"That will be perfect, thank you," I answer.
"Great, I'll see you then."
I disconnect the call just as I pull into the parking lot of Fission. It's eight-thirty, and Paul's car is the only one in the lot. I'm thankful no one else is here. I have a lot to say and I don't want to be overheard by Amy, Charlotte, or any of the other nosey, gossiping staff.
I push the front door, and I'm relieved to find it is unlocked. The dining room is dark and quiet. Any other time, I'd find the atmosphere peaceful, but this morning it just seems sad and lonely. I walk into the kitchen and find Paul sitting on a stool next to the prep station. He looks up as the door swings shut behind me.
"Kiara, thank God," he says as he rushes toward me. "I've been so worried. I didn't sleep at all last night." He wraps his arms around me.
"Don't fucking touch me," I tell him as I escape from his embrace.
"Kiara, what's wrong?" Confusion fills his face. "Has something happened? Were you in an accident? I called over and over again. Have you lost your phone?"
"You know exactly what happened," I answer hatefully, "and now, so do I."
"What are you talking about? I don't know anything. Did I do something to upset you? Is that why you didn't show last night? If I overstepped, if you feel like us hanging out together is inappropriate, I understand."
"What's inappropriate is that you fucked Jenny on the bar Sunday night," I say firmly.
All of the color drains from his face. "Kiara, I didn't..."
"Save it, there's no point in lying. I didn't come here to listen to your excuses. I just wanted to bring this back," I tell him as I pull my folded Fission chef's jacket from my bag. "I have no interest in being yet another employee you screw and then screw over. Consider this my resignation," I say as I throw the jacket at his face.
He catches it and lays it across the prep table. "Kiara, I don't know what Jenny told you, but it didn't happen the way you think it did. I admit I slept with her. And it was wrong. That was one of the incidents I was talking about when I told you I've made mistakes."
"No, it wasn't," I argue. "You fucked her after I left Sunday. I know you did. What happened, Paul? I didn't drop my pants fast enough for you, so you moved on to Jenny? Did you at least wait until I left the parking lot before you called her, or had you already made plans with her before we had dinner together?"
"That night with Jenny was weeks ago," Paul insists. "It was before I thought I had a chance with you... she asked me to help her study for her pairings class, and we got way too drunk. Things went too far, but it didn't mean anything. You're the one I care about, Kiara."
"I see," I reply angrily. "So Jenny was just a fuck for you. That speaks volumes about your character, Paul."
"I understand if you don't want to spend time with me outside of the restaurant," he says with a sigh, "but please don't quit the program. You deserve to be here, Kiara. And working here would be a big boost for your career. Please don't throw away this opportunity because I made a mistake."
"The winner of this competition will be your new apprentice, and I'd rather light my hair on fire than work for you," I hiss. "I've scheduled a meeting with my faculty adviser at Cordon Bleu. Hopefully, I can make up the last month of classes and finish out the rest of this semester. If not, I'll take an incomplete and start over in January. Regardless, I won't be setting foot in this place again."
I turn around, slam the swinging doors open, and step back into the dining room. I glance at the bar and feel like I'm going to be sick.
"Kiara."
I turn and see Paul in the doorway. "Don't follow me," I demand. I rush out of the restaurant and nearly run Jenny over on the sidewalk.
"Good morning..." she greets me awkwardly. "Are you leaving?"
"Yes," I hiss as I walk past her and step into the parking lot.
"Is everything all right? When are you coming back?"
I turn on her. "Everything is fucking perfect, especially for you. After all of that talk in the café about how we shouldn't screw our way to the top, you turn around and do exactly that."
"Look, Kiara... I can explain," she insists.
"I don't need to hear your pathetic explanations. I know exactly what happened. Your 'I'm not sure this is what I want' bullshit was just a line to get me to let my guard down. You're jealous of my cooking skills, and you're jealous Paul found me more attractive than you. You knew that the only way you had a chance in hell of winning the apprenticeship was if you screwed the boss. So you win, Jenny. You can have the job and you can have Paul. You deserve each other, and I deserve better." I turn and walk toward my car.
