Page 3 of Filthy Chef

Chef Richard at the Rubicon is twenty minutes late for the interview.

At first, I think it must be Dallas traffic. The gridlock on the so-called High Five was horrible this morning. But as I’m waiting, slowly losing my will to live, I see a red-haired man in a chef jacket exit the back office. He enters the dining room and glances down at me. Then he keeps on walking. That is clearly Chef Richard, and he clearly knows he’s supposed to be meeting with me.

But first, he goes to the bar and pours a gin and tonic.

Really? It’s nine in the morning. Do I really want to work for somebody who’s into power plays and morning cocktails?

Then again, I know from my experience at culinary school and internships that I’d better get used to a range of personalities if I want to be an executive chef one day.

Chef Richard finally comes to my table and sits across from me. “I lost your CV. Where’d you get your degree from again?” he asks.

I start, “I graduated from the Culinary Inst?—”

“One thing to know about me,” he interrupts, “is, I don’t give a fuck about where you learned how to chop onions.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

He thumps a thick, reddish fist against his chest. “I wanna know if you can cook from your soul.”

OK, this guy is a lot.

But I am ready. “Great. Let’s head to the kitchen and I can do a demo.”

He raises his hands to flag me down before I start. “We aren’t at that part of the interview yet, sweetheart. We’re just talking. So tell me, what about cooking speaks to you? So far, I’m not seeing the love.”

Is this guy for real? I haven’t had a chance to discuss what I like cooking. I haven’t demonstrated anything.

The rest of the interview goes a lot like that. Mostly, he talks, and I listen and smile during the pauses. I throw out facts about dishes that have earned me praise from one chef or another. But Chef Richard doesn’t seem interested in my knowledge or skills. I think he just wants a staff to feed his ego.

To my surprise, he reaches across the table at the end of the interview and shakes my hand. “I’ll have my people call you in the morning and we’ll see if we want you to come in and do a demo.”

Damn. I came all this way for what could have been a FaceTime meeting.

My anxiety spiking out of control, I head out to the sidewalk to get some fresh air. I should’ve known it would go like this when the company didn’t even offer to put me up in a hotel room. I wasn’t expecting the lap of luxury, but I also was not expecting to have to stay at a two-star hotel next to the railroad tracks in the saddest, farthest corner of Plano.

Damn, that bus ride’s gonna be pretty long and boring without Jay.

Jay. He did give me his phone number, fully expecting me to call him. And he’s pretty damn cute if you like soulful brown eyes, a scruffy chin, and longish curly hair on guys. Sigh. I do have a type and Jay is it.

My phone is out and I am dialing the number Jay kindly wrote on a scrap of paper. He’d said, “Call me about dinner. But also call me if you need anything, and I mean that.”

This is craziness, but I dial before I can think better of it.

It doesn’t help my anxiety when a woman answers the number. Crap.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I might have the wrong number. I’m calling for Jay?”

I say it like a question, because I’m so nervous.

“Oh!” exclaims the woman on the other end. “This is Mr. Riggins’ assistant. I know it’s confusing for me to answer that way, but he likes to keep to himself in case the media calls.”

The media? Who is he?

“I see. If you could tell him that Journey called, I would appreciate it.”

I have no hope that this call will get me anywhere, because he seems semi-important.

---