Standing In Front Of You

Hannah

With paperwork in hand, I return to Hibiscus at 1pm on Thursday afternoon. The restaurant is in an ornate fifteen-storey building that houses retail and office spaces. Hibiscus is the only restaurant, but it’s not the kind of place you frequent for a casual lunch break, so I doubt the white-collar workers create much business.

I’m early on purpose. I want to get acquainted with the kitchen and deal with paperwork before my shift starts at 2pm, so I can jump right in on the action. The restaurant is a hive of activity with a crowded dining room and a short lineup at the hostess station.

This rarely happened at Harvest, and when it did, it was a disaster. It’s refreshing to see the wait staff working efficiently, moving in and out of the kitchen with deft fluidity. My eyes land on the maître d’, Alec Hogan, whom I met briefly on Tuesday. I wave to signal that I need his help for a moment. He smiles at me from over a black vinyl folio and walks the few feet to where I’m standing.

“Yes, Hannah? What can I do for you?”

“Hi, Mr. Hogan. Today is my first shift. I’m here early, but I have some paperwork. Can you tell me where I drop it off?”

“Oh, I’m so happy for you. You’ll love it here.” He takes a hold of my paperwork to glance at it, but a server calls for him, asking for his help. “Go back into the kitchen and see what Chef wants from you.” Then he’s gone.

That’s exactly the kind of thing I like to see. Someone who is dedicated to their job and doesn’t waste time when there’s work to be done. I think I will like it here. Maybe aside from the minor issue of facing my former love every day—which wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t still get butterflies from the sound of his voice.

I stuff the paperwork back into my purse, paste on my best confident look, and saunter into the kitchen like I belong here—because I do. As much as the dining room is buzzing, the kitchen is ten times busier. Pots clanging, people shouting, equipment beeping. There are eleven people by my count, but from the looks of the dining room, they’re doing the work of twenty.

Caleb passes by, about to dart around the corner, carrying a massive chunk of what looks to be swordfish. He slaps it down on an empty stainless steel prep surface and turns around, locking eyes with me. Before he speaks, his eyes glance up at the digital clock over the stove. “You’re early,” he snaps.

Again, I straighten my posture, refusing to shrink back from his harshness. “I wanted to get familiar with the kitchen and get paperwork sorted before my shift starts.”

“Next time you want to make managerial decisions, Miss Parker, I suggest you wait until you’re management. I asked you to come at two because that’s the earliest I’d have time to deal with you.”

I fight to keep my jaw from dropping. “Sorry, Chef,” I bite out. “At least give me something to do to pitch in since I’m here.”

He doesn’t look at me. He’s busy sharpening a fillet knife. “Know how to prep a fish?”

“Yes, Chef.”

He sets the tools down on the counter beside the sea creature. I pray that filleting a swordfish is the same as a salmon. Just bigger.

It’s not like it’s Fugu.

I grab an apron from the same hook I hung one on two days ago, determined not to ruin this opportunity. So if I have to scoop fish guts with my bare hands, that’s what I’m going to do.

Caleb stands over me, scowling as I size up the massive fish. This thing must be over a metre long—and it doesn’t even have a head. I couldn’t guess the weight of it, but I doubt I could lift it as easily as Caleb did.

“This is our special tonight, so I need it sectioned into as many eight-ounce portions as you can get. Then I want them placed in a marinade. Garlic, olive oil, lemon, paprika, coriander, and cumin. It’s straight from the Mediterranean, and I want our customers to walk out of here feeling like they are, too.”

“Yes, Chef.”

A less confident person might be nervous to handle the main protein for the evening before clocking in, but I’m going to show Caleb that my sauce wasn’t a fluke. I’m not a one-trick pony. He can glare at the back of my head all he wants; I will not mess this up.

I grab a kitchen scale so I can section off a portion of fish and check it for weight, a mixing bowl to prepare my marinade, and a stainless steel prep container for the fish to go in.

Off to work. With swift, confident movements, I slice the fish into one-inch pieces, ensuring each one is clean and uniform in size. The Wusthof seven-inch fillet knife slices through fish like a warm knife through butter. After a few moments of watching me work without saying a word, Caleb wanders off to do something else. I don’t spare anyone a glance as I work through the fish. By the time I finish, I have exactly ninety-six portions.

The marinade is next, but I make quick work of it, ensuring I keep track of proportions so each piece is seasoned equally. Then I grab the vacuum sealer and package each individual cut of fish, sealing it shut to marinate.

Seventy minutes after I started, I turn to find Caleb standing behind me and his face earning some premature wrinkles.

“We have ninety-six portions, so I’ve got ninety in the marinade and left six plain to accommodate food allergies. What can I do next?” I wait for Caleb’s face to show a hint of approval, but it never comes.

He makes an awkward grunt sound and gestures for me to follow him.

I trail behind, wondering if it was his time in France or genetics that turned him into a curmudgeon.

We enter his chaotic office. There are files thrown around the room, an overturned waste bin with shredded paper spilled onto the floor, a cluttered desk—at least, I think there’s a desk under the mess—and an entire bookshelf’s contents strewn about the carpet. It’s one of those rooms where you feel the need to stay standing because you want to spend as little time in it as possible.

“Close the door,” Caleb orders.

That makes it even worse. Beyond the mess, I smell like fish, and being in close quarters with the grown-up version of the boy I once loved is not my idea of fun.

But I comply. I close the door and turn back around to face Caleb. My boss; not my first love.

“Sorry for the mess. When the owner told the last chef he was being replaced, he didn’t take it well, and I haven’t had time to deal with it.”

That’s the nicest he’s been since I arrived. It’s also a relief that he hasn’t turned into a disgusting slob.

“That’s fine. Can I help with anything?”

“I didn’t hire you to be a housekeeper, Hannah.”

Okay. I guess snappy Caleb is back. Note to self: Stick to the job you were hired for.

“Where’s your paperwork?” he asks without looking up from shuffling random documents.

His foul mood has me nervous to tell him where it is. A non-answer won’t help the situation, though.

“Sorry, Chef. It’s in my purse. I tossed it aside to get to work.”

“Go get it, then we’ll go over the terms in your contract. We have about”—he looks down at his thick silver watch—“twenty minutes before we need to get back to dinner service prep. Make it fast.”

I rush out of the office, speed walk toward my purse hung on an apron hook, snatch the paperwork, and return to the office in under sixty seconds. Somehow, I still feel as if that was too long for him to be kept waiting.

Caleb spends ten minutes outlining the basic terms of my contract. He emphasizes that I’m on a three-month probation period and any drama, lacklustre performance, or just because he wants to, is cause for my termination.

Basically, if I can’t hack it, I’m out.

The scary thing about that is the fact Caleb’s moods are as predictable as the weather, but I don’t have billion-dollar satellites to help me forecast an oncoming change. I don’t know what to expect from him. Frosty for now; beyond that, who knows? Though, I doubt I’ll see any sunshine anytime soon.

Once the paperwork is dealt with, Caleb instructs me on dinner service. We get back to work and he spends the rest of my shift barking orders, demanding perfection, and chastising any small mistake. Luckily, none of those mistakes are mine, but that doesn’t make me cringe any less as he berates people for their failings.

If we rated tempers in terms of Scoville heat units, Caleb McNamara’s would be a ghost chili.

He’ll quickly come to learn that my habanero-level heat is not to be underestimated.