"Kiara, wait..." she calls out.
I leave the parking lot without looking back.
***
"Kiara, this is quite surprising," Chef Lee says with obvious disappointment. "Out of all of my students, I thought you'd be best suited for this competition. Do you realize how many of your classmates wanted that spot at Fission?"
"I understand, Chef Lee. And I'm sorry," I apologize, "but the environment at Fission is not one I can work in. There's a lot of... internal politics at play."
"Is the environment hostile?" Chef Lee asks. "Should I contact the labor board?"
I shake my head. "There's no need to do that. Nothing going on there is illegal... exactly."
"Kiara, I'd love to help you out, but first you're going to have to tell me the full story. You're obligated to Fission for the next eight weeks, and your semester grade depends on you completing the competition. I may be able to pull some strings, but only if I know the facts of the situation."
"Chef Weston seems more interested in how his female candidates perform outside of the kitchen," I say firmly.
"I see," says Chef Lee, perplexed. "And I assume you're not talking about the front of the house?"
I shake my head. "If I can't make up my work here this semester, I understand. I'll start over in January. But I can't go back to that restaurant."
"Kiara, I don't mean to pry into your personal business, but did you develop a physical relationship with Chef Weston?"
"No, I did not."
"But you felt pressured to do so in order to win the apprenticeship?"
"I felt that the events occurring outside of the competition were detrimental to my success. Chef Weston showed obvious favoritism to me, and he made it clear that he was interested in me in a nonprofessional way. That favoritism and interest caused the other competitors to develop hostile attitudes toward me. I can't prove it, but I'm certain my work was sabotaged at least once."
"At some point, you're going to have to learn to work in hostile environments," Chef Lee advises. "Professional kitchens are notorious for drama. I'd have thought you already knew that."
"I understand," I assure her. "But Chef Weston's actions have made me completely uninterested in being his apprentice. I feel that continuing in the competition would be a waste of my time."
Chef Lee stares at me intently and is silent for quite some time. "Very well. I'll need you to write an official statement detailing why you are leaving the competition. You don't have to get specific with the details of Chef Weston's flirtations, but I'll need something for your file."
"I can do that," I agree.
"I must warn you, Kiara, you're going to face some scrutiny from your classmates. You've missed four weeks of class, and most people in that situation would have to take an incomplete for the semester. I'm willing to let you make up the work you've missed, but I can't give you any other special treatment. Midterms are next week... you'll have to have all of your make-up work turned in before then, and you have to take the tests as scheduled."
"Thank you, Chef Lee," I say with relief. "I understand. I'll get started right away, and I'll be prepared for the exams."
"I certainly hope so, Kiara. You're incredibly talented, and I'd hate to see this set your graduation date back. I will email you a list of make-up assignments. You can do the written work online, providing you
log in to the system with your webcam on so no one can accuse you of cheating. The practical assignments can be made up during my planning periods."
"Thank you, Chef Lee. I know this is a huge inconvenience to you."
"Wait until after next week's exams to thank me," Chef Lee answers impatiently. "You're incredibly talented, but I confess I'll be surprised if you're able to complete all of your work on time and prepare for your midterms. As your advisor, I must reemphasize that the best thing you could do is set aside your personal issues and complete your time at Fission."
"I understand but I just can't," I tell her again. "I will get all of my work finished on schedule. And as for my exams, it's not like I've taken four weeks off from cooking. I'll surprise you, I promise."
"We'll see, Kiara. We'll see."
***
"Time's up, pencils down," Chef Lee announces from the front of the classroom. Over the last two hours, my classmates and I have been taking our midterm practical test. I have to admit I wasn't as prepared as I thought I'd be.
"Please step away from your desks and move to your work station," Chef Lee continues. We stand and do as she directed. I arrive at my work station and find an assortment of ingredients spread out on the table.
