by Adriana Peck
I sigh, roll up my sleeves as I go to wash my hands and pat them dry before coating them with flour. I help Chef Donna, barking orders to my waitstaff as they peer into the kitchen. They’ll just have to cover my extra-large section tonight for once, I tell them as two waiters look at me with pale faces and eyes as wide as the dinner plates we serve on.
Donna and I knead the dough, turning them into circles as we form the shape of the margarita pizza crust. We coat the dough with egg wash, throw them into the oven as I make sure she’s got the right type of sauce and mozzarella ready to go. She can’t mess this next part up. It’s spreading sauce and placing balls of cheese on dough. I tell Chef Donna that the pizza better come out perfectly when I come back to check on her, and then I work my way over to Chef Jeremy, who’s covering sauces and plating tonight.
He’s on his phone. Again.
I yank it out of his hands and throw it on the floor. It shatters the screen, and the rest of the kitchen goes silent for just a moment as it clatters on the tile. I snap at everyone else to get back to work as Chef Jeremy looks utterly aghast. He’s in his mid twenties, a college student from the looks of it. He’s got a look on his face that tells me he’s from a good home, that he’s never been held accountable in his life.
“How are the sauces coming along tonight?”
“F-fine, Mason—” Jeremy starts to say, but I need to nip this in the bud.
“We are not on a first-name basis, Chef. You call me sir or you call me boss. Now, how are the sauces coming along tonight, Chef?”
“Good, good. They’re coming along fine,” Chef Jeremy shows me a marinara that’s finished, and I taste it. It’s watery with absolutely no hint of any spices or salt or pepper in it. I’m ashamed to realize we’ve been serving this to customers for the last three hours, and I nearly scream.
“No. Not good,” I say. “Fix it. You can tell what’s wrong.”
Chef Jeremy nods glumly and gazes down on the floor, I assume to look at his shattered phone. Whatever. With the amount I’m forced to pay him I know he’ll be able to afford another one. I snap at him to get back to work.
I take one look at Johnny the dishwasher and I’m in shock. He is yet again curled up into a ball, huddled beneath my sink, hyperventilating as the dishes pile up above him. There’s no way he gets them done tonight, so I scurry over there and get started on washing them.
I bang out about half the dishes before I’m called back up front again by one of my waitstaff. I don’t know how long I was washing, so I figure I’ll have to get the rest done after close when I plan on firing Johnny the dishwasher.
Rupert and Marcy are paying their bill. They asked another waiter to come get me before they shoved off for the evening. I thank them, warmly as always, and Rupert tips a little more than fifteen per cent. Great.
As I escort my VIP guests out the door and thank them again for their patronage, Rupert turns to me and says: “If Rosas’s really gone, then I wish you the best in running things. You looked stressed tonight.”
“He’s trying to say he’s worried about you,” Marcy leans in and smiles as she re-adjusts her coat over her shoulders. “That’s all. You just seemed busy.”
I smile a perfectly fake smile. They won’t know the truth, of course, but it’s dreadfully surprising to me how easy it was for the average patron to notice our ship is sinking.
“I appreciate your concern,” I say half-heartedly, “but we’re doing just fine as we look for a replacement for our Chef Rosa. She’ll be missed,” I add.
Rupert shakes my hand again as the valet service pulls his car around. He opens the door for Marcy, gives me a smile as he gets in and drives off.
I resign back to my restaurant, knowing full well I’ve got another four hours of madness awaiting me. I’m captaining a ship without a first mate, and it’s really starting to get to me.
◆◆◆
The restaurant closes a little late tonight. I don’t manage to get the doors locked until 1:15, and I can see from the look of my collective staff that they’re as tired and as stressed as I’ve been lately.
I try to address the staff, give them a half-assed pep talk and tell them that if we work hard, things will get easier over time. I know that’s not true, and I bet they all know it, too. It’s pretty shitty when I know they can see through the facade. It makes me want to just throw in the towel and call it quits. If I can’t get a bunch of overpaid staff on my side, then who else?
I head back to the kitchen’s dish station where I find Johnny has finally finished his panic attack. He’s sniffling, wiping his nose with a paper towel as he finishes the rest of the dishes. He doesn’t even look at me as I pass him by on the way to the office. Good. I’ll keep him on for tonight, then. If he can be this useful during a dinner rush I might actually start to like him.
As I sit down in my tiny, cramped office, behind a tiny, cramped desk, I think I finally have an idea of how much of a difference Rosa made in my life. She kept thing in line in the kitchen. She kept a lid on all these wackos on my staff. She managed to pull together a menu that works, that keeps customers coming back once a week or more. People take their damn leftovers home here, where at the Porto they’d just leave them for the busboy. I find pride in that, among other things. And I found pride in my restaurant when Rosa was a part of the team, but now?
Now I’m not so certain we’re going to stay afloat. Now I’m certain that Rosa was the connective tissue our staff needed to keep us working as one unit. She was the glue. Our bonding agent that can’t be replaced. I’d look like a total fool if I go back on my decision to fire her. I’ll look like an indecisive leader, which is a death sentence for any boss who hopes to keep a shred of authority over their staff.
