Chapter 11
There is nothing quite like the joy of producing a simmering pot of perfectly smooth béchamel or taking in the enrapturing scent of a lemon-forward hollandaise. Despite my added responsibilities at work, I take the time to breathe and let myself feel the magic of what I am creating.
I’ve spent a full week in this timeline, and I am in full training for my position as sous-chef.
I’ve auditioned two dishes so far and both were selected for inclusion as that day’s special.
My lamb chops in peanut sauce were accepted with minimal adjustments, and my cedar-plank salmon with a lemon beurre blanc was declared perfect as it was. It was a spectacular week.
To top it off, Orla has taken the news of our engagement with more grace than she did the first time, and I’m now in possession of a lovely emerald ring—a family heirloom passed down from Orla’s grandmother.
Not only had she been willing to bequeath the ring to Rian to give me, but she’d also included a thick chain from her own jewelry collection so I can wear it safely around my neck when I’m in the kitchen.
The ring is exquisite but far too cumbersome to wear in a kitchen.
And emeralds, being significantly softer than diamonds, run the risk of getting cracked in the bustle of a dinner service. I was touched she’d thought of this.
The Orla I’d known never would have made such a kind gesture, and though my memory is hazy, the ring I returned to Rian all those years ago was something far more understated from a jeweler.
Orla hadn’t trusted me with an heirloom, and I might not have wanted one anyway.
Now I see it as truly being welcomed into the family fold and appreciate the gesture for that reason.
“Let’s see what you’ve done with the quail.
” I can hear Fiona’s voice before I see her.
She’s been giving me an ingredient every morning to see what I can come up with as part of my training, all while preparing as many as a dozen sauces for the rest of the menu.
It’s a tremendous amount to keep straight without going completely mad.
I present her with a roasted quail sliced into thin strips and drizzled with a ginger-lime glaze. The sauce packs a punch without masking the delicate flavor of the quail, which is absolutely top notch all by itself.
Fiona takes a moment to consider the flavors as she samples three bites from different strips. She’s checking for the consistency of the sear and how the sauce lingers on the palate. “I honestly hate how talented you are, Sorensen. It’s indecent. I’ll put it on the specials board.”
That makes three dishes for three in one week. I don’t bother to conceal my glee. “Brilliant.”
She pats my shoulder. “You’re delivering on your promise, Sabrina. Padraig is happy with your work.”
Butterflies begin to jiggle in my gut at the compliment, but I hesitate. “Why do I sense a ‘but’ in there?”
She exhales slowly. “Orla called again.”
There it is. The butterfly wings are now coated in sharpened steel, and dozens of the finest filleting knives are slicing me from the inside. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I’ll talk with her. I thought we’d smoothed things over, but I’ll make sure she understands . . .”
Fiona shakes her head. “No, no. She was lovely for the most part. I spoke with her. I understand congratulations are in order?”
I count to ten in my head slowly. We told Orla we didn’t want to make the news public just yet, especially at work.
I haven’t even told Robin yet, knowing she’ll book a venue in Solvang and start texting me pictures of centerpieces within forty-five minutes of her getting the news.
But Orla has let the proverbial cat out of the bag, so there’s no sense in denying it.
I pull the ring on its chain out from under my chef’s coat and show it to her.
“Yep. Rian proposed last week. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. ”
She admires the ring and lets it fall back on my chest with a thunk. “We’re all happy for you, Sabrina. We love Rian and think he’s great for you. Not that our opinion matters.”
“It does matter,” I interject. “A kitchen is a family and it’s never a good sign if the family doesn’t approve of the beau, right?
” I realize I am actually far more concerned with what Fiona and Padraig think of my marriage to Rian than what Robin or my siblings think.
I don’t know if that says more about me and my ever-distancing relationship with them or how unapproachable they can be, but I set that aside for now.
“So what was Orla calling about, pray tell?”
“She wants to host an engagement party here for you two. We found an open date three weeks from now, and obviously we can make sure you have the time off and we’ll give her the family rate.
But she had very specific requests for the menu, and we thought you ought to have some say in it before we green-light it all officially.
” She hands me a paper with notes hastily written in her loopy script.
Orla is the sort to speak quickly when she’s in her stride, and it’s clear Fiona was struggling to keep up with her.
Beef Wellington, creamed potatoes, Brussels sprouts, vanilla wedding cake.
No no no.
Beef Wellington—a classic but stodgy. It’ll please her friends, but most of the people in Rian’s and my age group will find it heavy and staid. Especially as we enter the warmer months.
Creamed potatoes—fine, if a bit prosaic. A very heavy side to serve with a heavy main.
Brussels sprouts—a winter vegetable. There are so many better options for spring and early summer.
A vanilla wedding cake—outside of the scope of our kitchen and will take away from the impact of the actual wedding, for which we don’t have an actual date.
The menu is all wrong in so many ways. I hand the paper back and rub my eyes.
Rian and I aren’t even ready to formally announce our engagement, and she’s signing contracts to host a party.
I count to ten again. She’s trying to help, she’s trying to help.
I repeat the mantra in my head. At least I think it’s in my head until Fiona starts laughing at me.
“Yes, she is. She didn’t sound interested in hearing the options we generally offer to the public, assuming we’d do what she wants because you work for us. Which is mostly true. But I don’t have to tell you what’s wrong with all this. It’d be a fine classic menu for December, but . . .”
