She turns away from me in a daze and heads back to help the dishwasher whose name I can’t for the life of me remember, and I take a deep breath. I’ve finally put out all the fires, and I lean against the counter and watch the kitchen move around me. It is like a living, breathing machine. Each person has to play their part or everything falls apart. And tonight, I’m barely holding them together.
When the kitchen door swings open, I hope it is Makayla. She has been a waitress at The Floating Crown for five years, and while she has no formal culinary training, she knows this kitchen better than anyone. I’ve asked her for help tonight more times than I’m comfortable with, but at this point, just seeing one, capable, smiling face would be enough to keep me from crying. But when I turn and instead see a man in a suit, the tie loose and askew around his neck, and his eyes glassy, I almost sag to the floor.
“You can’t be back here, sir,” I say, moving forward to block his access to the rest of the kitchen. “We have hot stoves and fire and sharp knives, and you are already unstable on your feet.”
Makayla told me a businessman at the bar had been demanding macaroni and cheese all night between shots. Apparently, he would not take ‘no’ for an answer.
“Macaroni and cheese,” he mutters, falling against my palms, his feet sliding out from underneath him. “I need macaroni and cheese to soak up the alcohol.”
I turn to the nearest person for help, but Felix is still looking at the bags of raisins and prunes like he might seriously still be confused which is which, and I don’t want to distract him lest he ruin another duck. I could call out for help from someone else or call the police, but I don’t want to cause a scene. Cal is just in the next room. He may have hired me because my father is Don of the Furino family, but even my father can’t be angry if Cal fires me for sheer incompetence. I have to prove that I’m capable.
“Sir, we don’t have macaroni and cheese, but may I recommend our scoglio?”
“What is that?” he asks, top lip curled back.
“A delicious seafood pasta. Mussels, clams, shrimp, and scallops in a tomato sauce with herbs and spices. Truly delicious. One of my favorite meals on the menu.”
“No cheese?”
I sigh. “No. No cheese.”
He shakes his head and pushes past me, running his hands along the counters like he might stumble upon a prepared bowl of cheesy pasta.
“Sir, you can’t be back here.”
“I can be wherever I like,” he shouts. “This is America, isn’t it?”
“It is, but this is a private restaurant and our insurance does not cover diners being back in the kitchen, so I have to ask you—”
“Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light!”
“Is that ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?” I ask, looking around to see whether anyone else can see this man or whether I’m having some sort of exhausted fever dream.
“What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?”
This is absurd. Truly absurd. Beyond calling the police, the easiest thing to do seems to be to give in to his demands, so I lay a hand on his shoulder and lead him to the corner of the kitchen. I pat the counter, and he jumps up like he is a child.
I listen to the National Anthem six times before I hand the man a bowl of whole grain linguini with a sharp cheddar cheese sauce on top. “Can you please take this back to the bar and leave me alone?”
He grabs the bowl from my hands, takes a bite, and then breaks into yet another rousing rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” This time in falsetto with accompanying dance moves.
I sigh and push him towards the door. “Come on, man.”
The dining room is loud enough that no one pays the man too much attention. Plus, he has been drunk out here for an hour before ambushing the kitchen. A few guests shake their heads at the man and then smile at me, giving me the understanding and recognition I sought from the kitchen staff. I lead the man back to the bar, tell the bartender to get rid of him as soon as the pasta is gone, and then make my way back through the dining room.
“She isn’t the chef,” says a deep voice at normal volume. “Chefs don’t look like that.”
I don’t turn towards the table because I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing I heard them, of knowing they had any kind of power over me.
“Whatever she makes, it can’t taste half as good as her muffin,” another man says to raucous laughter.
I roll my eyes and speed up. I’m used to the comments and the cat calls. I’ve been dealing with it since I sprouted boobs. Even my father’s men would whisper things about me. It is part of the reason I chose a path outside the scope of the family business. I couldn’t imagine working with the kind of men my father employed. They were crass and mean and treated women like possessions. Unfortunately, the more I learn of the world beyond the Bratva, the more I realize men everywhere are like that. It is the reason I’ll never get married. I won’t belong to anyone.
I hear the men’s deep voices as I walk back towards the kitchen, but I don’t listen. I let the words roll off of me like water on a windowpane and step back into the safe chaos of the kitchen.
The kitchen seems to calm down as dinner service goes on, and I’m able to take a step back from micro-managing everything to work on an order of chicken tikka masala. While letting the tomato puree and spices simmer, I realize my stomach is
