Page 10 of Sizzle

Well, Elliot James gets points for trying, anyway. There’s nothing even remotely healthy on this menu, although a couple of the dish descriptions have my mouth watering. I jot down some notes on what menu items catch my eye and list some of the available ingredients he must already have on hand to use. Before I know it, it’s dark outside and I’ve got four pages of handwritten ideas to bring with me in the morning.

The next morning, I spend about thirty-seven hours too long staring at my closet, trying my best to make new clothes appear out of thin air.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.

By the time Dad’s therapy team rings the doorbell, I’ve tried on and discarded so many outfits my room looks like a laundromat exploded inside. Settling on a gauzy blouse and black jeans with ballet flats, I push another couple of pins in my hair for good measure and pack up my laptop and notepad.

“Okay, Dad, I’m heading out,” I say. Jim’s got him sitting on a bench manipulating a large yoga ball with his left foot.

“Heard you’ve got a big interview today,” Jessica says, unpacking something from her ever-present duffel bag. “Good luck!”

“Thanks,” I say, smiling. “Dad, your plate is in the microwave. I should be back a little after noon.”

Dad grunts and nods, but doesn’t say anything. Jim looks at me over his shoulder and gives me a sympathetic smile.

“Okay,” I say. “Text or call me if you need me.”

The bus is running a minute ahead of schedule, further proof this week is primed for things that would never otherwise happen. I’ve been looking for a job for months, but nobody’s looking to hire a twenty-two-year-old with no degree and zero professional work experience. At least, not until yesterday.

Elliot James didn’t mention anything about my work experience; the only thing he talked about was my blog. And yeah, I’ve put a helluva lot of work into that thing, but it’s a passion project. I’m already cooking all the time anyway—all the blog does is show a record of it.

But hey, if it gets my foot in the door at a real life restaurant, that’s all the chance I need. I’ll talk Elliot James into giving me a real job after this gig with his new menu, get my six months of kitchen experience, and then my life can start for real.

Invigorated by the thought, my heart starts to pound as Duckbill comes into view. I thank the bus driver and step down to the curb, looking up at the blue and red sign.

This is it, Joelle. Here we go. Laptop case in hand, I tap on the glass front door.

4

Elliot

“Hey, boss,” says my head line cook, coming to stand next to me at the bar. “Got a second?”

I stack the papers I’d been looking at on the bar and turn to face her. Paperwork’s easier to handle out here somehow. Anything’s better than that damned closet of an office in the back these days.

“Sure, Connie. What’s up?”

“Have you thought any more about getting another body back on the line?” she asks.

“I haven’t forgotten about it,” I tell her. I really hadn’t. There’s just no more blood left in the turnip this month. “I’ve got somebody looking at the books in the next couple of weeks,” which is sort of true, in some sense. “Hopefully we’ll be able to get somebody in the next month or so.”

It wasn’t an outright lie, but my stomach twisted anyway.

“Okay,” she says. I’d guess Connie’s somewhere in the vicinity of fifty years old—she left her age off her employment paperwork and as I value my limbs staying attached, I don’t ask. Quite frankly, if I didn’t need her on the line so badly, I’d have already offered her a management spot like Alex keeps nagging me to do. “But don’t forget, three of your guys back there got new babies on the way in the next couple of months, so there’s bound to be some shifts to cover here pretty soon.”

I nod. “Thanks. I’ll let you know as soon as we can start looking for somebody.”

She walks off and it’s all I can do not to slam my head against the bar. Three of my line cooks have wives and kids at home with babies on the way. One of my bartenders is six months pregnant. More than half my staff carries car payments or credit cards, and almost all of them have student loans of one kind or another. If Connie was trying to remind me of my duty to them all…

Well, it worked.

The scent of cleaning chemicals has me lifting my head. If the cleaning crew is mopping in here, then it’s got to be close to ten o’clock. I check my watch just as someone knocks on the glass front door.

Here we go. Showtime.

I don’t have a plan B. I hate not having a plan B but worse than that, I hate that I have to hire somebody else to save my place. Duckbill is mine, for fuck’s sake. If I can’t make it work, I don’t deserve to be in this business to begin with.

And talk about a last ditch effort. Drinking beer on the porch with my roommate, sure—it sounded like a good idea then. In the clear, crisp light of day this morning, though… let’s just say I have my doubts.

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