Page 2 of Cooking Up My Comeback
Brett’s sharp stare could cut glass. “I don’t pretend anything.”
“He’s my most predictable customer,” I clarify to the tourist. “Which in the food service industry means both blessing and reason to question his judgment.”
He raises his mug in what might charitably pass for a salute, though it resembles more of a potential projectile. “I have questionable judgment in a lot of areas.”
I power through the morning rush. The ticket printer jams, so I fix it with a fork and determination. The fryer starts making that ominous popping sound, and I adjust the temperature and add another line to my mental listof maintenance requests that will get stampedpending approval.
Controlled mayhem, but mine.
Past eight, the door swings open. An older gentleman walks in carrying a clipboard with that particular energy that says, “I’m here to ruin your morning, and I brought paperwork.”
My stomach drops, but I keep my smile professional. I’ve expected this visit—not today specifically, but soon. The fryer incident last week, the freezer seal that’s been failing for months, the walk-in cooler that sounds as though it’s preparing for its own funeral.
“Welcome to the Seaside Spoon!” My voice stays steady. “What can I help you with?”
He flashes his badge. “Health inspection.”
What follows: twenty minutes of watching him document every flaw I’ve been reporting for ages. The freezer seal that’s appeared three times in my maintenance requests. The fryer that chooses this exact moment to pop loudly. The walk-in cooler that’s been running warm since Easter.
I trail behind him with my own clipboard—the one where I’ve meticulously documented every equipment failure, repair request, and attempt to get the owners to invest in basic functionality.
“You’re not exactly up to code,” he says, scribbling notes.
“No, I’m not. I’ve been documenting these issues for months. The owners have been reluctant to approve necessary repairs.”
He glances at me, and for a moment, I catch something that might be sympathy mixed with frustration. “You’ve got detailed records. That’s... unusual.”
“I believe in documentation. When equipment fails, people get sick. I take that seriously, even when others don’t.”
He nods, clearly uncomfortable. “I can see you’re trying to work with what you’ve got here. But I’ll need to issue a temporary closure.”
He tears a sheet from his clipboard and hands it over. The paper feels heavier than it should.
“I’ve been running this place for six years. Every call-in covered, crisis managed, and health code followed to the letter with equipment that should have been replaced before I was hired.”
“You’ll need to close immediately. You have thirty days to address the violations.”
Brett still sits at his usual corner stool, fork halfway to his mouth. He’s been here long enough to understand what this means—not only for me, but for the handful of locals who depend on this place for their morning routine. His expression isn’t shock exactly, moreprocessing information and connecting dots I wish he weren’t.
I turn to Bernice. “Shut it down.”
She sighs and wipes her hands on her apron, a gesture that contains forty years of watching places struggle and fail.
To the customers scattered throughout the dining room, I announce with as much dignity and cheer as I can muster, “If you could kindly box up your breakfast, the Spoon’s taking an unexpected break! We’ll be back better than ever soon!”
The tourists appear confused. The locals appear worried. Brett quietly finishes his last swallow, then slides the exact change onto the counter—no tip this time, only the cost of his meal down to the penny. When our gazes meet, he stands.
He pauses at the door and glances back. “You’ll land on your feet. This place was a health hazard anyway,” he mutters.
Before I can respond, he’s gone.
Of all the people to witness this moment, it had to be him.
Thirty days to address violations. The words echo in my head as I lock the door behind the last customer. Thirty days sounds generous until you remember that I’ve been submitting repair requests for over a year. Theowners have ignored every single one—why would they suddenly open their wallets now?
The math remains simple: no income starting today, and probably no job to return to. Even if by some miracle they fix everything, they’ll probably blame me for the closure and find a reason to let me go anyway. I’ve witnessed it happen before.
I’m not temporarily unemployed. I’m starting over.
