The kitchen was slammed for dinner, despite having only ten tables, and as my sous chef scrambled to plate dishes before anything cooled, I faced off with the manager through the door of his office. "We're out of tuna. There were at least twenty steaks in the cooler yesterday, and now there's nothing. What the hell happened, Joey?"
He leaned his chair back, the squeak grating on my ears even with the din of the kitchen in the background. "I'm sure you miscounted."
"Fuck you, I can count." I slammed my fist into the door jamb. "I cannot run this kitchen if my inventory disappears whenever one of your shitbag friends shows up."
"Slow your roll, sweetheart." He got up, eyes narrowed, and tried to loom over me. His five foot six was no match for my five ten, though, and I folded my arms over my chest. It also helped that I had a scary large butcher knife in my hand. The manager glanced behind me, then raised an eyebrow. "Don't concern yourself with this fictional tuna. My guy will be here in a couple days with fresh. Go take care of your own business."
My teeth ground until pain spiked in my temples. "I swear to God, Joey, if this doesn't stop, I'm quitting. I'll walk the fuck away."
"Go ahead and try." His dark eyes studied me, his voice low and tense. "See how far Bob lets you run. Just remember where you started, sweetheart." He reached out, trailing his knuckles across my cheek, and I jerked back.
"If you ever touch me again," I said, butcher knife held even with his chin. "I will gut you like the swine you are. I butchered a whole cow in school, Joey. You're not even a challenge."
We faced off, neither of us looking away. I wondered if I would have to kick him in the junk to get him to back down, but instead my sous chef, Jake, called from behind me. "Chef, get your ass back in here, we need a hand with the special."
I scowled at the manager, "Get better vendors, for fuck's sake, all of your friends have shitty product," and turned to storm back into the kitchen.
Jake took one look at my face and directed me to where one of the line cooks tenderized the steaks, so I pounded my rage out on the beef with a meat hammer. It didn't help much, except when I imagined Joey's ugly, narrow face under the spikes. I'd almost worked off the fury at the missing tuna and Joey's casual disregard for my menu planning when one of the waiters crept into the kitchen.
He pitched his voice over the hiss and pop of the sauté pans. "Chef? A guest asked to speak with you."
"Which guest?"
"The one who sent back his steak."
My lip curled in disgust. He sent back a perfectly prepared filet and claimed I did not know medium rare. The steak was perfect — I'd inspected it myself before it went out. I waved my towel at the server and took over preparing the hollandaise from the young saucier, not wanting to end up with scrambled eggs. "I do not have time to listen to his apology."
"Chef, he wanted to send it back again."
I dropped the bowl and hollandaise splattered across my apron and the rest of the workstation. "Again? I prepared that steak myself."
The waiter offered only an expressive shrug, taking no responsibility for the man's lack of taste. I gritted my teeth; no one ever said customers would take up this much time for a head chef. On a normal night, I probably could have pretended and listened to the man's complaint without wanting to snap my towel in his face, but after the confrontation with Joey... The towel twisted in my hands. I didn't like people. That was why I worked with food.
Jake wiped up the spilled sauce as he said under his breath, "Don't go out there unless you can be civil. We need every paying customer."
"That steak was perfect."
Jake sighed. "We just got the lights turned back on. Is it worth it?"
"This is my kitchen," I said, taking a step back as anger bubbled up still more. It was bad enough I had to deal with chauvinist pigs in every kitchen as I worked my way up, and that I had to fight to be taken seriously by my vendors and my staff and the competition up and down this trendy street. Even worse that Joey sold my inventory out from under me whenever he wanted. Now some jackass who wanted to eat my food insulted me in front of my entire kitchen and the other guests. "I'm supposed to send out another steak?"
He shook his head, concentrating on the other dishes being plated. "Very well. I will keep everything else going. Go alienate some of our paying customers."
I muttered about his family tree under my breath as I stormed out of the kitchen, still wearing the splattered apron and pristine chef's coat, my hair covered with a thick bandanna. I wiped my hands on the towel as I followed the server, the young man hustling to the problem table. I should have known who it would be as the server paused at a table with five men, all wearing expensive suits and designer ties. Well-groomed. Big and strong, probably from an over-priced trainer at a fancy gym. Alpha males accustomed to getting their way in everything. Well. This was my restaurant, my domain.
The waiter tilted his head at the complainant for my benefit, though he half-bowed and gestured at me as he addressed the man. "Sir, the chef."
