Page 7 of For Butter or Worse
The thing about having friends who know youreallywell is that you can’t hide anything from them. So Nina stood, hands at her sides, and waited for Jasmine to just say what a pathetic human she looked like. Or, at least, that’s how Nina pictured herself in that moment—not showered and only awake because she’d had multiple lattes.
“I know you’re not sad about leaving the show.” She squinted at Nina. “You said the only thing more satisfying than taking off your bra would be if Leo got permanently trapped in quicksand.”
She had said that. And, now that Jas had mentioned it, just the thought of Leo’s hair ruined by sand while he tried in vain to get out made her smile.
“He deserves many things, that’s true. But the show wasn’t all bad,” Nina argued. There was the crew and getting to mentor the chefs—she loved those parts of the job. And, of course, getting to be on TV had perks, including the bottle of homemade hot sauce Padma Lakshmi sent just that morning with the note “You’re my new lady crush.”
“Oh, Nina, my sweet summer child.” Jasmine’s fiery orange eye shadow seemed to sizzle back in a challenge. Nina had no idea how she kept her makeup so flawless while working around hot stoves all day, but Jasmine wasn’t like any chef she’d ever met. She dressed like a sorority girl whose extracurricular activity was being part of a biker gang, and she actually did ride a motorcycle to work. “Nina...” she repeated.
“Ugh, I mean, obviously Leo is the worst bro to ever bro in the whole bro world.”
“That’s right. Not today, bro.” Jasmine squeezed Nina’s hand, then returned her focus to the prep work.
Nina should have done the same. She was tired of thinking about Leo. She needed a healthy reminder that quitting was the right choice. Being in a kitchen was her happy place; surrounded by yummy food, making a meal look like art and zoning out to the hum of the restaurant. So standing in her crisp apron and prepping sole meunière for the nightly special should’ve been invigorating. No blinding lights from being on set, no nervousness about saying the wrong thing on camera and, most importantly, no Leo. But she’d been in the kitchen for a few hours and all she felt was numb.
She absentmindedly rubbed at the long scar that ran across her thumb—her hands were covered in marks from years of accidentally touching a hot lid or nearly slicing off a finger while dicing.
She wanted to focus on the food, but... Would the crew and Tiffany ever be able to forgive her for walking off the show? Did leaving permanently seal her fate as Nasty Nina?
“You look like you’re about five seconds away from muttering to yourself. So let’s talk aboutwhat you did last night.” Jasmine’s natural hair was tied up in a bun with a little gold skull pinned to the front. It bobbed slightly as she leaned across the prep counter. “Just know I’m biased, and selfishly very glad to have my best friend back.”
Over the years they’d become codependent. Like cheese and bread, they were fine apart but always much better together. Being on the show meant less time for Nina in the kitchen, and less time to be with her best friend. “We both know I’m impulsive.”
“Not a bad thing. In fact, some—me—might say it’s one of your best qualities.”
Nina hesitated, then asked, “Did I do the right thing by leaving?”
In the moment, leaving seemed like the only option. The food world was dominated by men. Only seven percent of kitchens in America were run by women. Which meant she’d spent the bulk of her career relying on men to help her move up, and actively avoiding the ones who wanted to keep her down. And there were plenty of men who had tried to keep her in the place they thought she belonged—beneath them. She just wouldn’t allow another man—Leo—to control the narrative of her career. Even if he might think it was “just a nickname.”
“Has Leo given you Stockholm syndrome?” Jasmine stirred the boiling pot of potatoes in front of her. She was prepping a potato-foam-and-onion confit. “Reminder—he called you nasty. Nas-ty.” Her mouth opened in an expression of both rage and disgust. “You had to quit Twitter for a month after he gave you that nickname. Remember what he did to your mental health? Not okay!”
“Definitely not.” Nina straightened. Leo didn’t know the extent of what she’d seen over the years in her comments—name-calling, constant critiques of how she looked...and then there were the death threats. The nickname just added fuel to the pile-on-to-Nina fire. But when they’d started working together, she never would’ve imagined their relationship would devolve into...this. Sure, they had very different ideas of what fine dining looked like, but she hadn’t despised him, not at first, anyway.
In fact, she appreciated what places like Vinny’s provided—comfort, consistency and an easy meal, particularly for families. Nina and Sophie had relied on cheaper meals when they were kids being raised by a single mom. So despite what Leo might think, she wasn’t anti-Vinny’s. She just wasn’t interested in befriending a man who clearly didn’t respect her, or even try to.
“We’re booked solid tonight.” Nina deftly changed the subject. Lyon hadn’t had a fully booked night in over a year. The food was award-winning. The location was prime. She was a celebrity chef. So a line out the door should’ve been a given, and tonight there would be one, but for all the wrong reasons.
“You should quit TV shows more often.” Jasmine smiled tightly. “Kidding...sort of.”
Nina was well aware that her “dramatic”—as her publicist had called it—exit had caused a stir. #NastyNinaMeltdown trended on Twitter for a few hours, and her publicist had been bombarded with requests from journalists who wanted to know more about exactlywhyshe’d left.
Because I was tired of being slowly driven insane by a man who cares more about hair product than my feelings.
Weirdly, her publicist hadn’t found the response funny in the slightest. What he did agree to do was steer the reporters to Lyon, where they might be able to get a quote. Bribing people to come wasn’t exactly glamorous, but she saw a fully booked restaurant as an opportunity. If she could remind people of the experience of eating at Lyon, then maybe she could salvage her business. Reputation meant everything in the food world, and if she couldn’t keep at least one restaurant afloat then she’d officially be losing hers.
Slowly, and out of the public eye, she would build her reputation back to where it used to be in the foodie world and then, maybe, just maybe, she could revisit her goal of being on a show. Only this time, she’d make sure she didn’t have a cohost.
There was a loud knocking at the restaurant’s back door. Nina didn’t know who it could be, because service didn’t start for another few hours. The pastry chef, bartender, bussers, servers, manager, host, dishwasher and line cooks wouldn’t be in for a while longer.
“That’s a superhuman knock.” Nina started to take off her apron.
“If it’s Thor, then let me answer,” Jasmine said. “Chris Hemsworth needs to rescue me from my pants.”
Nina guffawed in response. The only reason Jasmine was single was because she worked restaurant hours. Which meant prime date-night times were out of the question. She hoped Thor was waiting, for Jasmine’s sake.
Nina pushed open the kitchen door and made her way into the dining room. She gave a quick glance to the thick wood trim around the windows, the boxed beams along the ceiling and the woodburning fireplace. Little slivers of golden light pierced through and highlighted the deep mahogany floors. Her restaurant was gorgeous, cozy and impossible not to love.
Growing up, Nina’s mother wouldn’t have been able to afford a glass of wine at Lyon. Now Nina owned the place and their last name was embossed above the front door. Her mother had been so proud of what she’d built. The LA spot was the only location she’d lived to see, so letting her down wasn’t an option.
