White Jacket Required

by Jenna Weber

  I drove over to Sand Lake Road, an area in Orlando known for its many restaurants, cafés, and shops. Disney World is only three miles away, and the whole community pretty much survives on tourism alone. As I drove under the interstate overpass, I saw throngs of tourists waiting for buses into the theme park, sunburn lines crisscrossing their backs. I had never lived in a city of this size before, and Orlando sometimes scared me with its crowds and constant bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  I pulled into the parking lot at what appeared to be a busy and popular outdoor shopping center and scanned the restaurants. There was a high-end steak place, a sushi restaurant, a Middle Eastern café, and a Hawaiian restaurant named Roy’s. I recognized the name and walked in. The restaurant was empty except for the chefs working behind the line of the open-air kitchen. Aromas of ginger and grilled meat permeated the restaurant’s main room, and suddenly, I found myself very hungry.

  “Are you here for Tony?” a deep voice shouted from the back.

  “I’m, ummm, here to apply for a job. Do you know where I can find the manager?” I asked.

  A small, middle-aged man dressed in a white chef coat came out of the kitchen. “Yeah, Tony. He’s the owner. He just went around the corner for a coffee, but he should be back any minute. I’m Andrew, the head chef here. Why don’t you take a seat? He shouldn’t be long.” Andrew handed me a menu to look at and gestured to a booth.

  “Perfect. Thank you. I’m Jenna, by the way,” I said as I took the menu and sat down to wait. Not five minutes later, Tony burst through the door, talking loudly on his cell phone and holding a tray of coffees.

  “I don’t care what she says. This is MY RESTAURANT and I MAKE THE RULES.” He slammed his phone shut and muttered profanity under his breath. Feeling anxious now, I cleared my throat and thought about how he reminded me of my Basic Skills 1 chef-instructor, with whom I had spent three long hours earlier that day.

  “Who are you?” Tony demanded. “Please tell me you’re not here to sell me more wine; I thought I told Southern not to send me any more reps!”

  “I’m Jenna. I’m here to apply for a hostess position,” I said hesitantly. I handed him my resume, which I had worked on the night before, making sure all my college honors were listed, as well as my volunteer experience and past restaurant jobs.

  Tony stopped then and looked me up and down. “What’s your name?” he asked again. He spoke with a thick Boston accent. He was short and balding, with the authoritative air of an ex-police officer, but he was dressed in board shorts and a faded T-shirt with surfboards on it.

  “Jenna,” I repeated. “I’m about to start culinary school down the street, and I’m just looking for something about sixteen hours a week.”

  Tony stared at me and took a long sip of his coffee. “You’re going to school to be a chef but you want to work as a hostess? How about on the line or back with the pastry girls?”

  “Well . . . ” I began, “I’m actually going to school to be a food writer, not a chef. I want to write restaurant reviews and cookbooks and just thought . . . ”

  Tony cut me off. “You work weekends?” he asked while scribbling down notes on his yellow legal pad. Though I really wasn’t thrilled about the idea of working weekends, I knew he wouldn’t hire me if I said no.

  “Yep. I’d prefer not to work Sundays, though, because I usually go to church,” I said. I hoped that Tony would at least grant me Sundays free so I could drive home late Saturday night if I wanted to.

  “Hmmmm . . . right. So you’re a church girl, huh?” Tony looked straight at me and raised his eyebrows. “Well, to be honest, I don’t really need any more part-time hostesses right now, especially those that aren’t one hundred percent available, but you’ve got a good resume, so I guess I’ll give you a try. Just don’t disappoint me.” He told me that Tim, one of the managers, would be in touch, and I left the restaurant quickly, excited for my new job but at the same time intimidated and anxious.

  When I got home, Helen was making goulash. Aromas of paprika and cooked meat filled the air, and my mouth began to water. “Well?” she asked. “How’d it go?” I pulled out the bar stool and sat down. “I got a job!” I said. “I’m not quite sure when I start, but they said one of the managers would be in touch.”

  “Hey, that’s awesome! Congrats! I talked to my job, too; you’ll never guess my hours!”