"Took long enough," he said, turning slightly in his chair to look at me. By his expression, whatever he saw surprised him — no doubt that I was young, that I was female, that I was pissed as hell. Something changed in his face.
I arched an eyebrow, putting on an imperious facade that had saved me from the attention of every male student at every culinary school I'd attended. He was unfortunately handsome, hard-eyed with a strong jaw and blonde hair a little too long and shaggy for my taste. I slapped the towel against my palm, and when I spoke, a French accent tinged my words — earned the hard way after years of culinary school in France. "Leonard tells me you have something to say. About my food."
"Yes." He touched the edge of his plate, where the steak sat in a bloody puddle. Perfectly grilled, seasoned, aromatic. From a butcher who purchased local meat raised in the Kobe style. Well marbled, aged, tenderized. The cows practically got massages and therapists. And yet this man, this corporate raider who gazed coolly at me as if I worked for him, sat back in his chair and gestured to dismiss all that work. "It's over done. I sent it back once already and expected it to be done correctly. And yet — here we are. I thought it best to tell you exactly how to prepare it."
The blood boiled in my veins, and I twisted the towel before smacking it against my palm again. His companions glanced at each other, then at me. One grinned openly and leaned his elbows on the table like a naughty kid. I shifted my weight and leaned forward, head tilted as I studied him. Smug bastard. "I am so sorry; I did not realize you attended Le Cordon Bleu. When did you graduate?"
"I didn't —"
"Oh, my mistake, it must be the Culinary Institute of America, no?" The French accent grew stronger, and his expression darkened. I threw my hands up. "No, perhaps not the Culinary Institute. That explains it all, certainly."
"Explains what?" he said, grim. Pale brown eyes narrowed as he studied me from head to toe. Not entertained at all, despite that all four of his friends grinned and looked back and forth between us in delight, as if it were a high-stakes tennis match.
"It explains," I said in a lower voice as the other diners began paying attention. It was a very small restaurant, after all. Boutique. "How you did not recognize that both of those steaks were perfectly prepared. Impeccable."
His hands braced on the table, massive paws with long blunt fingers and a neat manicure. "I asked for medium rare, they were —"
"They were perfectly medium rare," I said, the words escaping in something close to a hiss. Too much, because he sat up, lines gathering around his mouth as he frowned. I held my hands up. "Perhaps you have never had a steak this good; perhaps you do not recognize quality when you see it. This is your burden to bear."
His friend, dark haired and younger, smiled at me with even, white teeth, but spoke to the complainant. "Logan, the steak is amazing, just —"
"The steak is over-done," he said, sharp, and the kid sat back, shaking his head. The blonde turned back to me, frown deepening to a scowl. "I want medium rare. I'll keep sending it back until it is done correctly."
I picked up the plate, pretending to examine the steak, and then shrugged. I handed it to the server and jerked my head at the kitchen, where Jake and the rest of the staff watched through the window. When the waiter was on his way, I glanced back at the entitled asshole. "If you cannot appreciate the quality of the food I prepare, or the talent with which I prepare it, you should not eat it."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You must not understand me." I faked concern as the towel swung in a wide gesture. I folded my arms over my chest and looked pointedly at the door. "Get out."
His eyebrows climbed to his hairline and the man across the table burst out laughing. Logan, the corporate raider, looked incredulous to the point of not being able to speak, though he managed to grind out, "What?"
I looked at his friend, still laughing, and pointed at his plate. "You enjoy your ravioli, no?"
"Yes ma'am," the friend said, holding up his hands in surrender. "Delicious and perfectly prepared. Merci."
"De rien, I am pleased you enjoy it." I looked back at Logan, who still stared at me as if I'd grown a second head. Perhaps no one had ever rejected him before, maybe in his normal day everyone jumped through their ass to appease him. Not here. Not in my restaurant. "So. Your friends appreciate my work, and yet clearly you cannot. You are welcome to sit as your friends enjoy their food, or you may leave. But I will not waste my time, or my staff's time, preparing yet another meal for you."
I turned on my heel and strode to the kitchen, not looking back as the rest of the patrons applauded. I threw the towel against the wall once behind the door and ignored Jake's long-suffering expression. He read off the remaining orders and started talking about the soufflé. The only thing that could pull me out of a foul mood was cooking, but I couldn't forget the jackass still sitting in my restaurant, insulting my life's work by his very presence, and the malevolent toad in the manager's office.