But I need her back. I can’t do this without Rosa.
I pull out my phone, scroll to her contact.
I call her and listen to the ringing as my heart threatens to pound its way out of my chest.
She doesn’t pick up as I’m sent to voicemail. I hang up, knowing full well she’ll see a missed call from me either way. I hope she calls me back. I wonder if I should try calling her again. Would it look too clingy? Would I look desperate.
I sigh. I can’t believe I’m thinking about these things. I sound like I’m in high school.
I dial her number again and hold the phone to my ear.
This time, I’m sent directly to voicemail. She’s declining my calls now. I’ve really ruined things now.
As I walk back out to the lobby to count the drawer, I feel a heavy weight around my shoulders, dragging me down. I can feel it in my joints, and I can feel the weight in my soul as well. And I have no idea what it’ll take to lift it.
I call the next number I think of.
Carly answers on the first ring.
Twenty-Five
I finish scrubbing the dishes from tonight, my hands covered with soap as I attempt to get the grease out of a pan that I used to sauté onions and garlic for my tomato sauce I’d just eaten with pasta. It’s getting late, but I can stay up. After all, I’m out of work again and I don’t have to be up tomorrow for any set obligation. Unemployment is relaxing like that. You’ve got more time for chores at home, I figure. My apartment doesn’t have a dishwasher of its own, and at times like these I really miss working in a kitchen. I was always able to shout for Benicio or Johnny to take a dish from me, and ten seconds later it’d be clean, handed right back over to me. I miss that. I miss kitchen work.
As I scrub my dishes clean, alone, I find myself missing things back at Sebastian’s Eatery. But most of all, I miss Mason. Despite everything, I find myself thinking about him more and more every day. How he completed my sentences, smiled at my stupid jokes I’d stolen from Gambio. He was hard, but I managed to soften him up. I wonder about the other girls that made him smile like that, and if he’s managed to find another since dumping me as his Head Chef and as his potential girlfriend.
But he fired me. And we have to get over th
e bad things that happen to us.
Besides, I’ve got me to worry about now. I’ve been out of a job for a week, but fortunately, I still have some old paychecks I’ve yet to cash. I still have some savings, too, so I’ll be okay for a few months while I figure out just what the hell I’m going to do. After a million and one interviews I was lucky to find a spot for me at the Restaurante Porto, and then I managed to burn that bridge as I jumped ship over to Sebastian’s, but now that I’ve been fired from that I’m pretty much out of options. Maybe I can go back to waitressing. I won’t be happy, but it’ll pay the bills. I keep telling myself I’ll figure something out, but I know that time always marches on and the best laid plans of Rosa Bertolini often go awry.
As I finish loading up the scrubbed-clean dishes onto the drying rack, I find that I’m much more at peace with my situation. I’ll always be able to cook, no matter what. I cook homemade pasta with tomato sauce from scratch today, and tomorrow I’ll cook whatever I want then, too. No menu to keep me chained to five to ten plates. No boss to ‘keep me on track.’
No Mason. I still can’t get over him.
Sure, he was a real jerk at times, but still—he was mine, and I was his. We were a team, both in and out of the kitchen. Things just feel empty without him.
After dinner, I sit on my couch and pull out a paperback I’d been reading this week. It’s an old favorite from college, a romance about famous rockstars and DJ’s. As I finally find myself immersed in the pages, I feel my phone buzz in its place next to me on the couch.
The screen’s lit up with Mason’s name across it.
He’s calling me. Right now, Mason is calling me. It’s 1:15 in the morning. He’s probably closing up shop now.
I don’t have the heart or the stomach to answer. Instead, I watch the screen as the call rings and rings. Eventually it’s sent to voicemail, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I wipe the sweat that was gently forming at my brow and get back to my book.
Not a minute later Mason calls me again.
This time I decline the call and send him straight to voicemail. If he’s got my tax papers or whatever, he can tell it to my inbox.
Maybe he’s calling to apologize. Maybe he’s going to tell me how sorry he was for firing me, how bad things are getting at Sebastian’s. But right now, I really don’t care. I want to read my book in peace, and I want to have a night to myself. I’m really getting used to the idea of being alone, and the thought doesn’t scare me nearly as much as it used to.
I still miss Mason. But I know things won’t be patched up between us with just a single phone call. It’ll take a lot more work than that to put things right. He probably called Carly after I rejected his calls. I don’t know what to think about that, so I decide not to dwell on it. I’m better off anyways.
Life goes on.
Twenty-Six
Carly picks up on the first ring.
“Mason?” she asks, her voice tired from a long day. She’s probably wondering why I’m calling her at 1:15 in the morning. But I don’t really care.
“Carly, the critic never came. You promised they’d be there tonight, and they weren’t. What gives?”
She sighs heavily over the phone. “Mason, you know I still care about you, right?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I mean, maybe I fibbed just a little bit. Back at the café, I mean. Just a white lie to make you feel better about your situation.”
I let my feelings get the better of me. “Let me guess. You don’t work for Deporte Magazine, and this was all a ruse.”
There’s a long pause.