"This is a three-hour practical exam," Chef Lee explains, "during which time you will complete a variety of dishes that comprise a full-course meal. The salad course will showcase your knife skills, and all dressings must be made from scratch. Following that, you will create all five of the mother sauces. You will reserve a sample of each before taking two sauces of your choosing and turning them into small sauces. Those sauces are to be served with a dish of your choosing, both of which must have meat components. Finally, you will create an ice cream, sorbet, or gelato. Once you've moved on to the next stage of the exam, you may not go back and correct any of the other stages. Your time starts now."
I survey the ingredients that are already at my station. Everything needed for the mother sauces is already there. I set pans to warm on my stovetop before rushing to the walk-in for my salad ingredients. I want to make a classic Caesar, so I grab romaine, parmesan, lemons, mustard, and Worcestershire sauce. I stop in the pantry for anchovies before returning to my station.
I finish the salad quickly and begin on my sauces. While I work, I consider which sauces I want to use in my next course. I know most of my classmates will be tempted to create a simple cream sauce, as it's the least time consuming. I want my work to stand out, so I decide my entrée dishes will include beef with a Bordelaise sauce, which will be created from my Espagnole, and poached salmon with a Maltaise sauce, which I will make from my Hollandaise.
I complete the mother sauces and reserve samples of them as Chef Lee had instructed. I return to the walk-in for beef tenderloin, mushrooms, salmon, and asparagus. I return to my workstation and my heart sinks. My reserved Veloute sauce has broken in its bowl. There's nothing I can do about it now, I just have to move on and make sure everything else is perfect.
I glance up at the front of the classroom and see Chef Lee grading the written exams at her desk. I'll know whether I've passed or failed before I leave for the evening. I wasn't as prepared as I should have been for the written portion of the midterm. That, combined with my broken Veloute, sends anxiety coursing through my body.
Just keep it together. It's all about the food. I know what I'm doing. I brown the tenderloin in a hot skillet and transfer it to the oven. The salmon will only need to cook for a few minutes. I prepare my poaching water, then return to the walk-in once more for my dessert ingredients. I enjoy savory tones in my final course, so I decide to prepare a pink grapefruit and sage sorbet. I gather the ingredients, return to my station, and check my tenderloin. I press it with a gloved finger and can tell it's overcooked.
Damn it! I pull it out of the oven and leave it to rest on my cutting board. I slam the pan down and draw the attention of several of my classmates. "Sorry," I say sheepishly. This isn't going well at all, and a big part of me wants to give up. But if I have a prayer of finishing the semester, I have to complete this midterm. It'll all be over after today. I'll be caught up with everything and start fresh next week. By finals, I'll be kicking everyone's asses again.
The entrée portion of the exam must be completed before I can start on my sorbet, so I slide the salmon into my poaching liquid and add the necessary ingredients to my sauces. While the sauces simmer, I slice the tenderloin. It's still pink in the middle, and I'm slightly encouraged. I let the asparagus steam while I plate my beef dish. Once I'm satisfied with my entrées, I set them aside and move on to my final course.
I make a simple syrup on the stovetop and juice the grapefruits into it. I toss in the sage and let the flavors meld for a few minutes. While the mixture simmers, I glance back at my bowls of mother sauces... everything but the Veloute is still intact.
I hear a noise at the front of the room and look up to see Chef Lee leaving her desk. "You have thirty minutes left. As you should all be on the dessert portion of the exam, I'm going to start sampling your other courses."
She walks up to my station and I'm relieved that she is tasting my entrées while they're still hot. I'm also relieved that I'm too busy with my sorbet to watch her reactions to my food. I strain the simple syrup mixture into a glass bowl and transfer it to the ice cream machine at my station. There's nothing left for me to do but wait.
***
Once again, I wake to the sound of my chiming phone. I've had a restless night, and the noise startles me.
"Hello?"
"Kiara, this is Arabella Lee. I'd like for you to come in to discuss your midterm grade."
"Yes, Chef, of course. Is there a problem?"
"I'd rather discuss it in person, Kiara. Can you be here in an hour? If not, I can meet you at four o'clock, after my advanced pastry class."
