Page 13 of Marked By Mayhem

"Long story short, he has given me the nth review for some fancy restaurant," I say, my voice carrying the weight of regret.

She places a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. "We've all been there. He can be a hard nut to crack. Just give it time, and he might come around."

I don’t think so.

I manage a half-smile, appreciating the gesture. "Thanks. I hope you're right."

She pats my back before steering me toward the communal coffee machine. "Now, how about we grab a cup of coffee and you spill the details? Maybe I can offer some decent advice."

We join the line of interns, and I recount what my boss said. She listens intently, occasionally interjecting with words of encouragement or a sympathetic nod.

"Sounds like a rough day," she concludes as we claim our coffees and find a secluded corner. "But hey, at least he didn't fire you. Frank's been cutting interns left and right lately. You're lucky."

Yeah. I guess.

Her words hang in the air, a stark reminder of the precariousness of my position.

"Lucky, indeed," I mutter, taking a sip of the bitter coffee.

As I return to my desk, I know I'm trapped in a cycle of compromise, where my quest for justice is stifled by the demands of faceless sponsors and a boss who cares more about his own desires than fostering talent.

Chapter Six

ELLA

Isit at one of the fancy, cerulean-draped tables in Spago, poking at the remains of my half-finished risotto and Cobb salad, with the old manager of the restaurant eyeing me for the past thirty minutes.

“Chef’s special. I knew you’d like it!” he comes to sit at the table.

“Absolutely delicious,” I lie with a faint smile.

My grandma’s braised potatoes taste better. Honestly.

The man somewhat resembles a ferret. He has shiny little brown eyes and a pointed nose that would look pert on someone else but rodent-like on his face. He keeps talking feebly, giving me all the unnecessary details about himself, possibly assuming I’ll write a biography of him after this meeting.

Story-telling and self-glorification are two more.

Luckily, at some point, somebody signals him from the reception and he gets up immediately.

The evening cloaks around me like the fancy azure napkin in my lap, and I try to gulp the last bite of the overpriced, underwhelming dish on my plate. Spago is posh, the kind that thinks small portions and large prices constitute haute cuisine, just the kind of place I was talking about yesterday with Tommaso.

I glance around again, and the dim lights do their best to hide the fact that the décor is actually a mishmash of styles, probably chosen by a blindfolded interior decorator with an affinity for mismatched chairs.

I've been waiting for the interview with the genius behind Spago’s existence, or so they claim, for more than an hour now.

“I apologize for the delay but Mr. Smith is overseeing a matter of importance. I’m afraid now is not a good time for an interview,” a waitress tells me.

The nerve of him, keeping me waiting like this.

I signal the server with a gesture that says, "Just bring me the check."

To restate, it's not like I relish the idea of interrogating chefs about the inspiration behind their choice of cooking oil or the existential crisis of a lobster that ends up in a bisque. But when your boss insists, and the paycheck is at stake, you put on your best "I care about your kitchen ventures" smile and play along.

As I wait for the bill, I notice a waiter eyeing me, probably wondering if I'm some Michelin critic who's about to shred their precious stars into confetti.

The bill arrives, and the numbers on it can easily sponsor a trip to an amusement park where good food is served with a side of fun.

I pay, leave what's supposed to pass as a generous tip, and decide to play detective.

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