Page 224 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
Off to my left, Griffin swears as a pot clatters to the stove.
“Griffin, how are we on that sauce?”
“Working on it,” he calls.
Two plates slide into the window ready to go, so now we’re only lacking the tenderloin. Zach is at the grill, but the apple brandy reduction is what makes the dish, so without Griffin’s sauce, we’re at a standstill on the whole table.
“Behind you!” another cook calls out, followed by a string of expletives.
I frown. The energy in the kitchen is good, but our rhythm is off. Cooks are tripping over each other, getting in each other’sway. Twice, plates have made it out of the kitchen before I put eyes on them which isn’t supposed to happen. When things are working like they should, I’m the last one to see every plate and guarantee that every single person in my dining room is getting the best possible meal.
But when I’m having to fix an oversalted she-crab soup—a staple and a favorite on our menu—or fill in for Zach because he’s filling in for my salad chef who called out for the fourth time in two weeks, it’s hard to keep things running the way they should.
Zach slides the tenderloin onto a plate, then adds the charred broccolini and the mushroom risotto.
Griffin swoops in, ready to ladle the sauce over the tenderloin, but the sauce looks thin. I lift a hand, stopping him just in time. “Wait.” I dip a pinky into the sauce and taste it. Itistoo thin. And not sweet enough. “What is this?”
Willow appears beside Griffin. “I told you it didn’t reduce enough.” She reaches for the sauce pan. “Here. I’ll fix it.”
“We don’t have time to fix it,” Griffin barks. “Reducing takes time.”
“No, but I can thicken it with a beurre manie. It won’t be perfect, but it’s better than what we’ve got.”
Griffin hesitates, his grip firm on his saucepan and his jaw tense.
“Let her do it,” I say. I look toward a line of cooks working at a long silver counter across the room. “You go help Brittany with prep. Willow, you’re saucier for the rest of the night.”
“You want me on prep?” Griffin asks, his tone incredulous.
“You’re off your game tonight, man, and we can’t afford another mistake. Go. We’ll talk about this later.”
“Yes, Chef,” Griffin grumbles as he moves aside, leaving Willow alone at the sauces station.
I grab another ticket and call the order, hesitating when I see Tatum standing near the back door. I’m not sure what she’s doing in my kitchen at this time of night, but her eyes are roving over everything, almost like she’s cataloging the way I’m doing things. A surge of discomfort—or maybe defensiveness?—rises in me, which feels strange, considering how much our old rivalry has recently shifted into something a little more enjoyable. I haven’t felt a real sense of competition with Tatum in weeks. Still. Hawthorne is my heart and soul right now. Criticism fromanyonewould probably make me defensive.
“One salmon, one filet, rare,” I repeat, when my cooks don’t call back the order. Still nothing. “Zach, one salmon, one filet, rare.”
“One salmon, one filet, rare,” Zach calls back, “but I’m swamped over here, Chef.”
I hear Zach’s frustration, but there’s not much I can do to help him. The orders won’t slow for at least another half hour. “Willow, we’re out of time,” I say. “I need sauce now.”
“Here. It’s here.” She steps across the counter and holds out her saucepan. I taste it and lift my eyes to meet hers. “Well done.”
She smiles. “Thank you, Chef.”
She ladles the sauce over the tenderloin, I wipe away a few extra drips from the rim of the plate, then pass it off to the server waiting behind me.
I allow myself one more glance in Tatum’s direction before grabbing the next ticket, but she’s already gone.
Long after the last dinner guest has left, I sit in the center of my clean kitchen, notebook open in front of me, and reviewthe night’s feedback—a long list of notes I took during my final check-in with my cooks and waitstaff.
The night was all right over all. Customers were happy, which is most important. My cooks aren’t compromising on the quality of the food they prepare even when they’re stressed and stretched thin. But I see how tired they are, how much they’re getting on each other’s nerves, and that’s not how I want them feeling at the end of the night. I need to tweak our process, but I’m not sure how to do it.
Then there’s the problem with Griffin. It could be he just needs more training. It could also be that he isn't up to the job.
A knot of anxiety tightens in my gut. I haven’t had to fire anyone yet, and I don’t relish the thought.
I sigh and read the last few items at the bottom of the list. The waitstaff mentioned two different complaints about the salmon being too salty. And there were at least that many about the she-crab soup.
