Page 17 of The Strawberry Patch Pancake House
‘You’re dismissed.’
Cyrus gave him a mock salute and the women wandered off to gather their things, chatting together quietly. Archer gave one last look around the kitchen before turning out the lights for the night.
* * *
‘What do you mean, they sent the pancakes back?’ Archer growled at Maribel even though he knew it wasn’t her fault. Even though it made him an asshole. Even though Cyrus was right and he sure as hell wouldn’t be admitting that anytime soon.
‘The customer didn’t like the pancakes,’ she repeated her voice a little quieter than before.
Archer ran a hand angrily through his hair, hard enough to hurt. They were in the middle of the breakfast rush and this was the third time this morning that someone had complained about the pancakes. About his new pancakes. The ones he’d made with ricotta, sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar and topped with a creamy lemon sauce. The ones that were objectively delicious. It was the one menu change he’d implemented so far, and they’d been sent back three times.Three times.
He avoided Cyrus’s smug expression as he wiped his hands on a dish towel and tossed it on the counter.
‘Who?’ he demanded, already walking toward the dining room. Maribel scurried along behind him.
‘Table two. The mayor, I did warn you…’
Archer pushed through the swinging doors and stormed toward table two. A man with glasses and a hideous tie smiled up at him.
‘Was there a problem with the meal, sir?’ Archer asked, swallowing down everything he wanted to yell at this mayor who was apparently some kind of pancake connoisseur.
‘Oh, hello!’ the mayor said, sticking out his hand. ‘You must be the new chef. I’m the mayor of this fine town. Pete Kelly.’
‘Archer Baer.’ He shook the man’s hand and attempted to organize his facial features into something other than a scowl.
‘And this is my daughter, Hazel.’
‘Hey, Archer.’
Archer blinked. His neighbor was the mayor’s daughter? ‘Uh … hello.’
‘How’s Olive doing? Noah mentioned she stopped by again.’
Stopped by, like his daughter was just paying a social visit and not continuously trying to escape him.
‘Yeah, sorry about that.’
Hazel waved away his apology. ‘Don’t worry about it. We love Olive.’
His neighbors loved Olive. He should love Olive. She was his daughter for Christ’s sake. He shook off the thought. The middle of his new restaurant (he refused to call it a diner even in his own mind or he would surely have a breakdown) was not the place to unpack every anxiety he was having about his inability to bond with his kid.
‘Right. Okay, thank you.’ He turned back to the mayor. ‘The pancakes weren’t to your liking?’
The mayor smiled up at him with pity. ‘I’m a simple man, Archie. May I call you Archie?’
He went on before Archer could tell him absolutely not.
‘I’m a simple man, Archie, and I think I just preferred the old pancakes. Do you still have those?’
Archer swallowed his frustrated sigh. It had been the same thing with the other complaints. They liked the old pancakes better. Could he make them those?
And the answer should be no. No, he could not make them sub-par pancakes because this was his kitchen now and he wasn’t going to cook them pancakes that tasted like roofing tiles served with maple-flavored corn syrup.
But the actual reason he had to say no was that he didn’t have the recipe for the old pancakes. And somehow no one else did either. Which was obviously bullshit, but Archer couldn’t get the recipe from any member of his staff.
Cyrus swore up and down that the old cook, Martha, was always on pancake duty and that he was purely an omelet man. He’d pointed Archer to an ancient binder filled with the diner’s old recipes, but Archer hadn’t had time to go through it yet.
So, for the other complaints, he’d whipped up a simple pancake batter and served those. The customers hadn’t dared complain again, but he’d noticed the plates came back with plenty of pancake left on them. Apparently, they weren’t up to Dream Harbor standards either. Which was insane. They were just pancakes! Archer could make them a souffle with his eyes closed if they wanted, but somehow a simple recipe of flour, baking soda, eggs and milk wasn’t good enough for them?
