Broken Vows

by Nicole Fox

  He smiles and nods, and I wonder how many times he must have hit his head to be so slow. I motion for another cook to come talk to me. He moves quickly, hands folded behind his back, waiting for my order.

  “Chop up the duck and make a confit salad. We can toss it with more raisins, fennel—that kind of thing—and make it work.”

  He nods and shuffles away, and I mop my forehead again.

  At the start of my shift, I strode into the kitchen like I owned the place. I was finally sous chef to Cal Higgs, genius chef in charge at The Floating Crown. After graduating culinary school, I didn’t know where I’d get a job or where I’d be on the totem pole, and I certainly never imagined I’d be a sous chef so soon, but here I am. And now that I’m here, I can’t help but wonder if it wasn’t some sort of trick. Did Cal give into my father’s wishes easily and give me this job because he needed a break from the insanity?

  I’ve been assured by several members of staff that the dishwasher, whose name I can’t remember, has been working at the kitchen for over a year, but he seems to be stuck on slow motion tonight. He is washing and drying plates seconds before the cooks are plating them up and sending them back out to the dining room. And two of the cooks, who were apparently dating, decided that the middle of dinner rush would be the perfect time to discuss their relationship, and they broke up. Dylan stormed out without a word, and Sarah, who should be okay since she was the dumper, not the dumpee, is hiding in the bathroom bawling her eyes out. I’ve knocked on the door once every ten minutes for an hour, but she refuses to let me in. Cal has a key, but he has been shut away in his office all night, and I don’t want to go explain what a shitshow the kitchen is, so we are making do. Barely.

  “Sarah?” I knock on the door. “If you don’t come out in five minutes, you’re fired.”

  For the first time, there is a break in the crying. “You can’t do that.”

  “Yes, I can,” I lie. “You’ll leave here tonight without your apron. Single and jobless. Just imagine that shame.”

  I feel bad rubbing salt in her wound, threatening her, but I’m out of options. I tried comforting her and offering her some of the dark chocolate from the dessert pantry, but she refused to budge. Threats are my last recourse.

  There is a long pause, and I wonder if I’m going to have to admit that I actually can’t fire her—I don’t think—and tell the staff to start using the bathrooms on the customer side, when finally, Sarah emerges. Mascara is smeared down her cheeks, and her eyes are red and puffy from crying, but she is out of the bathroom. As soon as she steps through the doorway, one of the waitresses darts in after her and slams the door shut.

  “I’m sorry, Eve,” she blubbers, covering her face with her hands.

  I grab her wrists and pry her palms from her eyes. When she looks up, her eyes are still closed, tears leaking from the corners.

  “Go to the sinks and help with the dishes,” I say firmly. “You’re in no state to cook right now. Just focus on cleaning plates, okay?”

  Sarah nods, her lower lip wobbling.

  “Everything is fine,” I say, speaking to her like she is a wild animal who might attack. “You won’t lose your job. Cal never needs to know, okay? Just go wash dishes. Now.”

  She turns away from me in a daze and heads back to help the dishwasher whose name I can’t for the life of me remember, and I take a deep breath. I’ve finally put out all the fires, and I lean against the counter and watch the kitchen move around me. It is like a living, breathing machine. Each person has to play their part or everything falls apart. And tonight, I’m barely holding them together.

  When the kitchen door swings open, I hope it is Makayla. She has been a waitress at The Floating Crown for five years, and while she has no formal culinary training, she knows this kitchen better than anyone. I’ve asked her for help tonight more times than I’m comfortable with, but at this point, just seeing one, capable, smiling face would be enough to keep me from crying. But when I turn and instead see a man in a suit, the tie loose and askew around his neck, and his eyes glassy, I almost sag to the floor.

  “You can’t be back here, sir,” I say, moving forward to block his access to the rest of the kitchen. “We have hot stoves and fire and sharp knives, and you are already unstable on your feet.”

  Makayla told me a businessman at the bar had been demanding macaroni and cheese all night between shots. Apparently, he would not take ‘no’ for an answer.

  “Macaroni and cheese,” he mutters, falling against my palms, his feet sliding out from underneath him. “I need macaroni and cheese to soak up the alcohol.”

  I turn to the nearest person for help, but Felix is still looking at the bags of raisins and prunes like he might seriously still be confused which is which, and I don’t want to distract him lest he ruin another duck. I could call out for help from someone else or call the police, but I don’t want to cause a scene. Cal is just in the next room. He may have hired me because my father is Don of the Furino family, but even my father can’t be angry if Cal fires me for sheer incompetence. I have to prove that I’m capable.

  “Sir, we don’t have macaroni and cheese, but may I recommend our scoglio?”

  “What is that?” he asks, top lip curled back.

  “A delicious seafood pasta. Mussels, clams, shrimp, and scallops in a tomato sauce with herbs and spices. Truly delicious. One of my favorite meals on the menu.”

  “No cheese?”

  I sigh. “No. No cheese.”

  He shakes his head and pushes past me, running his hands along the counters like he might stumble upon a prepared bowl of cheesy pasta.

  “Sir, you can’t be back here.”

  “I can be wherever I like,” he shouts. “This is America, isn’t it?”

  “It is, but this is a private restaurant and our insurance does not cover diners being back in the kitchen, so I have to ask you—”

  “Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light!”

  “Is that ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?” I ask, looking around to see whether anyone else can see this man or whether I’m having some sort of exhausted fever dream.

  “What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?”

  This is absurd. Truly absurd. Beyond calling the police, the easiest thing to do seems to be to give in to his demands, so I lay a hand on his shoulder and lead him to the corner of the kitchen. I pat the counter, and he jumps up like he is a child.

