Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
G emma got to work, sorting out the coffee machines and cutting up the cakes for the day, but she couldn’t help but constantly throw glances towards the kitchen. It always seemed like a veritable hub of life when George was in there, even though he only worked on his own. He would always have the radio on and often sing along or do a little jig as he moved from one station to another. If Kent was listening to music, it was so quiet that Gemma couldn’t hear it, and somehow, she couldn’t imagine him doing a jig of any sort.
It was another twenty minutes before he brought the sausage sandwich out, and even then, Gemma still wasn’t due to start for another ten, which was why she didn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt taking her plate and heading outside to the waterfront.
Eating outside by an estuary was always a dangerous game. Just like at the seaside, seagulls would lurk on walls and posts, ready for the opportunity to jump down and steal something. However, that morning, as Gemma took her seat and bit into the sandwich, the tide was out, revealing the riverbed and the sea birds were notably few. She chewed slowly before swallowing and taking a second bite.
A moment later, she was marching straight back to the café.
“What the hell did you do with the sausage sandwich?” she said.
Kent came out from the kitchen, once again brushing his hands on the seat of his trousers.
“Is everything okay?”
“You changed something, didn’t you? You changed something about the sandwich.”
He tilted his head to the side quizzically.
“Are you saying you didn’t like it?”
“I’m not saying that at all,” Gemma said. The truth was the exact opposite. She had taken one bite of that sausage sandwich, and her taste buds had been set alight with the explosion of flavour. This wasn’t the way that George did them—bread, lightly toasted, butter, and a bit of sauce slapped in the middle.
This was another level, but how or why Kent had managed it she didn’t know.
“What did you change?” she said again.
“Did you like it? Yes or no.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a plain sausage sandwich. That’s what people expect when they come here. Nothing fancy.”
“That’s hardly fancy,” Kent said. “All I did was caramelise some balsamic soaked red onions, purée them down and add them to the brown sauce. It’s good, right? Really good.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s good or not,” Gemma said, feeling like she was hitting her head against a brick wall. “What matters is that it’s not the way people like it here.”
“How do you know?” Kent said. “They liked the poached eggs with pesto, and I bet you would have kicked up a fuss if I’d told you I wanted to do that too, right?”
Gemma wasn’t going to warrant that with a reply.
“We’re talking about the sausage sandwich. You’ve changed something that is a staple. That people love, and I do not approve.”
Was this where he pulled his executive manager line, she wondered? She would love to see him try.
“Look,” he said, his voice measured and calm. “Your customers all loved George. I get that. But they also know that George is gone and a new chef has come. Your customers also, we can assume, love sausage sandwiches. Now, if you can forget the fact that you obviously despise everything I do?—”
“That’s not—” Gemma started, but Kent’s gaze shut her down. After all, it was probably true.
“Let’s forget that I am involved in this in any way. I want you to answer me objectively: was that sausage sandwich better, worse, or the same as the one you normally serve? And answer truthfully.”
Gemma hated him.
She hated how he could look at her with his unwavering stare like he didn’t need to blink at all. And she hated how his lips pressed together, almost as if he was holding back a smirk. But most of all, she hated how he knew he was right. And he was. He was right.
“Fine, keep your bloody balsamic onions, but you’re not changing anything else,” she said.