  She told me they were starting her off with the all-night shift, meaning she’d just be getting back from work when I woke up for school in the morning. I had a feeling that our year wasn’t going to be quite the crazy dream we had both envisioned a few months ago over lunch. I hated to think about Helen out there on the streets busting the bad guys—this was a girl who tried to save hurt animals when we were kids. Still, I knew I would support her and that we’d make the best of it.

  A few days later, I started at Roy’s. I made the rookie mistake of wearing my favorite black pumps and dress that first night, and spent the entire time in pain from the giant blisters that formed all over my heels. Tables constantly needing clearing, and families waited in line out the door to be seated. I quickly learned that succeeding in this job would require being good under pressure and being quick on my feet. The time I went home depended on how many tables were still occupied in the restaurant, but I could usually sweet-talk Tim into letting me head out after I seated the last one, rather than waiting for only three tables to be left like Tony made me do. On the average night, I usually took off around ten o’clock and tried to be asleep by eleven, so I could still manage six hours of rest before my alarm blasted at the crack of dawn. And, of course, right as my alarm was going off, Helen was pulling in from another long night at the police department.

  The other two hostesses, Laura and Carol, became good friends of mine. Both were around my age and working their way through school like I was. Laura was pursuing her MBA at the University of Central Florida. She had been working at Roy’s for three years and seemed to know all the restaurant’s ins and outs. Carol, on the other hand, had been working at Roy’s part-time for a year and a half to supplement the income she made at her nine-to-five job, which was in business development. Like Laura, Carol was sweet and genuine, and we could always make each other laugh. Right after I started, Carol surprised us all by getting married to a marine after a three-month whirlwind romance. As soon as I spotted her ring, a small but lovely diamond on her left hand, I gasped out loud because I knew Carol was as single as they come.

  “What in the world is THAT?” I asked loudly one night, grabbing her hand, after we had worked together for a couple months.

  Carol blushed bright red. “Well, I, um, got engaged! No one knows yet, though, so don’t tell Tony. It’s kind of a secret.” Some secret, with her ring sparkling under the restaurant’s bright lights.

  “I had no idea you were even dating anyone . . . this is crazy! Congratulations!” I always loved hearing proposal stories and secretly wondered what and when my own would be. Carol’s was extremely special though, and she recounted it to Laura and me one night after most of the tables in the restaurant were empty and things were winding down.

  “It all happened about two months ago,” she began, still blushing. “I was on my way home from Atlanta for a conference and was about to board my plane when I looked across the terminal and saw a really cute guy in a marine uniform. I know it sounds corny, but at that moment our eyes locked and I just knew! Both of our flights ended up being delayed, and when I was sitting in Starbucks he came and found me and we talked for about two hours. We exchanged numbers and email addresses, and when I finally got home that night I saw that he had already emailed me . . . and somehow it just went from there!” Laura and I were completely enthralled by her story and we ended up chatting about it until the time we clocked out and went home.

  Kicked-up Turkey Meatloaf

  Serves 6

  Truth be told, I have never liked meatloaf. Until, that is, I tried making it with turkey instead of the traditional beef,
pork, and veal mix. Mushrooms and lentils jazz things up a bit, and you’ll love sandwiches made with leftovers the next day.

  ½ tablespoon olive oil

  1 large onion, diced

  1 large carrot, diced

  2 cloves garlic, minced

  2 cups mushrooms, chopped

  1 cup cooked black or green lentils

  1 teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  1½ teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

  ¼ cup ketchup

  ¾ cup panko breadcrumbs

  ⅓ cup milk

  1 pound lean ground turkey

  1 egg, lightly beaten

  For the glaze

  2 tablespoons ketchup

  1 tablespoon pure maple syrup

  1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

  Preheat the oven to 400°F and grease a loaf pan.

  In a large skillet, heat olive oil over medium-high heat until hot but not smoking. Add the diced onion and sauté until soft and translucent, about 6 minutes. Add the carrot and garlic and cook for 3 minutes. Add the chopped mushrooms and cook until all vegetables are softened, about 5 more minutes. Remove the pan from the heat and transfer the mixture to a large bowl. Add the cooked lentils, salt, pepper, Worcestershire sauce, and ketchup and mix well.

