8. Lennon
8
LENNON
I snatched the ticket out of the printer and gave it a once-over. “Two ribeyes. One mid-rare. One well done.”
Every cook on the line swore in tandem.
Julian groaned. “Why do people want me to cook it like it’s fuckin’ beef jerky?”
I ignored his complaints and kept barking orders. “Mash on both. Candied carrots with the mid and asparagus on the well. Two brisket corn chowders and two salads.”
“Yes, Chef,” the kitchen answered like a well-oiled machine.
“Pastry, where are the desserts for table twelve?” I yelled, hoping Javi would hear me over the ruckus.
“Behind,” Javi said as he slipped up to the front of the kitchen and slid two perfectly plated dishes onto the expo line.
“Beautiful,” I said, giving him a nod as he dashed back to the pastry station. “Where are my starters?”
Brad appeared with two portions of brisket corn chowder and slid them onto the line. I topped the ramekins with a generous helping of gouda and gruyere, and left them under the salamander to broil before delicately placing a cornbread biscotti on the rim.
My mouth watered at the sight. That soup would be my dinner tonight, and I couldn’t wait.
The door to the dining room swung open, and a flustered-looking server burst into the kitchen as a new ticket came through.
“Chowder for one.”
The bowl appeared in front of me in an instant, and I started the cheese, broil, and biscotti routine again.
“That one’s for the roof,” the server said. “And the Griffith family would like to send their compliments.”
Of course they did.
The thought of a certain Griffith had my blood boiling in the most infuriating ways. I hadn’t had a chance to take care of my needs after CJ cornered me by the smoker two nights ago.
The lack of an orgasm had me on edge.
I needed to blow off some steam.
The briskets turned out to be award-worthy and had guests raving all day yesterday. The remnants made a kick-ass soup that had Chef DeRossi calling from his restaurant in North Carolina so he could get my recipe.
“Who ordered the soup? I thought the Griffiths were the last table on the roof?” I asked.
The server, Jeremiah, nodded. “It’s for Mr. Griffith.”
“Mr. Griffith” was a rather vague term when it applied to all four brothers and their father.
I laughed. “Which one?”
“The single one.”
That was much more clear. While the older three Griffith Brothers were married with children, CJ was very much a loner.
I lifted my eyebrows. “The soup is for CJ?”
He nodded. “He practically licked the first bowl clean. You must have finally cracked him.”
A wicked thought snuck into my mind. “I’ll take his soup up when I go to speak with the family.”
Jeremiah raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure Jessica—Ms. Powell—has side work for you if your tables are taken care of.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Chef.”
When he disappeared into the dining room, I snatched the bowl out from under the broiler and peeled back the cheese crust. Red bell peppers dotted the pale yellow soup. They added a little heat, balancing the sweetness of the corn.
I dashed into the walk-in cooler and snatched a Scotch bonnet and a ghost pepper off the shelf.
Thankfully, I had ordered a few more than I needed for our array of house-made hot sauces. I swiftly minced them with my knife, wiped the blade, and whisked the cutting board off to the dishwasher to avoid cross-contamination.
If CJ thought I couldn’t stand the heat, he was about to get a taste of his own medicine.
I had an extra spring in my step as I strode up to the rooftop with a tray in my hand. “I heard the new corn chowder was a favorite,” I said by way of greeting the Griffith family.
Nearly everyone was crowded around their long farm-style table tonight.
CJ’s expression fell from neutral to sour when he saw my face.
I waltzed up behind him, savoring how he stiffened as I approached. I cleared his place setting from the right and served his soup from the left without skipping a beat.
My voice was sickeningly sweet as I said, “Enjoy.” I clutched his empty plate in my hands as I moved back to the head of the table. “How was everything tonight?”
Murmurs of “excellent” and “delicious” rose from the table. All the attention seemed to be centered on one of the teenage girls at the table.
“Are we celebrating tonight?” I asked, keeping a watchful eye on CJ’s spoon as he poked around, drowning the crispy cheese crust in the soup.
Christian Griffith smiled proudly. “We are. Bree got into her first-choice school. She’ll be going to college at NYU in the fall.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “I miss her already.”
“ Daddy ,” Bree huffed with an adoring smile at her father.
“All the more reason to go visit,” Cassandra said.
“Congratulations. You’ll love New York,” I said. “You’ll have to try Chef DeRossi’s flagship restaurant while you’re there.”
Cassandra beamed at Bree. “Nonna’s used to be a favorite of mine.”
As Cassandra and Becks ping-ponged back and forth about Manhattan eateries, CJ lifted the spoon to his mouth.
I held my breath and clung to the dishes in my hands. The first bite must have been safe because he swallowed, cracked the biscotti in two, and dunked one half into the soup.
“How are you liking Texas, honey?” Mrs. Griffith asked.
“Winter is much better down here,” I said, drawing a laugh from the table.
CJ stayed quiet and shoveled a heaping spoonful of soup into his mouth, chasing it with a bite of biscotti. The next bite that nearly cleaned out the ramekin was the nail in the coffin.
His eyes went wide, and he let out a sputtering cough as the heat hit, sending drips of soup spewing from his mouth.
Cassandra grimaced. “Are you dying over there? I don’t know the Heimlich.”
CJ swallowed and grabbed his water glass, downing it in one gulp. “Holy shit,” he heaved.
Nathan, the oldest brother, looked at him curiously. “Yeah . . . I thought the soup was good too . . .”
“So fucking spicy,” CJ wheezed as sweat beaded on his forehead. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “I can’t feel my tongue. My throat is on fire.” He grabbed Ray’s sweet tea and chugged it. “Soup isn’t supposed to hurt.”