  I listen to the National Anthem six times before I hand the man a bowl of whole grain linguini with a sharp cheddar cheese sauce on top. “Can you please take this back to the bar and leave me alone?”

  He grabs the bowl from my hands, takes a bite, and then breaks into yet another rousing rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” This time in falsetto with accompanying dance moves.

  I sigh and push him towards the door. “Come on, man.”

  The dining room is loud enough that no one pays the man too much attention. Plus, he has been drunk out here for an hour before ambushing the kitchen. A few guests shake their heads at the man and then smile at me, giving me the understanding and recognition I sought from the kitchen staff. I lead the man back to the bar, tell the bartender to get rid of him as soon as the pasta is gone, and then make my way back through the dining room.

  “She isn’t the chef,” says a deep voice at normal volume. “Chefs don’t look like that.”

  I don’t turn towards the table because I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing I heard them, of knowing they had any kind of power over me.

  “Whatever she makes, it can’t taste half as good as her muffin,” another man says to raucous laughter.

  I roll my eyes and speed up. I’m used to the comments and the cat calls. I’ve been dealing with it since I sprouted boobs. Even my father’s men would whisper things about me. It is part of the reason I chose a path outside the scope of the family business. I couldn’t imagine working with the kind of men my father employ
ed. They were crass and mean and treated women like possessions. Unfortunately, the more I learn of the world beyond the Bratva, the more I realize men everywhere are like that. It is the reason I’ll never get married. I won’t belong to anyone.

  I hear the men’s deep voices as I walk back towards the kitchen, but I don’t listen. I let the words roll off of me like water on a windowpane and step back into the safe chaos of the kitchen.

  The kitchen seems to calm down as dinner service goes on, and I’m able to take a step back from micro-managing everything to work on an order of chicken tikka masala. While letting the tomato puree and spices simmer, I realize my stomach is growling. I was too nervous before shift to eat anything, and now that things have finally settled into an easy rhythm, my body is about to absorb itself. So, I casually walk over to where two giant stock pots are simmering with the starter soups for the day and scoop myself out a hearty ladle of lobster and bacon soup. Cal doesn’t like for anyone to eat while on service, but he has been in his office all evening, and based on the smell slipping out from under his door, he will be far too stoned to notice or care.

  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 looks around the table at his companions. They are all smiling, and I can practically see them sharpening their teeth, preparing to rip me to shreds. When he turns back to me, his smile is acidic, deadly. “How did you get this position—sous chef? Surely not by skill. You are pretty, which I’m sure did you a favor. Did you sleep with the chef? Maybe—” he moves his hand in an obscene gesture—“‘service’ the boss to earn your place in the kitchen? Surely your ‘talent’ didn’t get you the job, seeing as how you have none.”

  I physically bite my tongue and then take a deep breath. “If you’d like me to remake anything for you or bring out a complimentary dessert, I’m happy to do that. If not, I apologize for the issues and hope you will not hold it against us. We’d love to have you again.”

  Lies. Lies. Lies. I’m smiling and being friendly the way I was taught in culinary school. I actually took a class on dealing with customers, and this man is being even more outrageous than the overexaggerated angry customer played by my professor.

  “Why would I want more food from you if the things you already sent out were terrible?” He snorts and shakes his head. “I see you do not have a ring on. That is no surprise. Men like a woman who can cook. Men don’t care if you know your way around a professional kitchen if you don’t know your way around a dinner plate.”

  The older gentleman is speaking, but I hear my father’s words in my head. You do not need to go to culinary school to find a husband, Eve. Your aunties can teach you to cook good food for your man.

  My entire life has been preparation for finding a husband. The validity of every hobby is judged by whether it will fetch me a suitor or not. My father wants me to be happy, but he mostly wants me to be married. Single, I’m a disappointment. Married, I’m a vessel for future Furino mafia members.

  Years of anger and resentment begin to bubble and hiss inside of me until I’m boilin
g. My hands are shaking, and I can feel adrenaline pulsing through me, lighting every inch of me on fire. This time, I don’t bite my tongue.

  “I’d rather die alone than spent another minute near a man like you,” I spit, stepping forward and laying my palms flat on the table. “The fact that you ate all of the food you apparently hated shows you are a pig in more ways than one.”

  In the back of my mind, I recognize that my voice is echoing around the restaurant and the chatter in the rest of the room has gone quiet, but blood is whirring in my ears, and I can’t stop. I’ve stayed quiet and docile for too long. Now, it is my turn to speak my mind.

  “You and your friends may be wealthy and respected, but I see you for what you are—spineless, cowardly assholes who are so insecure they have to take their rage out on everybody else.”

  I want to spin on my heel and storm away, making a grand exit, but in classic Eve fashion, my heel catches on the tablecloth, and I nearly trip. I fall sideways and throw an arm out to catch myself, knocking a nearly full bottle of wine on the table over. The glass shatters and red wine splashes across the tablecloth and onto the guests in the booth like a river of blood.

  I pause long enough to note the old Russian man’s shirt is splattered like he has been shot before I continue my exit and head straight for the doors.

  I suck in the night air. The evening is warm and humid, summer strangling the city in its hold, and I want to rip off my clothes for some relief. I feel like I’m being strangled. Like there is a hand around my neck, squeezing the life out of me.

  Breathing in and out slowly helps, but as the physical panic begins to ebb away, emotional panic flows in.

  What have I done? Cal Higgs is going to find out about the altercation any minute, and then what? Will he fire me? And if he does, will I ever be able to get another chef position? I was only offered this position because of my father, and I doubt he will help me earn another kitchen position, especially since I’m no closer to finding a boyfriend (or husband) since I left for culinary school.