Chapter 20
CLEMENTINE
By the time the last guest left and the servers finished clearing the final table, I felt like I could finally breathe again.
The evening had been a success for everyone.
We got to feed a lot of hungry people. The food was good and everyone worked together really well.
I was also pretty impressed with my own performance.
If possible, I would give myself a pat on the back.
Not because I kicked ass or did anything spectacular in the kitchen.
That was all pretty average. I managed to do a good job handling him.
The asshole. Despite Rhett’s morning tantrum and his continued coldness throughout service, I hadn’t let it get under my skin.
At least, not visibly.
I handled that disaster at table twelve with exactly the kind of grace and professionalism I wanted to embody when I eventually ran my own kitchen someday.
The iron fist approach might work for some people, but I had learned tonight that sometimes a smile and a genuine “thank you” could accomplish more than all the yelling and intimidation in the world.
Rhett had the big and bad grumpy thing going for him, but not everyone responded to that. Not everyone was going to be intimidated by him just because he looked like a god and dressed like he was going to a funeral.
I loved that I was one of the people he couldn’t scream at and expect me to jump and do as he said.
The dining room was empty now except for the cleaning crew, but the kitchen was still buzzing with that energy that always followed a successful service. The local cooks who had been hired for tonight were cleaning their stations. Me as well.
“You guys must be starving,” I said, looking around at their tired but satisfied faces. “When’s the last time any of you actually ate?”
A young woman with tired eyes looked up from scrubbing her prep station. “Lunch? Maybe? Time kind of disappears during service.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’ve been working for twelve hours straight.” I moved toward the walk-in, already forming a plan. “Come on, let’s make something with the leftover ingredients. You’ve more than earned a proper meal.”
“Oh, we couldn’t,” protested a guy who looked barely old enough to drink. “Chef Voss was very specific about inventory management.”
“And I’m very specific about taking care of people who work this hard,” I replied, already pulling containers from the cooler. “Besides, I’m Desman’s daughter. If there’s a problem, I’ll take the heat.”
The charity was providing all of the food.
The leftovers were designated to be given to a shelter.
But honestly, ingredients weren’t going to do much if someone didn’t know how to use them.
And these people deserved a meal. I knew all of this was voluntary.
We were all busting our asses, which was something Rhett seemed to forget.
Within minutes, we had an impromptu cooking session going. Everyone pitched in to create something delicious from the beautiful ingredients.
This was exactly the kind of kitchen environment I dreamed of creating someday. Collaborative instead of hierarchical. Supportive instead of intimidating. Everyone contributing their ideas and skills without fear of being screamed at for the smallest mistake.
“What are you thinking for the sauce?” asked one of the young women.
“Maybe something simple? Lemon, butter, fresh herbs?” I suggested, but I made it sound like a question rather than a command. “What do you think would work best with what we’ve got?”
“Ooh, there’s some of that amazing pancetta left,” chimed in the young guy. “We could render that down, add the vegetables, finish with the lemon and herbs?”
“Perfect. That sounds incredible.”
I watched them work, noting how different the energy was when people felt free to contribute ideas instead of just following orders.
We were all exhausted but now we were cooking for fun. No one was grading the performance. No one cared if we weren’t following a recipe.
“So how did you all end up working this event?” I asked as we cooked. “Are you local to Miami?”
“We’re all from the culinary program at Johnson & Wales. Chef Voss handpicked us for this.”
That stopped me short. “Handpicked you?”
“Yeah, he visits culinary schools across the country and selects students to work these pop-ups,” the young man explained. I could hear the pride in his voice. “It’s like the opportunity of a lifetime. Most of us will never get to work with someone of his caliber again.”
“He does this at every stop?” I asked, trying to process this information.
“Every single one,” confirmed Carlos, an older student who’d been quiet most of the evening. “My buddy is signed up to work the Chicago event.”
I would have thought Rhett would demand the best of the best. Using people from culinary schools was generous. Educational. Almost nurturing, in a way that didn’t match the demanding taskmaster I’d witnessed all day.
I would have jumped at the chance when I was in school. Hell, I was out of school and I was jumping at the chance to take his obnoxious behavior just so I could be in the kitchen with him.
“So what did you think of working with him?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual. “I mean, he can be pretty intense.”
“Intense is an understatement.” The woman laughed, but there was genuine admiration in her voice. “The man is a complete perfectionist. But God, the things I learned today… I filled up an entire notebook just from watching him work.”
“Really?”
“Are you kidding? Did you see what he did with that fish preparation? The way he built those flavors layer by layer?”
“And when he tasted my dish earlier, he didn’t just tell me it was wrong—he explained exactly why the knife cuts mattered, how the size affected the cooking time and flavor release.”
Carlos nodded emphatically. “He’s tough, sure, but everything he does has a reason. Like when he made me redo that sauce three times? Each time, he explained what was off and how to fix it. By the third try, I understood seasoning in a way I never had before.”
