Page 57 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

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CLEMENTINE

By the time the last guest left and the servers finished clearing the final table, I felt like I could finally breathe again. The evening had been a success for everyone. We got to feed a lot of hungry people. The food was good and everyone worked together really well. I was also pretty impressed with my own performance.

If possible, I would give myself a pat on the back. Not because I kicked ass or did anything spectacular in the kitchen. That was all pretty average. I managed to do a good job handling him. The asshole. Despite Rhett’s morning tantrum and his continued coldness throughout service, I hadn’t let it get under my skin.

At least, not visibly.

I handled that disaster at table twelve with exactly the kind of grace and professionalism I wanted to embody when I eventually ran my own kitchen someday. The iron fist approach might work for some people, but I had learned tonight that sometimes a smile and a genuine “thank you” could accomplish more than all the yelling and intimidation in the world.

Rhett had the big and bad grumpy thing going for him, but not everyone responded to that. Not everyone was going to be intimidated by him just because he looked like a god and dressed like he was going to a funeral.

I loved that I was one of the people he couldn’t scream at and expect me to jump and do as he said.

The dining room was empty now except for the cleaning crew, but the kitchen was still buzzing with that energy that always followed a successful service. The local cooks who had been hired for tonight were cleaning their stations. Me as well.

“You guys must be starving,” I said, looking around at their tired but satisfied faces. “When’s the last time any of you actually ate?”

A young woman with tired eyes looked up from scrubbing her prep station. “Lunch? Maybe? Time kind of disappears during service.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’ve been working for twelve hours straight.” I moved toward the walk-in, already forming a plan. “Come on, let’s make something with the leftover ingredients. You’ve more than earned a proper meal.”

“Oh, we couldn’t,” protested a guy who looked barely old enough to drink. “Chef Voss was very specific about inventory management.”

“And I’m very specific about taking care of people who work this hard,” I replied, already pulling containers from the cooler. “Besides, I’m Desman’s daughter. If there’s a problem, I’ll take the heat.”

The charity was providing all of the food. The leftovers were designated to be given to a shelter. But honestly, ingredients weren’t going to do much if someone didn’t know how to use them. And these people deserved a meal. I knew all of this was voluntary. We were all busting our asses, which was something Rhett seemed to forget.

Within minutes, we had an impromptu cooking session going. Everyone pitched in to create something delicious from the beautiful ingredients.

This was exactly the kind of kitchen environment I dreamed of creating someday. Collaborative instead of hierarchical. Supportive instead of intimidating. Everyone contributing their ideas and skills without fear of being screamed at for the smallest mistake.

“What are you thinking for the sauce?” asked one of the young women.

“Maybe something simple? Lemon, butter, fresh herbs?” I suggested, but I made it sound like a question rather than a command. “What do you think would work best with what we’ve got?”

“Ooh, there’s some of that amazing pancetta left,” chimed in the young guy. “We could render that down, add the vegetables, finish with the lemon and herbs?”

“Perfect. That sounds incredible.”

I watched them work, noting how different the energy was when people felt free to contribute ideas instead of just following orders.

We were all exhausted but now we were cooking for fun. No one was grading the performance. No one cared if we weren’t following a recipe.

“So how did you all end up working this event?” I asked as we cooked. “Are you local to Miami?”

“We’re all from the culinary program at Johnson & Wales. Chef Voss handpicked us for this.”

That stopped me short. “Handpicked you?”

“Yeah, he visits culinary schools across the country and selects students to work these pop-ups,” the young man explained. I could hear the pride in his voice. “It’s like the opportunity of a lifetime. Most of us will never get to work with someone of his caliber again.”

“He does this at every stop?” I asked, trying to process this information.

“Every single one,” confirmed Carlos, an older student who’d been quiet most of the evening. “My buddy is signed up to work the Chicago event.”

I would have thought Rhett would demand the best of the best. Using people from culinary schools was generous. Educational. Almost nurturing, in a way that didn’t match the demanding taskmaster I’d witnessed all day.