“It’s a hot mess for summer.” And the task falls to me to convince her that fresh produce and lighter fare would be better for the event. It could be lovely with something like quail, some greens, and a bright, lemony dessert.
Fiona puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Listen, let us be the bad guy here. We don’t want events to flop, so we stick to the set menus for the most part. You know how far we can go off book, so I’m going to trust you to work this out with her.”
I shake my head. “Thanks.”
“I know you can reason with her. It’s going to be lovely.” Fiona takes another look at my array of simmering stockpots and breathes in like she’s in a florist’s shop. “Really, truly revolting how talented you are. Carry on.”
I sigh and give the pots that need it a good stir to exorcise the butterflies-turned-angry-knife-wielding-demons wreaking havoc in my gut. I understand Orla’s impulse to plan a party for us, but she could have worked with us to pull it all together.
Generally, I keep my phone in my work bag in the staff room, but I neglected to do so today. I give in to temptation and pull my phone from my back pocket.
ME: Did you know your mom is planning an engagement party? In three weeks?
RIAN: She mentioned it. I said it would be fine. I figured you wouldn’t mind. It might sate her need to plan enough that she won’t try to commandeer all the wedding plans.
I count to ten . . . yet again. Fat chance. This is going to be the signal to Orla that all the wedding plans are now under her purview.
ME: A heads-up might have been nice. I hadn’t told anyone at work, and she called my boss to arrange to have it **here.** Did she tell you that?
RIAN: Shite, no, she didn’t tell me where she was planning to have it. Just grand. I’m sorry she did that. I’ll talk to her.
Well, that’s something. Rian hasn’t blindsided me; it’s all Orla. Which, I hate to say, is on-brand for her.
ME: Listen, the menu she wants is basically off the table. She has to work with our catering menu. She may think it’s just a party with a few friends, but if the guests have a bad experience because she insists on off-season produce or something, it affects the restaurant’s image.
RIAN: Okay, I have to go. But remember she’s just excited and wants to do us a good turn.
ME: I’m glad she’s excited, but when she roped in my place of work, she roped me in too. My boss came to me and told me to handle it, and we *have to* get her in line.
I don’t mention that my promotion hangs in the balance—but I know it does. Perhaps my very job if she’s too big of a pill.
RIAN: Understood. I’m sorry this happened, mo chroí.
Invoking his endearment. A low blow.
ME: Thank you for that. Let her know that I appreciate the gesture.
I slip my phone back in my pocket and try to turn my attention back to my sauces and prep for the specials.
Thankfully nothing has scorched or curdled thanks to Orla’s imposition on my day, and the muscles in my shoulders slowly start to uncoil as I find my rhythm again.
Twenty minutes later, I feel the familiar buzz of my phone in my pocket, and I pull it out to look.
ORLA: I’m not sure why you bothered Rian at work about the party. He was well aware of the plan.
Yes. She probably ambushed him with a call right after his shift when he was ready to fall on his face with exhaustion. She likely prattled on, and he acquiesced to get her to hang up the phone. I’ve seen it happen.
ME: But I wasn’t. And this is *my* work, Orla.
I breathe. I need to soften this.
ME: I think it’s incredibly sweet of you to host a party for us and I’m glad you’re excited. I’d just appreciate taking over communication with the restaurant moving forward. It will make things easier for me here. I hope you don’t mind, but it’s important.
ORLA: I don’t see how planning a party will work if I can’t talk to the restaurant myself. That sounds dreadfully inconvenient.
One. Two. Three . . .
ME: I promise it will be lovely. I have to get back to work now, but we’ll get together and talk it over soon.
I put my phone back in my pocket, hopeful that I’ve been successful in at least stalling Orla’s one-woman crusade to bring back classics from the 1960s.
I try to lose myself in the cadence of my work, but I’m off my game.
And knowing it irritates me further. But this isn’t like an office job where you can log off your computer for twenty minutes and go for a walk around the block to clear your head.
The best you might manage is a good primordial scream in the walk-in if you time it just right.
Just like the old saying: If you’re going through hell, just keep going.
If you don’t soldier on, sauces split. Sauces curdle.
Sauces scorch. Some are fussy enough you need to add herbs or spices at the right moment in the process, or they simply taste off.
There is no room for anything but my best efforts.
When Fiona comes to do her final tasting before service, my heart is fairly wedged in my esophagus.
I peer over her shoulder, unable to play it cool.
Nothing seems to have gone disastrously wrong, for which I am grateful.
But at this stage in my career, it’s expected that I can do better than just avoiding catastrophe.
Fiona and Padraig expect excellence, and frankly so do I.
“Not bad.” Fiona’s praise, while never glowing, seems especially restrained.
Sauces are a special sort of magic. Edible alchemy.
They require focus and devotion, like any other self-respecting magic brew.
I’ve tried to give my all to today’s crop, but they know I’m not at my peak.
And Fiona can taste it. She won’t begrudge me one service that’s below my usual standard, but she won’t tolerate a pattern.
Not bad, but not great either. Fiona just had the grace not to voice that last part out loud.
I am going to have to convince Orla, for the sake of my work, to give the restaurant a wide berth while I’m working. And me with it.
The reasons for leaving Rian come bubbling back to the surface. As I begin plating for the service, laser focused on getting the specials just right, I exhale and hope I can steer my relationship with Orla back on course for the sake of the relationship I have with Rian.
A relationship I desperately want to save.