The soup is warm and filling, and I close my eyes as I eat, enjoying the blissful moment of peace before more chaos ensues.
The kitchen door opens, and this time it really is Makayla. I wave her over, eager to see how everyone is enjoying the food and whether the drunk patriot finally left the restaurant, but she doesn’t see me and walks with purpose through the kitchen and straight to Cal’s office door. She opens it and steps inside, and I wonder what she needed Cal for and why she couldn’t come to me. Lord knows I’ve handled every other situation that arose all night.
I’m just finished the last bite of my soup when Cal’s office door slams open, bouncing off the wall, and he stomps his way across the kitchen.
“Eve!”
I shove the bowl to the back of the counter, throwing a dish towel over top to hide the evidence, and then wipe my mouth quickly.
“Yes, chef?”
“Front and center,” he barks like we are in the military rather than a kitchen.
Despite the offense I take with his tone—especially after everything I’ve done to keep the place running all night—I move quickly to follow his order. Because that is what a good sous chef does. I follow the chef’s orders, no matter how demeaning.
Cal Higgs is a large man in every sense of the word. He is tall, round, and thick. His head sits on top of his shoulders with no neck in sight, and just walking across the room looks like a chore. I imagine being in his body would be like wearing a winter coat and scarf all the time.
“What is the problem, Chef?”
He hitches a thumb over his shoulder, and Makayla gives me an apologetic wince. “Someone complained about the food, and they want to see the chef.”
I wrinkled my forehead. I’d personally tasted every dish that went out. Unless Felix managed to slide another dish past me with raisins in it instead of prunes, I’m not sure what the complaint could be. “Was there something wrong with the dish or did they simply not like it?”
“Does it matter?” he snaps. His eyes are bloodshot and glassy, yet his temper is as sharp as ever. “I don’t like unhappy customers, and you need to fix it.”
“But you’re the chef,” I say, realizing too late I should have stayed quiet.
Cal steps forward, and I swear I can feel the floor quake under his weight. “But you made the food. Should I go out there and apologize on your behalf? No, this is your mess, and you will take care of it.”
“Of course,” I say, looking down at the ground. “You’re right. I’ll go out there and make this right.”
Before Cal can find another reason to yell at me, I retie my apron around my waist, straighten my white jacket, and march through the swinging kitchen doors.
The dining room is quieter than before. The drunk man is no longer singing the National Anthem at the bar and several of the tables are empty, the bussers clearing away empty plates. Happy plates, I might add. Clearly, they didn’t have an issue with the food.
I didn’t ask Makayla who complained about the food, but as soon as I walk into the main dining area, it is obvious. There is a small gathering at the corner booth, and a salt and pepper-haired man in his late fifties or early sixties raising a hand in the air and waves me over without looking directly at me. I haven’t even spoken to the man yet, and I already hate him.
I’m standing at their table, staring at the man, but he doesn’t speak to me until I announce my presence.
“I heard someone wanted to speak with the chef,” I say.
He turns to me, one eyebrow raised. “You are the chef?”
I recognize a Russian accent when I hear one, and this man is Russian without a doubt. I wonder if I know him. Or if my father does. Would he be complaining to me if he knew my father was head of the Furino family? I would never throw my family name around in order to scare people, but for just a second, I have the inclination.
“Sous chef,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster. “I ran the kitchen tonight, so I’ll be hearing the complaints.”
His eyes move down my body slowly like he is inspecting a cut of meat in a butcher shop. I cross my arms over my chest and spread my feet hip-width apart. “So, was there an issue with the food? I’d love to correct any problems.”
“Soup was cold.” He nudges his empty bowl to the center of the table with three fingers. “The portions were too small, and I ordered my steak medium-rare, not raw.”
Every plate on the table is empty. Not a single crumb in sight. Apparently, the issues were not bad enough he couldn’t finish his meal.
“Do you have any of the steak left?” I ask, making a show of looking around the table. “If one of my cooks undercooked the meat, I’d like to be able to inform them.”
“If? I just told you the meet was undercooked. Are you doubting me?”
“Of course not,” I say. Yes, absolutely I am. “It is just that if the meat was undercooked, I do not understand why you waited until you’d eaten everything to inform me of the problem?”
The man
