Chapter 9
NINE
WILDER
“Ready crew?”
“Yes, Chef!” comes the chorus of all of our staff around me.
Full house for opening day, even if we wouldn’t normally schedule everyone at the same time.
Today’s a day they should all experience together. Where we go from co-workers to a real team, and this victory will belong to all of us.
“Let’s open the front door,” Lexi says decisively. “And remember, smiles up front, meltdowns back here.”
“I never said I’d smile,” Wanda quips, making Tracy and her daughter Violet laugh loudly.
“You get a free pass,” Lexi calls back over her shoulder to Wanda as the front of house staff disappear through the swinging doors.
“You really think all these folks are gonna come through today?” Charlie asks, eyes eager as he holds his phone out for Samuel, Dishy, and I to see.
A post in the town Facebook group that’s got comment after comment beneath it, all saying they can’t wait to stop by on opening day to check out the newest place in town.
I can’t help but notice most of those comments were from women, and I’m not sure they’re hungry just for food, based on a few of those gifs in the comment section.
Samuel shakes his head and whistles. “Not counting any chickens, but half of them come through and we’ll be busier than the diner ever was.”
“Hope you’re ready, old man.” I clap a hand on one of his shoulders and laugh at the face he makes, his graying mustache twitching.
“Communication!” I shout to the back of house staff, like we haven’t been going over the same points for the last week straight. But now is when it counts.
Prep is one thing. Dry run is another.
Opening day is a whole new beast.
As long as we get our timing right, plates aren’t dying in the window, and Charlie speaks up when he needs help instead of drowning like a hero, we should be just fine.
The door swings inward, Tracy rushing in, face lit up, huge menu in hand. “First order!” she calls out excitedly, tapping the laminated menu. “Strawberry salad, with chicken, not a lot of dressing.” She hands the ticket to me.
“Strawberry salad,” I call to Charlie, where he is about to jump out of his skin with excitement. “Light dressing, add chicken.”
“It’s for Rory,” Tracy says in a giddy whisper, then she runs back out to the front.
“Firing chicken,” Samuel calls from next to me.
“Strawberry salad, light dressing,” Charlie confirms the order, and runs to the walk-in fridge.
I pause from where I’ve been placing the ticket on the expo line and stare at him.
“Charlie!” I bark.
He skids to a comical stop in front of the walk-in door. “Yes, Chef?”
“What are you doing?”
“Vegetables!” he replies, looking like he might pop a salute my way any second.
“Your station is stocked, Chef. Everything you need should be there,” I remind him.
“Yes, Chef!”
Does he think I’m a drill sergeant?
“I forgot, Chef,” he says in apology, running back to his station.
“I know. We’re not in dry runs anymore, Charlie. Now show me you can make the best damn salad ever served on Main Street.”
“Probably the first,” Samuel corrects.
“So it’ll be no problem to be the best,” I add.
Charlie flusters, holding the metal bowl in his hands. “What goes in a strawberry salad again?”
“How many times did we run through this, Chef? You’re cold, you tell me. What kind of lettuce?”
Charlie drops to his knees in front of the lowboy and digs through the containers there, emerging with several.
“Green and red!” he shouts, triumphant.
The sizzle of the chicken breast on the flattop hisses loudly. At least Samuel didn’t forget what goes in his part of the ticket.
I clap my hands to Charlie. “You got this, Chef. Let’s see it.”
He dumps about twice as much lettuce as he needs to in the bowl out of nerves, then puts half of it back.
“Nice,” I tell him, as Violet and Wanda both trail through the doors with orders in hand. “What next?”
“Berries!” he shouts way louder than he needs to.
“Keep going,” I tell Charlie, turning to face the waitstaff.
They both call out their orders just like we practiced, then hand me the tickets for expo and I jump behind my station to help Samuel with the next six covers.
“Order up!” Charlie calls, holding his hands up from the plated salad, his chest heaving like he ran the Manhattan 10K that used to go right past the bodega, not walked fifteen feet between stations.
“Missing anything on that dish?” I ask him, dropping a knob of butter in a fresh pan.
“Chicken!” he realizes, slapping his head.
“Bring it over, Chef’s got it ready for you.”
“I’m a line cook. Chef’s a strong word,” Samuel protests. “The deep fryer doesn’t win any Michelin stars.”
“You’re all chefs by my call,” I tell him, with an elbow nudge.
“Ready for chicken,” Charlie announces, putting the plate on the line like we drilled.
