Having never worked in the front of the house, I’m used to wearing a chef’s coat over whatever outfit I grabbed that morning. The fact our uniforms don’t really look like uniforms only makes wearing the same jeans and T-shirt as everyone else more awkward. Though I know it isn’t, the outfit feels personal; like a subtle reminder of my loss of autonomy.
Not to mention, the jeans fit too loosely on my waist while also being way too tight on my ass and hips. The seam keeps riding up my butt-crack. Whoever designed them did not take into consideration those of us with juicy booties.
“Hey!” Ollie says, pulling me in for a quick hug. “Alice, this is Sandro,” she says, turning to the attractive, bearded gentleman. “He’s one of our bartenders.”
Sandro and I shake hands. “Nice to meet you, Alice,” he says in a thick Italian accent, which only makes him more attractive.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” I reply, then silently curse myself for sounding creepy.
Ollie appears to be holding back laughter as she nods toward the double doors behind her. “The waitstaff are dying to meet you.”
Her words make my body tense as I anticipate my coworkers’ wild-eyed stares and whispered musings about my sanity; all speculation based on lies told by Edward. But as we push through the doors into the pastry kitchen, I find four people absorbed in a discussion about whether they should use tempered chocolate shavings or cacao powder as a garnish.
They pay us absolutely no attention as we pass through, but I can’t help but notice the chef standing in the center of the group: Judith Benson.
Judith—or Mrs. Benson, as I knew her before today—taught a culinary course at Monroe College, the state college I attended before transferring to Le Cordon Bleu. She instilled in me a true appreciation of chocolate work, from the history of cacao beans to the artistry of confectionery. She attended pastry school in France and America, and studied chocolate in Mexico, becoming the associate dean of the Culinary Institute of America after she left Monroe College.
Most pastry chefs probably don’t make half as much as a dean of students. Ethan must have offered her a lot of money to get her to leave her position at CIA. I’m beginning to understand the secret behind his success.
I consider approaching Judith, but Ollie clears her throat as she holds the door to the main kitchen open. I follow right behind her, feeling disappointed at not being able to connect with one of my favorite professors, but also relieved I’ll have something to look forward to after facing the gauntlet beyond the double doors.
I straighten my back as we pass the kitchen line on our left—the place where servers will pick up food after the plate has been finished by the expeditor. Beyond that is the fry station with three deep-fryers. A stainless steel prep station in the center of the room spans the length of the enormous space. On the other side of the prep table, a group of between fifteen and twenty people are crowded around Ethan as he speaks to them while standing in front of a large wood-fire brick oven in the back corner of the kitchen.
Ollie and I have only taken a few steps inside when a breeze tickles the back of my neck as the double doors behind us fly open. I turn around to see Judith rushing in with a delighted expression on her face.
“Alice?” she asks, her mocha-brown skin glowing with excitement. “I thought that was you.”
“Mrs. Benson,” I reply, closing the distance between us and holding out my hand for a shake.
She glances at my hand then pulls me in for a hug. “You can call me Judy.” She steps back and assesses me for a moment. “You look great. How have you been?”
My composure falters as I realize she hasn’t heard the rumors about what happened between Edward and me.
Quickly slapping a smile back on my face, I blurt out, “Great! I’m doing really…well!”
She looks puzzled by my delivery, but she seems to decide she shouldn’t pry. “Are you working here?” she asks, a proud glint in her eyes. “I always knew you’d be a great chef.”
Her words are like a butcher knife in the chest. “Actually, I’m…I’m a hostess. Just…kind of rebooting after a spat of unemployment.”
The pride in her eyes dims to concern. “I’m sorry to hear that. But if you have to start at the so-called bottom anywhere, this is really the best place to do it.”
I don’t understand what she means by this, but I nod in agreement to prevent myself from spilling any more embarrassing news about myself. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You too, dear. Maybe we can catch up later over a coffee, or your favorite opera cake, huh?”
My insides warm at the thought of someone I admire so greatly remembering such a small detail about me. “I’d love that.”
I feel light as air as I watch Judy head back to the pastry kitchen. I can do this. I can start all over again and still be the chef—or pastry chef—I imagine in my dreams.
Ollie nudges my shoulder. “You have stars in your eyes,” she teases me. “I’m happy for you, really, but we’d better hurry up or we’re going to miss the meeting.”
I nod as I shake off my reverie. Then, I discreetly pull the wedgie out of my butt as we head toward the group of people near the wood-fire oven.
We find a place behind a tall guy with pale forearms and too much cedar-scented cologne. The girl next to him with the dark, glossy hair is even shorter than I am and is busy scribbling notes on a small pad of paper as Ethan speaks. It’s difficult for me to understand everything he says because I can’t see his mouth, but he seems to be talking about the various wines that pair well with wood-fire smoked food.
The tall guy