  In a small bowl, combine the panko breadcrumbs and milk. Let sit for 3 minutes so the crumbs can absorb a little of the milk. Add to vegetable mixture.

  Add ground turkey and beaten egg and mix well with your hands. Transfer to the loaf pan and press down to smooth top.

  Combine the ingredients for the glaze and pour over top of meatloaf. Spread with a spoon to cover the top. Bake for 55 minutes or until a meat thermometer reads 165°F.

  Homemade Baked Beans

  Serves 2 hungry girls

  This is, by far, one of the most praised recipes on my blog, and for good reason! Maple syrup, dry mustard, and hot sauce provide spicy sweetness for this country classic. For a meal in one dish, add hot chicken sausage to the beans before baking.

  ½ tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

  ½ large yellow onion, chopped

  3 cloves garlic, minced

  8 ounces tomato sauce

  2 tablespoons pure maple syrup

  1 tablespoon ketchup

  1 teaspoon dry mustard

  1 teaspoon hot sauce

  ½ teaspoon sea salt

  1 (15-ounce) can cannellini beans, drained and rinsed

  1 bay leaf

  Preheat the oven to 350°F.

  In a cast-iron or nonstick skillet, heat the olive oil until hot but not smoking. Add the onions and sauté until soft and translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and sauté 30 seconds more.

  Add the tomato sauce, maple syrup, ketchup, ground mustard, hot sauce, and sea salt, and simmer for 5 minutes.

  Add the beans and bay leaf. Stir, then cover the skillet with aluminum foil and bake for 45 minutes, stirring halfway through the baking process.

  Allow the beans to cool for about 10 minutes. Serve warm.

  5

  RUNNING ON EMPTY

  AFTER ABOUT THREE WEEKS OF LIVING IN ORLANDO, I started to run. I figured that it was the best way to beat the “Cordon Bleu fifteen” that Rhonda had warned me about. Throughout my life, I’d never had a weight problem at all. I had been blessed with a good set of genes and simply never developed a taste for junk or fast food. I always preferred food that was as natural as possible, whether that came in the form of a creamy wedge of Brie or a perfectly ripe fig. I loved simple, honest food and believed everything could be enjoyed in moderation . . . especially rich, classic desserts. That being said, I still liked to take care of myself, and exercise had always played a very important role in my life.

  So I invested in a good pair of sneakers and hit the pavement. My new apartment was conveniently located right next to the largest mall in Orlando, which provided an ample track to run around. Classes still hadn’t started, and with my evening hours at Roy’s, I had more than enough time to get moving in the morning. Truthfully, I never really enjoyed running as much as I enjoyed a sweaty yoga class, but I loved the feeling after a run when I made it into my apartment, cheeks red and sweat prickling my neck, to rummage through the cabinets for breakfast. I always ran slowly with my iPod on and usually stopped every few minutes for a short walk break. Walking hindered my speed, of course, but it made the whole process more enjoyable.

  I started running by myself because it wasn’t really Helen’s thing; plus we were operating on completely different schedules. Her hours ran her ragged until early in the morning, and sometimes she slept until two in the afternoon to make up for lost sleep. So I would sneak out quietly in the mornings, making sure to close the door softly and lock it on my way out. One morning, after my standard two-mile jog, I returned and found her sitting on the bar stool in her pajamas, eyes red and hair a sight.

  “You look awful. Did everything go okay last night at work?” I asked as I took a long swig of cold water and then poured myself a cup of coffee.

  “They tazed me,” she said. “I knew it was coming, and it’s just standard job training, but, man, did it ever hurt.” Helen stuck out her right arm, which was now covered in angry red welts.

  “Man, I’m so sorry. I guess you know how the bad guys feel now though, huh?”

  Helen gave a dry laugh and drained her coffee cup. “This was bad, but it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as when they maced me during initial training. Now that killed.”

