Page 8 of Eyes in the Shadows

I jump as the plate breaks at the bottom of the trashcan. The kitchen chatter dies down and the sound of sizzling food becomes the loudest thing in the room. My face heats in shame, especially now that we have an audience, and I mumble, “No, chef.”

“I checked the ticket. Hannah rang it in right, so this is your fuck up. You’re being careless. Get the hell out of my kitchen.” He gives me his back.

I want to argue, but I know from experience that it would make things worse. I can’t have him sending me home without pay for a week again, not when I have a surprise 3-day motel stay to cover 80% of. I sigh angrily and spin on my heel, tearing the gloves back off.

The door to the breakroom swings behind me and I hear him yell, “Get back to work!” at the gawkers. The kitchen symphony begins again in earnest as I rip off my apron, wad it up and toss it into my cubby. I sit heavily in the closest chair and drop my head into my hands.

This day sucks. And to top it all off, I feel the awful, familiar, burning tingle on my left knee. Idly, I reach down and rub the area through my pants, trying to relieve the itch without scratching the skin. I knew a flare up was coming—the stress of vacating my apartment and a few bad days at work, and bam. That’s really all it takes, especially in winter. And in my haste to leave yesterday morning, I left my psoriasis cream in the bathroom cabinet.

Screw this. Chef Robert just added two hours to my day off. I’m not spending any more of it here, feeling sorry for myself in this room that smells like sweaty shoes and grease from the fryer.

I grab my stuff, clock out, and am swinging on my coat before I even make it to the back entrance. The door is propped open with a brick that I ensure stays in place as I walk through.

The small figure leaning against the wall between the opening and the dumpster startles me, but only for an instant. She’s much smaller than me, but every line of Rachel is no-nonsense—from the blunt, short cut of her straight dark hair that’s held back in a plain black bandanna, to the frameless glasses that make her small eyes appear smaller, to the block lettering of her name on the button-free chef coat she chose. Her warm complexion shines in the pale light of the alley, managing to look creamy instead of washed out like mine. Those good genes.

“Hey, Rach,” I greet.

She holds out the crumpled pack of cigarettes to me, a cursory gesture. I wave my hand, declining. Her eyes catch on the bandage. “How’s the finger?”

I glance down. The size of the bloodstain visible through the Band-Aid hasn’t changed much in the past minute, so I know it’s stopped bleeding. “I’ll live.”

“He was way out of line—you can’t send someone home for aknife slip.”

“Well, I’m sure you heard about the tomato compote fiasco,” I mutter and she huffs a laugh at my sarcasm. “I’d be surprised if the whole restaurant doesn’t know.”

She shakes her head. “He acts like he’s got a Michelin star or some shit. Yes, chef,” she mimics in an exaggerated, high pitch. “And that hat? Give me a fucking break.”

I sniff as the cold makes my nose run. “He’s just trying to elevate the environment. Prove he’s got standards or something.”

“He’s a misogynistic asshole on an ego trip who gets off making his staff jump through hoops. I keep telling Jack that he’s going to lose the few good people we have if he doesn’t put a leash on him.” She takes a huge drag and switches her hold on the butt so she’s gripping it with her thumb and index finger.

I lean against the building next to her, wrapping my coat around myself tighter as the wind whips through the alley. “Or he could just make you head chef,” I venture.

Rachel is level headed and wouldn’t create nearly such a toxic work environment. She doesn’t have quite the same creative eye, but she’s got a great palate and a knack for knowing when the fish guy is trying to sell us old sea bass.

She glances sideways at me. As the only women in the kitchen, we share a bond. As the only other woman in the kitchen, we both feel a little threatened by the other—probably me more than her, since she outranks me. But still, it’s a male-dominated industry and this restaurant is more of a boy’s club than others. We have a tenuous truce, and it feels stronger whenever we’re commiserating about the glass ceiling over our heads.

“You think Rob would share the kitchen with me?” she shakes her head. “They’d have to fire him and Jack’s not gonna do that. They go down the shore together every other weekend in the summer.”

I sigh. Sounds like sous chef isn’t going on my resume any time soon.

“What are you doing here, Ellie?” she asks, not unkindly, blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth. It swirls back around us in the wind, stinging my nose. I know she doesn’t mean the alley, even before she adds, “You’re too good to be on the line as long as you have.”

The compliment warms me and brings a soft smile to my face. But self-doubt is icy, right on its heels, and I heave a sigh. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” I admit. “I’ve learned a lot here, but I don’t think I really want to be head chef. And not just here, I mean anywhere—I don’t think I can deal with that much stress.”

She looks at the butt in her fingers and flicks the ash off the end. I wish I smoked. This would be the perfect conversation to have while sharing a pack. I haven’t tried it, mostly because I’m worried about liking it. It seems like a slippery slope. Plus, it’s an expensive habit.

“So, what’re you gonna do, then? There’s only so many places to go in this industry, you know?”

“I just want… I want to cook on my terms, on my time, and see people enjoy what I make them. Somewhere without all the noise and drama.”

Rach coughs out a laugh. “Sounds too calm for me. I live for the rush; it’s like pure adrenaline.”

“I wish I felt that way,” I admit. “I thought something was wrong with me at first because I didn’t. I didn’t realize it wasn’t normal to feel like I’ve run a marathon when I get home most nights. Not that I’d know what that actually feels like…”

She laughs, and it’s a commiserative noise because neither does she with her pack-a-day lungs. After one more long drag, her break is over, so she stamps out the cherry until it becomes indistinguishable from the other, older cigarette litter at our feet.

“Well don’t wait too long to make a move. You’ll either burn out or get stuck,” she says, then regards me with a little nudge of her elbow. “You okay?”

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