“Yeah. You’re right, I don’t work there anymore,” Carly says quietly. “I’ve been between jobs as of late. I thought that—”
“You thought what? You could lead me on, give me false hope in my restaurant? You’ve ruined things for me, Carly. I hope you’re happy.”
Another pause.
“I’m not happy at all. I haven't been since quitting the Porto and leaving you. Honest. Mason, I’d like to come see you. I want to make things up to you. I swear I’ll make it right. I’ll find a reviewer for you and everything. I can even help around the restaurant if you need. I just need a little time.”
I wonder if I’m making the right call here, but Rosa’s gone and things are in limbo right now at Sebastian’s. I don’t know if my restaurant will last a year at this point. I’m going to need a miracle to keep things afloat.
“When did you want to meet?” I ask through gritted teeth.
◆◆◆
Back at Sebastian’s I hear rumors from the staff, whispers about our old Head Chef and where she’s gone. They’ve heard things about Rosa, things I cannot confirm or deny without letting on how much I care about her. Johnny’s friends with her on Facebook, apparently. And apparently she’s been looking for jobs. She’s updated her LinkedIn too, Johnny tells me. I’m confused as to why he’s on LinkedIn, but I shrug it off. Donna tells me she heard through the grapevine that Rosa’s entirely over me and Sebastian’s Eatery. None of these rumors make me feel at ease. None of them make me feel good about my mistakes, and they all seem to make patching things up with Rosa more and more difficult.
Of course, I’ve made plans to see Carly again, too. So that’s a thing that’s happening. I don’t know what she wants to say to me, or how she wants to make things up. All I know is I have nothing left to lose anymore.
And now Rosa’s not answering my calls. I figure I’m going to have to confront her in person at some point, just to make sure things between us didn’t end as terribly as I thought they did. I’m pretty sure I was a massive jerk to her, and I want to make sure I can apologize for at least that, at the end of the day. But I still can’t get ahold of her. I wonder if things are ever going to be right between us. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again, if she even wants to see me again. She probably doesn’t, and I wouldn’t blame her in the slightest.
I figure things are over between us. And it’s going to be up to me to make things right. I have an act to clean up, and I need to get things into gear.
My staff hates me. That much I know for certain. As I weave in and out of the kitchen staff in passing, I can feel their looks of disdain on my back. I can tell they despise me, that I’m only a paycheck to them. At least the money hits their accounts on time. If that goes, I know I’ll have a walk-out on my hands. My waitstaff all hate me too, but that part confuses me as I’m always covering for one or more of them calling in sick every single day. So maybe I still have to learn a few things. Maybe I can improve a little bit.
It seems silly to me that I’d chastise Rosa for her communication skills when I’m out here barking orders at a staff who doesn’t know left from right, let alone how to de-bone a chicken, dice an eggplant, or how to peel a potato.
I’m ashamed at how far things have fallen, and I decide I’m going to make things right.
Before the restaurant opens today, I decide I’m going to try to see Rosa at her apartment. I decide to walk there, and it takes me a good hour to make it over.
I buzz her apartment number from memory, but nobody answers. Maybe she’s not home, or maybe she somehow knows I’m outside. Either way, I’m not getting in.
I take a stroll around downtown, and the cool breeze buffets my jacket around me. I duck into my regular café spot and order a coffee to warm me up. I’ve still got six hours on the docket before I need to be at Sebastian’s for opening. I take a seat at the bar facing outside and sip my coffee, contemplating my next move. Rosa won’t answer my calls, and if I can’t catch her at her apartment, what other options do I have? Send her a letter? An e-mail? Maybe something via carrier pigeon.
Carly walks in a few seconds after I sit down and spots me. She walks over, more cheerful than usual, and sits down across from me.
Coffee shop. Again. I really need to get away from these places.
“So, we meet again,” Carly winks. It takes a lot of effort not to cringe.
Carly smiles devilishly, but changes the subject. “I heard things between you and Rosa aren’t going so hot?”
I shake my head. Regretfully, I add: “Had to let her go.”
Carly tsks. “Shame. You two seemed nice together. So, you’re down a chef then?”
“Why do you ask?”
Carly pauses, weighing her options as I wait for her to cut to the chase.
“I’d like to throw my hat into the ring,” Carly says. “Like I said, I want to help you out in the kitchen. Pretend we’re back in the old days. I can make your life easy again. You can have a Head Chef again, and we can pretend the last few years just…never happened. What do you think?”
I don’t know what to say or think. As I sit there in the café, weighing the choices, I look outside. The Restaurante Porto’s just down the street, I know. And here I am, again, talking to the ex who broke my heart and practically left me for dead. In another god-damned coffee shop, no less.
And now I have a choice to make. I can hire Carly on, pretend the past never happened. I can probably keep my restaurant going for a while longer if I’ve got a Head Chef again.
“Carly, I need to think about it first before—”
And then something bright red catches my eye outside. A winter coat, walking by the café, without a care in the world. Holding a purse and a giant manilla envelope as they walk with purpose to their destination. I gaze up instinctively to see who it is.
It’s Rosa. She’s walking by the café, just outside.