  I gave her a sympathetic look, even though I had absolutely no idea how it felt to be tormented in that way. I still couldn’t believe she was actually doing this. It just seemed . . . wrong.

  “Anyway, my arm hurt so badly that I couldn’t sleep and I was going to suggest going somewhere for breakfast, but when I woke up you had already gone on your run. I was too hungry to wait!”

  “Aw, don’t worry about it. I’ve gotta run to school soon anyway to pick up my knife set, so I’m a little short on time,” I said as I opened the fridge to grab the low-fat milk and a bowl of fresh blackberries. Five minutes later, I was chowing down on a hot bowl of Scottish oatmeal, laced with honey and studded with the juicy berries. Helen had poured herself another cup of coffee and retreated to the couch, where she flipped on the Food Network. I kicked off my running shoes and thought about all I had to do that day to get ready for school.

  After a few weeks, although I still didn’t enjoy running, I felt myself get better at it, which I liked. My runs became part of my routine, and I found that after I ran, my days were always a little better and I slept deeper, too. On a whim, I decided to enter the Gasparilla Half Marathon four months later in Tampa. I’d never actually run a race before, but I liked the idea of having a goal in mind and something to train for while I cooked my days away in classroom kitchens. Even though I’ve always considered myself a spontaneous person, routine appealed to me, and I enjoyed having a plan and a schedule. I didn’t know anyone else who was running the race, but I quickly found a training plan online that suited my frequent walk breaks and slower style. The plan had me increasing my mileage by one mile every week and incorporating cross-training, such as yoga.

  By the third week of the new plan, though, my shins began to hurt. They started aching only a few minutes after I left the apartment, but usually got better toward the middle of my run. The pain was dull and annoying, and I started to apply ice packs after every run right as soon as I got back inside. I hated the ice and the way it felt like both shins were swollen and bruised deep within, but I still struggled to keep up with my training. On one particular 5-mile run, the pain became so sharp and strong that I actually had to stop and walk back. I decided to take two weeks off and wore Ace bandages and Tiger Balm pads on my shins, underneath my chef pants, when I was at school. I never saw a doctor, but I read online that the best thing to do was apply ice twice a day, every day. I iced three times a day because I was on my feet all day and all night between schoo
l and work, and I figured a little extra treatment couldn’t hurt.

  Two weeks later, I laced up my running shoes again, this time with a tight Ace bandage on my right shin and an ibuprofen already in my system. I opened my apartment door and felt a shock of cool late-October air as I warmed up and stretched. It was 6:30 in the morning, and the city was still very much asleep, with the exception of the bright lights moving on the interstate behind the apartment. I walked out of my complex and turned my walk into a slow jog as I headed to my usual around-the-mall loop. Not even five minutes later, my right shin felt like it was pulsating beneath the bandage. The pain made me angry, and I gritted my teeth and pushed myself forward, trying to focus on what I would be cooking later that day or the ingredients in a new pasta dish I wanted to test out. Milk, tarragon, garlic, shallots, ooooouch! I cursed silently, slowing my jog to a walk. I had put time, effort, and money into training for this race, and even though it hurt, I really didn’t want to quit. Plenty of people run with ailments, I told myself. Don’t be such a wuss. Think of something nice . . . like bread or dark chocolate or baked feta cheese. This too shall pass.

  I picked up my speed and continued around the mall, the sun slowly starting to turn orange in the sky and mall employees emerging from their parked cars with hot coffees in their hands. I glanced down at my heart-rate monitor watch, which also tracked my distance. One point seven five miles, it blinked. One point seven five? I felt like I had been going now for at least three. My leg hurt and my mind started spinning. Why was I doing this anyway? I never really liked running to begin with, and there were plenty of other ways I could stay in shape without joining a gym, like power yoga and long walks. I thought of the hot coffee bubbling in the machine back at the apartment and the creamy Greek yogurt and homemade granola that would serve as my finishing prize. Okay, Jenna . . . 4 miles left. You can do this . . . it’s nothing! With my mind made up, I pushed away all thoughts of my aching shin and my eventual breakfast and set my full attention on the road before me.