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I realize I’ve been staring when Ozzy’s crystalline eyes find mine, lips curling into a half-smirk. A small jolt runs down my spine and I quickly look away, busying myself with the never-ending task of rolling cutlery. By the time I drudge up the nerve to sneak another glance, he’s gone.
Before I clock out, Elle tells me I did good and that she’ll see me tomorrow. My heart flutters like I’ve won a prize forbest new server. I reiterate how excited I am to work here and she gives me another thin-lipped smile.
Finally back home, I leave my shoes by the door, feeling like I’m walking on pins and needles as I head for thebathroom. While I wash off the restaurant smells still sticking to my hair, I can’t help but smile, a strange sense of accomplishment blooming inside my chest—it almost feels like the beginning of a new chapter. It’s a tentative kind of hope, one I barely acknowledge in fear that it startles and disappears.
It’s close to one a.m. by the time I crawl into bed. I’m tired but still wired and when I finally manage to fall asleep my dreams are filled with anxiety-ridden scenarios of overbooked tables and spilled drinks.
3
OZZY
“Chef, fire two tartare for 54, one for 23, niçoise salad for 10,” Itzel—the chef of Orso—barks across the busy kitchen, handing me a copy of the bills with the orders.
“Yes, chef!” I holler back, stashing the papers above my garde-manger station along with sixteen other tickets I need to either hold or fire. Garde-manger is responsible for all the cold dishes on the Orso menu.
Although only Itzel holds the real title of chef, we all call each otherchefin the kitchen, no matter the status. Whether it’s the dishwasher, saucier, or the garde-manger like me, it’s a sign of respect. When in the kitchen—we’re in this shit together, we are all equal.
It’s a muggy Saturday night outside, and the heat from the ovens and burners is making the kitchen feel like it’s reached tropical temperatures. Sweat pours down my back under my chef jacket and I’m starting to believe that I won’t experience a fresh breeze ever again.
It’s a full house and we’re in the throes of the secondwave of service. All around me, cooks are shouting, calling out, and communicating their demands the only way they know how: Loudly.
Behind! Corner! Sharp!
I focus on my station, opening the small fridge under it to grab three already-portioned servings of tartare. Crouching down to peer in, I only find two.
Shit.
I was sure I had prepped enough for tonight. But we got slammed and now this oversight is going to set me back. My mind is already on high alert, thinking about ten things at once. Keeping track of everything while executing all the necessary steps in the right sequence is like a well-honed choreography. The steps are quick and efficient—until someone fucks up.
Quickly, I mentally rearrange everything I need to do to make time to prep more tartare on the fly. I curse under my breath, but keep my head down, trying to drown out the noise around me. Wiping my sweaty hands on my apron, I grab the beef, then my knife and start working against the clock.
I’d kill for a cigarette right now.
Like an angelic godsend I hear Alec, my roommate and best friend, behind me, “Chef, here’s your water bottle.”
I turn my head and see the smirk behind his mustache, the bottle pointed toward me.
I snatch it from his grasp. “My hero,” I answer with a wink. His laugh is conspiratorial as he returns to the pasta station, his own water bottle in hand.
Twisting the cap, I take a large gulp. Even though I was expecting it, the burn of straight vodka is still harsh down my throat. I conceal a cough, stashing the bottle in thefridge under my station as a little treat for after I’m done prepping this fucking bullshit tartare.
Here’s the thing about cooks: We’re all adrenaline junkies. Feral workaholics. And most of us are incapable of the nine-to-five grind. It takes a special kind of crazy to work in the kitchen. We incessantly complain about the hours, the waitstaff, the guests, and even the debilitating stress.
But given an option or way out, we’d be hard-pressed to find something better suited to our non-conformist personalities—if the lifestyle doesn’t kill us first. Our bodies are in constant pain, and burnouts are just the way of life. And if having a secret water bottle full of vodka tucked away somewhere helps us get through service then fuck, that’s just how it is.
Three hours later,and after a much-needed cigarette break near the dumpsters, final service is finally over. The kitchen is closing and I’m cleaning my station when I spot the new girl through the pass. Her light pink hair is tied up in a ponytail, swishing back and forth as she walks across the dining room, her black skirt hugging her curvy hips and deliciously thick thighs.
“Hey Alec,” I say while keeping my eyes on her.
“Yeah?” he responds half-distracted while he mops the floor, brown wavy hair falling into his eyes.
“Have you seen the new girl greet the kitchen since she started yesterday?” I say with a small curve of the lip.
Most cooks worth a damn share a long list of pet peeves. The waitstaff not greeting the kitchen when they start their shift is at the top of it—as if the back-of-house issomehow beneath them, simply there to answer their beck and call. Servants instead of peers.
“Nope,” he says with a small bite.
I hum in response, still watching through the pass. When she gets closer, I let out a short whistle through my teeth to get her attention and she jumps like a startled deer. Our eyes lock and I smile dryly.
