so what?"
"So what? I mean, look at the man! A Michelin star isn't easy to get you know," Sarah says. "It's not like you can snap your
fingers and will it into materializing. And c'mon … you can't tell me that he isn't easy on the eyes."
I let out another sigh and allow the potato leek soup to slip off my spoon and drip back into the bowl. "I know," I say, "but this food is soulless. I mean, look at it. It doesn't have heart. It's as bland as these white linens … and it's cold."
"It's only cold because you've refused to touch it for the last twenty minutes," Kate laughs.
I watch as the soup plops into thick, white lumps back into the bowl.
I didn't want to be here, but Sarah insisted we show up since it's the grand opening for The Pearl on Park. I could think of a million things I'd rather be doing—like scooping cat litter, or plucking my eyebrows, or washing dishes, or folding laundry, or—
Sarah breaks my train of thought. She grabs my arm and squeals. "There he is again! He has to be the sexiest piece of man meat I've ever seen."
Her eyes look glassed over, like she's entered a new state of nirvana.
"Give me a break," I say, rolling my eyes. "Whose side are you on anyways?"
"I can't believe you're even asking me that," she says. "I'm on your side babe, but now you're just being unreasonable."
As much as I want to argue that point, I let it go.
I watch as Chef Palmer walks between his kitchen and back through the dining room, mingling with the crowd.
Women seem to swoon and melt in his presence like clockwork, one after the other.
They bat their eyes.
They pucker their lips.
They lower their blouses to show extra cleavage.
They fan their faces as if the heat emanating from his body is too much to handle.
It all makes me sick.
This chef … this restaurant … is threatening to put me out of business, and it makes my stomach do somersaults.
That's a cold, hard fact.
With that knowledge, I think he's about as handsome as a cockroach.
I watch him walk back and forth, from the kitchen to the dining room and back again, and can't help but scowl at his swagger.
Who does he think he is? He's got an ego bigger than Mt. Kilimanjaro … not that I've ever hiked it, but I've seen the pictures.