“Hey,” Ray protested.
“Mine only had red peppers in it,” Brooke said, poking around at her empty soup. “But they’re the sweet kind. It had a little kick, but it wasn’t spicy.”
I steeled my nerves as eyes started to turn to me. “She’s right. Just red peppers,” I said, innocent as a baby lamb.
Becks looked between CJ and me. I was waiting for her to call my bluff, but she never did. A mischievous smile twitched on her lips as she glanced at Nathan.
CJ looked like he was about to die.
“Seriously, man?” Ray said as he took a bite of the remnants from his own bowl. “You think this is spicy?”
“The soup was delicious, Lennon,” Mrs. Griffith cooed. “I hope it stays on the menu. I’d eat it every day.”
I beamed. “I’ll run it by Chef DeRossi.”
CJ looked like he was entering a nuclear meltdown as he tried to suffer through the last bites of diabolically hot soup to prove his manhood while his family inadvertently gaslit him.
“Would you like me to bring up a glass of milk?” I asked as I locked my gaze on his bloodshot eyes. “It’s not supposed to be spicy, but I suppose some people just can’t stand the heat.”
“No,” he heaved, sucking in a breath as he pointed a finger at me and used a linen napkin to dab the sweat from his face. “I don’t want you to touch my food ever again.”
“Carson James!” Mrs. Griffith snapped.
I choked on a laugh and nearly dropped the dishes in my hands.
His face turned the color of ripe tomatoes. I couldn’t tell if it was from the peppers or his brewing anger, but I definitely knew it was time to get out of dodge. I dashed back down to the kitchen.
Who needed orgasms when there was revenge to be had?
The kitchen pivoted from dinner service to cleaning up before we finally sat down for the staff dinner. Everyone crowded around the stripped-down dining room tables, chowing down on the remnants of tonight’s menu.
“I love a steak, but I’m getting burned out,” Javi said as he slid his knife through his sirloin.
Julian chuckled. “Already?”
He shrugged. “Must be like working at a doughnut shop. If you’re around it all the time, it doesn’t sound good after a while.”
“Should have gotten the soup,” Jessica said as she dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Everyone was raving about it all night.”
I hid my smile behind the soup and salad I was demolishing. My diet was severely lacking in green vegetables and I was trying to make up for it all in one night.
“So, where’d you work before this, Chef?” Julian asked.
I kept my eyes trained on my plate. “Nonna’s in Manhattan, but I was part of the launch team that helped open the DeRossi Hospitality Group’s new concepts all over the country.”
“How long you been workin’ for Chef DeRossi?” he asked.
I chewed my bite slowly, hoping someone else would change the subject. No one did. “Five years.”
Julian let out a low whistle. “Five years and you’re running this place? DeRossi must really like you. I mean, you’re a good cook. But I’m just saying.”
The door swung open and Cassandra cut through the mostly empty dining room.
I lifted my chin and clenched my jaw. “I have earned my position. And if you’re insinuating I did it in any manner other than hard work and honing my craft, I suggest you leave my kitchen.”
Julian let out a nervous laugh. “Whoa, no. I’m trying to get to know our sous chef. You don’t need to get your panties in a twist, Len.” He raised his hands in surrender.
I looked him dead in the eye. “I don’t understand the joke.”
He scoffed. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re laughing, so you must think what you said is funny.” I waved my hand between us. “So, please. Explain the joke.”
Utensils clattered as forks fell and jaws dropped.
Julian said nothing. His knuckles turned white as he fisted his fork.
“Let me be clear,” I said when the room fell silent. “You will address me as Chef Maddox every single time. We are not on a first-name basis. And if you ever make a comment like that to me or any other member of this staff again, I will personally walk you out of this building. I don’t know what kind of boys club you worked at before, but that shit doesn’t fly in my kitchen. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yeah, sure,” he stammered.
“ Yes, Chef ,” I corrected.
When the staff dinner ended, I checked the stock room and fridges and noted what to order on the next truck while everyone scrubbed the kitchen. When I got back to the office, Cassandra was waiting for me.
“That was quite the speech you gave to...”
“Julian,” I said as I dropped into the desk chair and pulled up the supplier website.
“Julian,” she said, making a note on her phone. “He’s now number one on my shit-list.”
“Mine too,” I mumbled as I started ordering ingredients.
Cassandra sat in the chair across from me. “My first job was at a restaurant. I was seventeen and worked as a hostess, then moved up to being a server. Back then, no one would have balked at a comment about panties being in a twist.”
I paused and looked over the computer at her. “Is this your way of saying I overreacted and you’re writing me up or telling Chef DeRossi?”
Cassandra shook her head. “Absolutely not. It makes me proud to see that women have stopped laughing off comments like that.”
I went back to putting in the truck order because I didn’t know what else to say.
“How are things going?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“Settling in?”
“Things are running smoothly,” I said evasively.
“And you’ve found a place to live in town?” Cassandra smoothed her hand over the neatly pressed pleats of her trousers.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Chef DeRossi asked me to check in and make sure you were doing okay in your personal life,” she said. “I have resources and connections if there’s anything you need assistance with.”
Cassandra Griffith wasn’t nice, but she was kind, and I appreciated that.
I nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“And if you need help with the Griffith family, or a particular Griffith, you know where to find me.”
She stood and slid a dirty soup ramekin onto the desk. Red flecks covered the white porcelain.
A nefarious smirk grew across her ruby lips. “That second batch of soup was really something.”