“Chicken,” Samuel echoes, in a perfect exhibition of what we’ve spent a week practicing.
He plates it beautifully, and calls, “Hands.”
Keeping the pans going on the fire, I turn to quickly double check it and it looks just like it should.
“Good job, Chef,” I tell him, and he swells.
Tracy races back in and her eyes widen when she sees the plate. “This looks so good!” She rushes back out with it, and I call out Charlie’s next order to him.
“Green Queen, Charlie, I need two all day, Chef.”
“Yes, Chef!”
Samuel and I keep the hot station under control, a steady rush of tickets coming in and dishes going out as our very first lunch rush gets underway.
“Housekeeping!” I call, reminding all two of our staff to clean their stations before a small mess turns into a large disaster.
“Heard,” they both respond.
The first cleared plates have come back, and I hear Dishy singing along to a ’90s country song I don’t recognize as he works the dish station.
When the swinging door opens again, it’s not the Weiss sister I was hoping to see. “Compliments to the chef.” Rory’s head floats in the doorway, straight dark hair swaying around her as she wiggles her fingers at Charlie and Samuel, with a wink to me.
“Thank you, Chef,” Charlie replies automatically, to a round of laughter. “I mean Rory. Thank you, Rory.”
“Think that’s the first time I didn’t make you chicken fingers and fries,” Samuel says to her, grinning beneath his thick mustache.
“I might steal a bite of the baby’s later,” Rory says, lips lifting at one corner.
Stepping in front of her line of sight, I clear my throat. “Out of my kitchen, Rory. You’re distracting my chefs.”
Rory gives a mock salute and backs out, leaving us to make it through the stack of tickets we’re buried under.
I wish Lexi were coming back here, not because we need help from our manager—the back of house is operating as smooth as we could hope for—but because I want to see the flush of excitement on her face.
The day we’ve been prepping for, I’m dying for the sight of her, to see how she’s managing the thrill of it all.
Every time we get a second between tickets, I poke my head out to the dining room, in the name of seeing how diners are enjoying their food.
The first time I did, all I could focus on was the way Lexi was laughing with a customer at the POS as she checked them out.
The second and third times, she was at the server station, helping with side work or refilling water glasses as all three servers ran from table to table.
With a break in orders, I go for a fourth glimpse, holding the door open all the way so I can lean against it and soak in the scene in front of me.
The dining room is nearly cleared out, the lunch rush just about over.
Lexi stands by the front door, clapping and cheering the waitstaff, who are circled around her, looks of pride and accomplishment on their faces.
She’s got that energy you want in a head coach. Encouraging, without being soft. Hard enough to keep people on their toes, with a big enough heart they feel appreciated for it.
Meant to be a manager at a place like this, if you ask me. Her passion radiates from her in every interaction I’ve seen her have today. Nothing beneath her, not too good for any of the dirty work that comes with a life in the hospitality industry.
“Good news, chefs. Now’s your chance to reset your stations,” I announce to the kitchen staff, letting the door swing shut behind me.
But I spoke too soon, because it’s only minutes of downtime before about ten tables get sat at once. We’re firing on all stations, I’m having to run expo and help Samuel on the grill, and poor Charlie is doing his best to stay afloat over there.
But it’s Dishy who’s struggling the hardest.
“Chef!” he calls to me.
Craning my neck, I see the piles of plates, bowl, and cookware forming a dangerous, towering cityscape around him at his station.
“Where’s your backup?” I ask him.
“I let him take lunch, I thought we were done, Chef.”
If my hands weren’t swapping between four pans and nine tickets, I’d put them on my hips to stare over at him with more than words can say. But no time right now.
“On it,” I tell him.
Samuel makes a clucking noise.
Leaning into my most reliable staff member, I mutter, “Keep an eye on these for me. One sec.”
When I shove my front half through the swinging door into the dining room, I see all three waitstaff running around, making sure the customers are cared for. With no guests to check out yet, and her front of house team on it, Lexi is grinning, talking smack with one of the tables.
“Boss!” I holler.
She jumps, scowling over her shoulder at me, and excuses herself from the patrons she’s entertaining.
“What?” she hisses at me, once she’s through the door.
“I need help back here. Either you jump on the grill with Samuel, or you help Dishy with his workload. He’s buried.”
“Got it,” she says, pursing her lips before streaking off for the back corner.
I allow myself the precious seconds to watch her go, the way her hips sway in determination.
A sight I’ll never get enough of.
“Chef!” Samuel barks, and I’m jerked back to the moment.
“Coming,” I call over.