I found myself squirming a little, remembering how irritated I had been when Rhett dismissed my suggestion about his management style. Maybe there was more to his approach than I realized. It wasn’t my way, but that didn’t mean it was the wrong way.
“But doesn’t all the yelling get to you?” I asked. “The way he demands absolute perfection?”
“I’ve heard horror stories from other kitchens,” one said. “This was actually pretty chill.”
I thought he’d been particularly harsh today, but apparently there were worse chefs.
“The way he moves around a kitchen, the instincts he has, it’s like watching an artist work.”
“An incredibly attractive artist,” added a petite blonde who had been quietly prepping garnishes most of the evening. The other women in the group immediately started giggling and nodding their agreement.
“Did you see those forearms when he was breaking down that whole fish?” a woman sighed. “I barely heard a word of his technique explanation.”
“And those hands,” the blonde continued. “You just know he’d be amazing at—”
“Okay, okay,” Carlos interrupted, laughing. “We get it. Chef Voss is dreamy. Can we focus on the food?”
But the men weren’t much better when it came to discussing their admiration for Rhett. They talked about his knife skills with reverence and described his palate as supernatural.
They all admired him.
“He’s like a jazz musician,” one explained. “He knows all the rules so well that he can break them in exactly the right ways. Pure instinct.”
“A natural,” Carlos agreed. “You can’t teach that kind of intuition.”
I listened to them gush about Rhett’s talent. It was like he had them entranced. Did he put me under his spell initially and I somehow broke out of it? Was he the alpha asshole chef who humiliated me this morning? The skilled seducer who had me melting in his hot tub?
The smooth dancer?
The inspiring teacher?
The mama’s boy with a dream of cooking?
He was so confusing.
He was all of these things, apparently. And I had no idea which version was the real Rhett Voss.
“Here we go,” the blonde announced, carrying a dish to our makeshift table. “Pancetta and vegetable pasta with lemon herb butter sauce, courtesy of leftover ingredients and pure exhaustion-fueled creativity.”
We were just settling in to eat when Rhett walked into the kitchen.
I tensed automatically, expecting him to lecture us about using ingredients without permission or hanging out instead of cleaning.
Instead, his face lit up with what looked like genuine pleasure at seeing the group gathered around our makeshift table.
“Now this looks like a proper end to the evening,” he said. “Room for one more?”
“You can sit here,” the young man said.
“Please, sit. You’ve all earned the right to relax.” He grabbed a plate from the stack and helped himself to our creation. “This smells incredible. Who’s responsible for the sauce?”
“Group effort,” I said quietly, not sure how he was going to react to finding me at the center of this impromptu gathering.
He took a bite and closed his eyes, chewing thoughtfully. “Perfect balance. The pancetta isn’t overpowering the vegetables, and that touch of lemon brightness… really well done.”
The praise felt genuine, without any of the condescension I had been expecting. The students beamed under his attention. Like dogs getting a pat on the head after bringing back the ball.
No, that was just my jaded opinion. These guys all deserved the praise.
“So,” Rhett said, settling into his chair like he had all the time in the world. “Let’s debrief. What did everyone learn tonight?”
What followed was unlike any post-service wrap-up I had ever witnessed. Instead of criticism and corrections, Rhett led them through a thoughtful analysis of the evening. He highlighted specific moments where each person had excelled. He remembered details I hadn’t even noticed.
But he also offered constructive feedback, explaining the reasoning behind his corrections and suggesting techniques they could practice.
It wasn’t harsh criticism. It was genuine mentorship, the kind of guidance that would make them better cooks.
The kind of training people paid a lot of money to get.
“David, that sauce you redid for me? The third version was restaurant quality. You understood the balance I was looking for and executed it perfectly. Take that confidence with you.”
“Maya, your knife work is already excellent, but if you adjust your grip slightly.” He demonstrated with an imaginary knife. “You’ll have even more control and speed.”
They hung on his every word, asking questions and sharing their own observations from the evening. This was a master class in leadership. Apparently, he did know how to build people up while pushing them to improve.
I always felt like he was a snarling, rabid dog on a short leash. The second he got free, he would tear me apart. He seemed to enjoy tearing me down.
Why?
Why did I get the super highs and the really lows?
I watched him interact with them. It wasn’t the tyrant from this morning or the smooth operator from last night. This was someone who genuinely cared about developing the next generation of chefs. He saw potential in young cooks and was willing to invest his time and expertise in nurturing it.
Maybe I didn’t know Rhett Voss at all.
Maybe I had been so focused on my own hurt feelings and wounded pride that I missed something important about who he really was.
The students began to leave. Each of them thanked Rhett profusely for the opportunity and promised to stay in touch. I found myself swallowing a large helping of humble pie.
I still didn’t appreciate how he had spoken to me that morning. And I was still pissed about him leaving me high and dry—technically wet—last night. That wasn’t going to change. I didn’t appreciate the games. But maybe there was more to Rhett than I assumed.