Page 223 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
I can’t know exactly what’s going on in Lennox’s kitchen, but this isn’t the first time I’ve seen some of his staff locked in disagreements like this one. I’ve also noticed a few things about his set up that are making things more complicated than they need to be. The flow of a professional kitchen can make or break the way a team works together, and his could use some tweaking.
I peek back around the corner, my eyes scanning the space. If the island in the center of his kitchen is modular, he could turn it ninety degrees and create larger pathways for the chefs moving from prep to the grill. That would also open up a little more space for the sauté cooks, who, based on Lennox’s menu, are probably the busiest in the kitchen. It would mean chefs would have to take a slightly longer walk to get from the pantry to the prep counter, but the improvements would be worth the sacrifice.
Still, it’s not my place to tell Lennox he isn’t running his kitchen the right way. Every chef does things a little differently, and my opinions are just that—opinions. Unless he were to specifically ask for my help, I’d never feel comfortable volunteering any suggestions. At least not with our relationship like it is now.
I move back down the hall to my apartment steps and make my way upstairs. I truly feel for Lennox. He has a hard job—especially since he’s building an entire operation from the ground up.
When I started as head chef of my father’s restaurant, Le Vin, the staff was already highly trained with refined systems and procedures in place. They hated working with me—I was basically there for show—but I worked my tail off anyway, and I learned. I grew. I got better at the job.
I may not have deserved the leadership position my father prematurely foisted upon me, but I tried to make the most of it anyway, and eventually, my staff begrudgingly accepted me. Most of them were better chefs than I was—than Iam.But they learned to trust my strategic brain, and I discovered I am very good at helping chefs maximize their efficiency.
It’s probably why the transition to catering hasn’t been too bad for me. Event catering, especially for larger events, has a lot of moving parts. The logistics matter almost as much as the food, so it’s been nice that my brain seems to be wired for the kind of problem-solving the job requires.
What I’m not loving about catering? My obligation to come up with new seasonal entrees every couple of months. It’s not that I can’t do it. I can. I have the training, the knowledge. But I’ve always felt more overwhelmed by menu creation than inspired by it.
I know. Daughter of the famous Christopher Elliott, graduate of the acclaimed Southern Culinary Institute, former head chef of Le Vin, a world-renowned restaurant, and I’m intimidated by creating some new catering menus. I realize how ridiculous it sounds. That doesn’t make it any less true.
When I reach the top of the steps, there’s a photo taped to the center of my apartment door.
What the?
Someone actually came all the way up to my apartment door to give me a picture? Am I going to find a message made out of magazine clippings next?
But then I really look at the picture.
It only takes a second to recognize it.
Our last year of culinary school, Lennox and I represented the Southern Culinary Institute at a Christmas fundraising event for the Atlanta Arts Foundation. They had a British Baking Show-style bakeoff with eight participants ranging from pastry chefs atAtlanta’s finest restaurants to TikTok-famous home chefs and, of course, to students from SCI. The event had three rounds, with two chefs eliminated in each of the first two rounds until only four of us were left for the final segment of the competition.
Lennox and I both made it to the final round, but then he nailed his gingerbread man cupcakes and my peppermint cake totally flopped.Literally.Like, the entire thing collapsed in on itself seconds before it was my turn to present to the judges.
The photo Lennox taped to my door—because who else could have possibly done it?—is the one the Atlanta newspaper printed in their Sunday edition featuring the young phenom chef who won the bakeoff and would surely “take the culinary world by storm.” Lennox is smiling wide, holding up a cake-shaped trophy while standing next to a table featuring his prize-winning dessert.
The picture is creased along one side, a third of the photo tucked under, so I unfold it to its original size . . . and burst out laughing.
BecauseIam on the other side of the photo looking absolutely furious. My arms are folded across my chest, my hip is cocked, and I’m frowning, my eyes narrowed to tiny slits.
I am the picture of poor sportsmanship—a textbook definition of what NOT to do when someone else wins and you lose.
The Motion Picture Academy should take notes. They could do an entire workshop on how actors should and shouldn’t react when their rivals win Oscars using just my face.
I have no idea why the paper didn’t print the entire photo—the version that went to print definitely cropped me out—but I’m so glad they didn’t. The media would have had a heyday over Christopher Elliott’s daughter exhibiting such classless behavior.
I laugh again as I let myself into my apartment and greet Toby, who meets me at the door.
If this were a competition—it’s not, but let’s just say, hypothetically, if it were—Lennox is winning a billion to zero. Granny panties. Pounding bread dough. Crocodiles in the pond. And now this photo, which is admittedly hilarious, but STILL. He has made so many jokes at my expense, and I’ve been too busy learning how to do my job to push back at all. (You know. When I’mnotfeeling up his abs.) Of course, I’ve also been trying to be professional—to make a good impression. I’ve never had to rely on my own merits like I do now. I haven’t wanted to do anything that might screw that up.
But now that I have my feet under me, it’s time I start to push back a little.
And I think I know just the way to do it.
Chapter Six
Lennox
I pull another orderoff the ticket machine and read it over. The board is already full, and this order isn’t going to make my sauté cooks happy. They’ve already got six items on the board, and I’m about to give them three more. “Ordering,” I call. “Two scallops, one halibut, and a filet, medium rare.”
I listen as my cooks echo back the order, then turn my attention to another ticket. “Plating one tenderloin, one chicken pot pie, and a pork belly,” I call.