"I can be there in an hour," I assure her.
"Thank you, I'll see you then."
The line goes dead, and my heart fills with panic. I know I didn't do well on the written exam, but I'd felt confident about the practical. I jump out of bed and pull on the first set of clothes I find in my unfolded pile of laundry... baggy jeans and a soft, frumpy sweatshirt. I slide my feet into my laceless Converse and examine myself in the mirror. My face is pale, and I have dark circles under my eyes. I dab on some concealer and lip gloss and make my way to the kitchen.
I have no appetite, so I pour myself a glass of orange juice and start a pot of coffee. It will only take me fifteen minutes to drive to the college. I spend twenty minutes pacing the floor and going over the practical exam in my head. I'd tasted all of my dishes, so I know my flavors were well developed. My sorbet was slightly grainy, but it had been delicious all the same.
I glance at my phone and see that it is twenty-five minutes till nine. I pour coffee into a travel mug and head out the door. The drive to the college is uneventful, and I arrive at Chef Lee's office five minutes before our scheduled time. I knock lightly on the door.
"Come in," she calls out.
I open the door and find her sitting behind her desk. She's on the phone, so I wave my greeting.
"Thank you," she says to the person on the other line. "I'll speak with her and get back with you."
"Good morning, Kiara," she greets me as she returns the phone to its cradle. "Thank you for coming in on such short notice."
"Of course, Chef Lee... you said you need to speak with me about my midterm?"
"Yes," she replies, studying me carefully. "How do you feel you did?"
"I know I could have done better on my written exam... and I know my Veloute sauce broke. Other than that, I feel like I did all right," I answer.
"And is 'all right' acceptable to you?"
"No," I admit meekly.
"Kiara, you know I have a soft spot for you. But your exam results were quite disappointing."
"I understand," I reply, lowering my head.
"You passed the midterm, but just barely. Your c
urrent course grades are so low that it will be next to impossible for you to receive anything but B's and C's on your finals. And while you'll be able to continue on next semester..."
"I'm going to lose my scholarships," I finish the sentence for her.
"Yes, I'm afraid there's only one sure-fire way that you'll be able to retain your financial aid package," she tells me.
"What's that?" I ask quickly. "I'm willing to do whatever it takes, Chef Lee. You've been so understanding about the situation at Fission. I'll do anything you ask."
"I was on the phone with Chef Weston when you arrived," she begins and my heart sinks. I know where this conversation is going. "He takes full responsibility for the actions that led you to leave his competition. He's willing to let you return to Fission. You've only missed six days of work there, which you could easily make up. Is that something you're willing to consider?"
"I don't know..." I hesitate. "May I have some time to think about it?"
"You may have a day or two," Chef Lee agrees. "I understand this isn't what you want, but I'm afraid you may have no other choice... unless, of course, you apply for student loans to pay for the remainder of your education. You need to decide if avoiding the restaurant is worth tens of thousands of dollars to you."
I let out a long sigh. Hearing it put that way makes me see my situation in a new light, but I still can't bear the thought of working in a kitchen with Paul and Jenny. "I'll have my answer to you by tomorrow."
"Take until Monday, if you need to," Chef Lee offers. "If you come to a decision before then, call me on my cell."
"Thank you, Chef Lee," I say as I rise from my seat. "I know I've been a difficult student this semester."
"I just want to see you succeed, Kiara," she says kindly. "Please consider your options carefully."
***
I sit at my desk and stare blankly at the screen of my laptop. It's Saturday night, and I've been researching student loans since I left Chef Lee's office the previous morning. The information I've found is discouraging, but I still can't imagine walking back in to Fission. I feel a pang in my stomach and realize I haven't eaten today, so I walk in to the kitchen and survey the contents of my refrigerator. I decide on scrambled eggs, which I make quickly and eat directly from the skillet. I finish and toss the skillet into my sink as my doorbell chimes.
Fifty Recipes For Disaster - Book 1 (Fifty Recipes For Disaster New Adult Romance Series, #1) Page 7
