Page 8 of One Sweet Lie

Hands down.

From the soft flames hissing under the ranges, to the spoons clanging against pots and pans, and to sous chefs shouting orders, all those sounds combined for a perfect melody.

I just wished I didn’t have to hear it at my current job:Le Sacre Coeur.

Everyone who was ‘anyone’ considered this to be the top French restaurant in this city. It was the crème de la crème for serving mouthwatering experiences night after night, and schooling classes of culinary artists who went on to run five star kitchens.

Or so everyone thought.

For the past eighteen months, the only thing this place did for me was crush my soul.

Tying on my apron, I approached my station and looked over incoming lunch orders.

Today is the perfect day to bake your best work, Harlow. Focus on that.

“Alright, pastry team!” I shouted at my line. “Tiramisu hold the cream for table seven, chocolate torte with raspberries for table nineteen, and truffle lemon tarts for the Owens’ anniversary, stat!”

Drizzling caramel over the lemon tarts, I placed them on the “go out” rack and moved to the next dessert request.

“Chef Harlow!” Someone called. “Chef Harlowww!”

“Yeah?” I tasted the cream for my croquembouche. “I’m busy.”

“Approach the galley for a review.”

“One second, I need to add more sugar to this.”

“Now, goddamnit!” Chef Ramos, the celebrity chef who ran our kitchen like a dictator, yelled louder. His voice forced a hushed silence to fall over the room.

Dropping my spoon, I walked toward him—taking my spot under his “championship banners.”

#1 in Manhattan Cuisine, Best Chef in America, Most Delectable Dessert of the Year

My heart ached at the sight of that last one; he won that because ofmycoconut eclairsubmission.

“Yes, Chef?” I asked.

“What the hell is this?” He held up a slice of caramel cheesecake.

“It’s caramel cheesecake, Chef.”

“But it’s notmy versionof caramel cheesecake, is it?”

“Um…” I looked around at my colleagues, confused.

“Come here, Chef Gray.” He pointed to a junior cook. “Taste this for us, please.”

The cook took a bite and nodded.

“What do you think?”

“It’s good, Chef.” His voice trembled. “Very, very good.”

“It’s shit!” Chef Ramos slammed the plate onto the floor, shattering it to pieces. “Pure, filthy shit!”

I swallowed as he stomped on the shards again and again.

“My recipe doesn’t call for a single cinnamon or apple addition, but they are abundantly present here. Why is that, Chef Harlow?”

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