Page 56 of A Perfect Match
On Friday night, Ray’s is packed.Every table filled, the bar seats occupied, reservations stacked through closing.Even my patio is full of diners enjoying the unseasonably warm autumn night, though I have tower heaters at the ready in case it gets too cold.
"Order up!Table seven—two salmon, one steak, medium rare!"
I call out orders in rapid succession, wiping sweat from my brow with my forearm.The kitchen is hot—both literally and figuratively.We're on fire, pumping out dishes with military precision.Brady has gotten better and more in tune every shift; Rafael on expo is hitting his stride after a week, making sure every plate that leaves the kitchen is perfect before it hits the dining room.I’ve added a front of house manager and our new bartender is pulling in regulars already.In a way, starting with take-out service was a blessing, because it gave us all a chance to warm up together before shit hit the fan with a packed dining room.
"Yes, Chef!"Rafael responds, grabbing the plates I've just finished.
There's a rhythm to a good kitchen, a dance that happens when everyone knows their part.The sizzle of meat hitting hot pans, the clattering of plates, the shouted confirmations—it's music to me.A kitchen in the flow is a dopamine rush I’m addicted to.
My dad would be proud.The thought hits me suddenly as I'm plating a perfect lobster tail.Fuck, the grief comes out of nowhere sometimes.My throat gets tight, and I wish with my whole heart he could have made it long enough to see this place.To see me and this crew and this menu.
To meet Piper.
"Chef, special request at table twelve.They want to know if you can do the lobster tail without the risotto, extra asparagus instead."
"On it," I nod, my hands already moving to accommodate the request."Brady, fire two more asparagus for table twelve's special."
"Yes, Chef!"
I'm so in the zone that I don't immediately notice the movement at the back of the kitchen.It's only when Brady's rhythm falters slightly that I look up and spot her.
Piper is standing in the doorway of our shared storage space, looking slightly hesitant.Her hair is piled on top of her head in that messy bun she favors, a few strands escaping to frame her face.She's still wearing her work apron, dusted with what looks like powdered sugar.
She's beautiful.And she's in my kitchen during our busiest dinner service yet.
“Keegan.What are you doing here?”I add a little bark to my voice without abandoning my post.Just so she knows that in this kitchen, there’s an order to things.
“Don’t mind me,” she calls out over the kitchen noise.“You weren’t supposed to see me.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I shoot back.
“I need to steal a ladder, and I didn’t want you to see me.”
I shake my head as I drizzle the finishing sauce over top a new order of the lobster tail.“Move fast.Don’t touch anything else.”
“Sir, yes sir,” she teases.
“It’s ‘yes, chef’,” I correct.
She drifts closer, gaze stuck on the work I’m doing with the plates.“Very dictatorial in here."
I grin, not looking up from my work."It's called respect in the kitchen.Chain of command.Not that you'd understand the concept since you run a one-woman show."
"Excuse me, I have Jerrica," she retorts."And she respects me without the militaristic call-and-response."
"I bet if you said 'jump,' she'd ask 'how high?'"I slide another plate toward the heat lamps where Rafael is readying the orders.“Order up.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can see she's fighting a smile."I need to get back."
"You forgot 'Yes, Chef'," I tease.
"In your dreams, Lobster Man."
Rafael hurries over."Chef, table fourteen is wondering if they can meet you when they're done with their meal."
"Sure, let them know I'll stop by when things slow down."
"Yes, Chef."
