Chapter 2
The rest of my shift went by quickly. Time flies when you’re having the most fun wallowing in a pit of rejections and feeling sorry about yourself, after all.
With cashing up done and Alana already gone home, the only job left to do is one final clean of the restaurant floor before it was time to close. Mop in hand, I wipe the floor lazily, my mind flashing back to the email I received earlier in the day and falling back into the well of my self-pity.
The transitory period of life after university is a disorienting one. ‘Graduate Blues’, they call it. But I don’t think it’s very accurate. Though definitely melancholic in tone, blue is not quite the right colour I would describe it.
It’s a lot of grey areas.
Black and white anxieties blending into varying shades of uncertainties.
I can create an entire swatchbook of the drab and muted and dull and murky areas of my life since leaving uni and going into the overcasting world of work.
The sound of clattering in the kitchen, followed by an even louder curse stops my train of thought.
“Shit!”
My heart jumps to my throat and I instinctively tighten my grip on the mop handle, watching as jet black hair and dark brown eyes come into view.
“Rowan,” I sigh in relief as he emerges from the kitchen, stacks of plastic food containers in his hands. “God, you scared me!”
“Sorry!” He laughs sheepishly, eyes forming into crescent moons. “I dropped a pan. Or four.”
Rowan Ramos, unrelated to Alberto “Boy” Ramos despite sharing the same last name, is the unofficial-official Head Chef at Tito Boy’s. Unofficial since Rowan and Tito Boy both disliked the notion of a rigid kitchen hierarchy and much prefer to treat everyone equally, if not like family. But also kind of official since he’s the person in charge of overseeing everything in the restaurant, second only to Tito Boy himself.
“I swear you’re clumsier than I am,” I mutter. “How are you allowed in the kitchen?”
“Talent,” He retorts with playful arrogance. “What are you still doing here? I thought Marc and Alana were closing.”
“I sent Alana home already. And Marc asked me to cover his shift,” I reply. “Deadline season.”
“Yikes,” He comments. “That’s one aspect of uni I’ll never miss.”
“You went to culinary school,” I snort, levelling a pointed look at him. “Was one of your assignments handing in cottage pie at midnight?”
Rowan attended the Royal School of Culinary Arts, or The Scullery as it’s well-known here in London, and started working at Tito Boy’s shortly after graduating. He had a reputation of being a virtuoso of sorts in the culinary industry, having won a multitude of competitions and earned an abundance of awards in his career.
“Deconstructed cottage pie, actually.” He nods.
I blink, imagining the ingredients of the classic meat and potato savoury dish in all its individually assembled glory.
“Somehow, I believe you,” I reply with a laugh, entirely aware of the culinary school’s eccentric reputation.
“How’s your portfolio coming along?” He inquires and I lift my shoulders in a nonchalant shrug.
It’s not news to Rowan I’m searching for jobs in fashion. Everyone at Tito Boy’s pretty much knows of my harrowing hunt for employment since finishing uni. More than anything, they’re constantly encouraging me here, being a pseudo-family and all.
“It’s coming along,” I answer. “Received another rejection earlier in the afternoon.”
“Oi,” He raises an eyebrow at me. “What are the rules about phone use at work?”
I mirror him in reply, “We have none.”
“Well, maybe we should implement it.” He muses, ruffling my hair in that annoying way that a big brother would to their younger sibling. “Is that why you were moping around all day?”
“I wasn’t moping,” I interject, swatting his hand.
“You received your very first customer complaint,” He says pointedly. “Remarkably out of character for you, Hals.”
Frowning, I continue mopping the floor, a little forcefully this time. “Table 10 were being assholes.”
“I’m referring to the guy in the corner booth,” He tsks.
I blink. “What?”
“Sunnies,” Rowan needles lightly. “Your knight in cosy athleisure.”
My frown knots deeper.
“Yes, well, he was kind of being an asshole too,” I mumble. “Sat himself down in a reserved booth, refused to acknowledge my presence, consistently interrupted me whenever he could and acted like he owned the place so excuse me if I wasn’t going to tolerate his behaviour initially.”
Rowan lets out a low whistle. “That rejection really got under your skin, huh?”
Gloomily, I watch as he reaches under the front desk and begins to pack the containers into a brown paper bag.
“You’d think I’d be used to it by now,” I mutter to myself, miserably. “But it’s still so jarring.”
It could be worse, I suppose. I could have gone through an entire interview process only to be rejected in the end. But at least I would have gotten an interview. I’m perpetually stuck at the stage of automated rejection emails with rarely any progression on how to improve and it’s incredibly dispiriting.
“I’ll lock up,” Rowan announces. “It’s getting late.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling myself wither at my own self-pity session.
“It’s fine.” A look of understanding flash across his face. “I’ve been there too, you know.”
“Now that, I find hard to believe.”
Rowan sighs in jest, shaking his head.
“Contrary to popular belief, opportunities were not handed to me on a silver platter.” He remarks. “You’re forgetting I’m from a family of migrant workers. Food was served on a banana leaf.”
Similarly to me, Rowan is also half-Filipino. He comes from a family of foodies, the eldest and only male amongst four siblings, his younger sisters following his footsteps and embracing the passion for culinary arts. He’s become somewhat of an older brother figure to me too which, as an only child, I’m grateful for.
“Since you’re done mopping and moping,” Rowan begins. “Go home. It’s nearly half 11. It takes you nearly an hour to get back to your flat.”
He adopts the authoritative voice he uses when he’s barking out orders in the kitchen.
“Don’t be out any later than you need to be.” He adds.
I sulk sportively. “We don’t all conveniently live a 15-minute walk away in the posh streets of Kensington, chef.”
“Head home, Hals.” Rowan chuckles. “And here.”
He slides the brown paper bag over to me and I blink questioningly before peeking inside, the aroma of Filipino food making my mouth water.
“Rowan, there are at least four large containers worth of dishes here,” I gasp. “And dessert, oh my god. Taho.”
I eye the tub of soft tofu with sago pearls and arnibal sauce and I almost want to cry.
“You’re welcome.” He nods. “Now go, it’s getting late. Eat your rejection away with some homemade sopas.”
My lip quivers as I stare at the plastic container containing creamy chicken macaroni soup.
“Rowan.” I turn to him.
The kind gesture tugs on my chest and I feel my eyes begin to water.
“God, Hallie, don’t cry.” Rowan flusters. “It’s just food. We’re in a restaurant, we have plenty.”
He awkwardly nudges my arm in an attempt to console me and I let out a warbled laugh.
“I really appreciate it, thank you.”
While it might not carry much significance for Rowan, it really means a lot to me.
“Taunts, aside.” He says. “Don’t let rejections get to you, okay? When one closet door shuts, another set of wardrobe doors open.”
I blink blearily at the fashion reference, wrinkling my nose in gratitude.
“Or something like that, I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I read it in that damn magazine you keep hoarding at the restaurant.”
“Yes, Kuya.” I sniffle, teasing him with the Filipino honorific for an older brother.
“Alright.” He responds with a playful eye roll. “Get out of my kitchen, Hartt.”