I’ve been assured by several members of staff that the dishwasher, whose name I can’t remember, has been working at the kitchen for over a year, but he seems to be stuck on slow motion tonight. He is washing and drying plates seconds before the cooks are plating them up and sending them back out to the dining room. And two of the cooks, who were apparently dating, decided that the middle of dinner rush would be the perfect time to discuss their relationship, and they broke up. Dylan stormed out without a word, and Sarah, who should be okay since she was the dumper, not the dumpee, is hiding in the bathroom bawling her eyes out. I’ve knocked on the door once every ten minutes for an hour, but she refuses to let me in. Cal has a key, but he has been shut away in his office all night, and I don’t want to go explain what a shitshow the kitchen is, so we are making do. Barely.
“Sarah?” I knock on the door. “If you don’t come out in five minutes, you’re fired.”
For the first time, there is a break in the crying. “You can’t do that.”
“Yes, I can,” I lie. “You’ll leave here tonight without your apron. Single and jobless. Just imagine that shame.”
I feel bad rubbing salt in her wound, threatening her, but I’m out of options. I tried comforting her and offering her some of the dark chocolate from the dessert pantry, but she refused to budge. Threats are my last recourse.
There is a long pause, and I wonder if I’m going to have to admit that I actually can’t fire her—I don’t think—and tell the staff to start using the bathrooms on the customer side, when finally, Sarah emerges. Mascara is smeared down her cheeks, and her eyes are red and puffy from crying, but she is out of the bathroom. As soon as she steps through the doorway, one of the waitresses darts in after her and slams the door shut.
“I’m sorry, Eve,” she blubbers, covering her face with her hands.
I grab her wrists and pry her palms from her eyes. When she looks up, her eyes are still closed, tears leaking from the corners.
“Go to the sinks and help with the dishes,” I say firmly. “You’re in no state to cook right now. Just focus on cleaning plates, okay?”
Sarah nods, her lower lip wobbling.
“Everything is fine,” I say, speaking to her like she is a wild animal who might attack. “You won’t lose your job. Cal never needs to know, okay? Just go wash dishes. Now.”
She turns away from me in a daze and heads back to help the dishwasher whose name I can’t for the life of me remember, and I take a deep breath. I’ve finally put out all the fires, and I lean against the counter and watch the kitchen move around me. It is like a living, breathing machine. Each person has to play their part or everything falls apart. And tonight, I’m barely holding them together.
When the kitchen door swings open, I hope it is Makayla. She has been a waitress at The Floating Crown for five years, and while she has no formal culinary training, she knows this kitchen better than anyone. I’ve asked her for help tonight more times than I’m comfortable with, but at this point, just seeing one, capable, smiling face would be enough to keep me from crying. But when I turn and instead see a man in a suit, the tie loose and askew around his neck, and his eyes glassy, I almost sag to the floor.
“You can’t be back here, sir,” I say, moving forward to block his access to the rest of the kitchen. “We have hot stoves and fire and sharp knives, and you are already unstable on your feet.”
Makayla told me a businessman at the bar had been demanding macaroni and cheese all night between shots. Apparently, he would not take ‘no’ for an answer.
“Macaroni and cheese,” he mutters, falling against my palms, his feet sliding out from underneath him. “I need macaroni and cheese to soak up the alcohol.”
I turn to the nearest person for help, but Felix is still looking at the bags of raisins and prunes like he might seriously still be confused which is which, and I don’t want to distract him lest he ruin another duck. I could call out for help from someone else or call the police, but I don’t want to cause a scene. Cal is just in the next room. He may have hired me because my father is Don of the Furino family, but even my father can’t be angry if Cal fires me for sheer incompetence. I have to prove that I’m capable.
“Sir, we don’t have macaroni and cheese, but may I recommend our scoglio?”
“What is that?” he asks, top lip curled back.
“A delicious seafood pasta. Mussels, clams, shrimp, and scallops in a tomato sauce with herbs and spices. Truly delicious. One of my favorite meals on the menu.”
“No cheese?”
I sigh. “No. No cheese.”
He shakes his head and pushes past me, running his hands along the counters like he might stumble upon a prepared bowl of cheesy pasta.
“Sir, you can’t be back here.”
“I can be wherever I like,” he shouts. “This is America, isn’t it?”
“It is, but this is a private restaurant and our insurance does not cover diners being back in the kitchen, so I have to ask you—”
“Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light!”
“Is that ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?” I ask, looking around to see whether anyone else can see this man or whether I’m having some sort of exhausted fever dream.
“What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?”
This is absurd. Truly absurd. Beyond calling the police, the easiest thing to do seems to be to give in to his demands, so I lay a hand on his shoulder and lead him to the corner of the kitchen. I pat the counter, and he jumps up like he is a child.
I listen to the National Anthem six times before I hand the man a bowl of whole grain linguini with a sharp cheddar cheese sauce on top. “Can you please take this back to the bar and leave me alone?”
He grabs the bowl from my hands, takes a bite, and then breaks into yet another rousing rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” This time in falsetto with accompanying dance moves.
I sigh and push him towards the door. “Come on, man.”
The dining room is loud enough that no one pays the man too much attention. Plus, he has been drunk out here for an hour before ambushing the kitchen. A few guests shake their heads at the man and then smile at me, giving me the understanding and recognition I sought from the kitchen staff. I lead the man back to the bar, tell the bartender to get rid of him as soon as the pasta is gone, and then make my way back through the dining room.
“She isn’t the chef,” says a deep voice at normal volume. “Chefs don’t look like that.”
I don’t turn towards the table because I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing I heard them, of knowing they had any kind of power over me.
“Whatever she makes, it can’t taste half as good as her muffin,” another man says to raucous laughter.
I roll my eyes and speed up. I’m used to the comments and the cat calls. I’ve been dealing with it since I sprouted boobs. Even my father’s men would whisper things about me. It is part of the reason I chose a path outside the scope of the family business. I couldn’t imagine working with the kind of men my father employed. They were crass and mean and treated women like possessions. Unfortunately, the more I learn of the world beyond the Bratva, the more I realize men everywhere are like that. It is the reason I’ll never get married. I won’t belong to anyone.