Page 20 of Filthy Chef

“We met on the bus. It was purely by accident. It was one of those, what do you call them, meet-cutes.”

Rolling his eyes. “Why were you riding the bus when Ubers exist? It’s not safe for you.”

“First of all, very few people know what I look like unless they read Food & Wine religiously. Two, most people do not care who I am. Third, the bus is way cheaper and better for the environment for getting to work every day. Three, the stop in Oak Cliff is right by the bodega that makes those tamales I like. My bus pass is a business expense because the bodega also keeps us supplied in masa. Wholesale.”

Cash presses his thumbs into his eye sockets and lists off all my alternatives. “DoorDash, Uber Eats, Lyft, hell, you’re rich enough to have a personal driver.”

“I didn’t get rich by spending my money on apps to run errands for me like I’m goddamn Queen Elizabeth.”

“You know you sound like a fucking lunatic right now, don’t you?” Cash says.

“That’s because I’m in here with you when I should be out there making things right with Journey.”

Cash rubs his palms together. “Right. Do what you have to do, but do it gently. Don’t make her cry. And don’t fucking let her quit. Not today. Please, I beg.”

I clap him on the shoulder and tell him, “I’ll have you back on a plane to Caroline in no time.”

“Five a.m. tomorrow. That’s my flight. Don’t fuck this up any further, Chef.”

ten

Journey

“Listen up!”

Everyone in the dining room freezes. We’ve finished cleaning every nook and cranny in the godforsaken kitchen. Cash and Jason have completed their inspection. The bartenders are slinging free drinks for everyone, and Cash even phoned in a catered steak and lobster lunch from one of their other restaurants.

But now that we’re all relaxed, relieved, with full bellies, and ready to go to our homes to catch a nap before dinner service, Chef Jason is back, presumably to bark more orders at us.

In his hands is a personnel file, and he reads my name as if he doesn’t know me. As if I hadn’t introduced myself to everyone just this morning. “Journey Adams?”

“Yeah?”

He looks up from the file, his gaze severe. “What was that?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“You’re gonna help me organize.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Other than that, I want everyone in this restaurant to know every ingredient on each menu item,” Jason announces. “I don’t care if you’re a busboy or you take out the trash. Everyone tastes everything. So be back here at 5 p.m. sharp before we open the doors so I can explain the dishes and do a tasting. Got it?”

“Yes, Chef!”

He snaps his fingers and nods at me. “Let’s go, Adams.”

All eyes are on me when I hesitate, wavering between indignation and obedience. But why should I be indignant? I’m his right hand. Well, I was supposed to be Richard’s right hand, but he’s not here.

Oh, what the hell am I bitching about? I signed up for the restaurant business, and everyone knows it can be high drama, highly volatile, and high turnover. But this is nuts. Can’t everyone else see how nuts this is? But as I look around the room, everyone seems to be in a good mood. Some of them appear to wonder why I’m giving a bit of an attitude.

He said it himself, he can’t have the appearance of preferential treatment.

I swallow my pride and follow him into the kitchen while everyone else goes home.

Deep inside the bowels of the kitchen, Jason starts handing me cutting boards. “Throw that one out, and that one, and that one…”

I follow him around like a puppy, tossing out old supplies, making way for new ones, putting specific knives over here and other ones over there, and rearranging utensils, pots, and pans for maximum efficiency.

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