Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
A rcher stood in the middle of the diner kitchen, assessing his staff. Maribel, Jess, and Cyrus stood to attention in front of him. Two waitresses and a cook. Maribel was probably in her mid-thirties, a mom with kids who Archer should probably pay attention to if he wanted to figure out this parenting thing, though so far, the woman had been unnervingly quiet, following his directions without complaint. Jess looked like she was just out of high school. Too chatty, too clumsy, but the customers seemed to like her. And Cyrus, well, Cyrus had worked here forever.
They’d closed the diner for the morning in order to get some much-needed cleaning and organizing done. The space still wasn’t up to his standards and the trio looked exhausted. And the kitchen still looked like a mess.
Archer cursed under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck. How would he ever turn this diner into something resembling a place he’d have pride in? How could he ever call this his kitchen?
He couldn’t.
And he wouldn’t. This diner gig was just a temporary fix until he could find something better. Or until this whole custody thing was sorted and he could go back to his career in Paris. He pushed thoughts of the pristine kitchen in his old restaurant out of his mind. Crying in front of his staff wouldn’t help anything.
It had been nearly two weeks since he’d moved here, and Olive had still only spoken about ten words to him. And all he could think was that she hated him and he was failing her.
But failing was not an option. It never had been for him.
When he hadn’t made his middle-school soccer team in sixth grade, he’d practiced every night until it got too dark to see the ball in front of him, and he’d sure as hell made the team the following year. When he’d gotten a C in sophomore geometry, he’d convinced the teacher to give him enough extra credit to bring his grade up to an A by the end of the semester. And when he’d decided he wanted to be a chef, he’d attended four grueling years of culinary school, worked for years in kitchens doing every menial task available: washing dishes, preparing vegetables, working his way slowly up the entire brigade hierarchy. He had no time for anything else. He cooked and he slept.
But he sure as hell didn’t fail.
When he’d taken this absurd diner job, the owner, Gladys, had promised him he could re-imagine the menu and have full run of the kitchen. The kitchen that was a complete disaster. Honestly, Archer didn’t know how the place had passed its health inspections all these years.
But he was in charge now. He’d get the diner in good working order. He’d get his daughter to speak to him. And once he convinced the lawyers that he was a capable father and he gained full custody, he’d bring her to France with him and continue on the path he’d laid out for himself years ago.
‘Tomorrow, we work on cleaning out the walk-in freezer,’ he announced, and the three visibly slumped, but no one protested. ‘And we need to get more food prepped before opening. It will make the breakfast rush go smoother.’
Cyrus nodded. The old man had been working here as a line cook since the place opened in the seventies. And with that level of seniority, he had pushed back against Archer’s ideas all day.
‘Hey boss?’
‘Yes, Cyrus?’ Archer wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm.
‘Gladys says we’re changing the menu.’
‘That’s right.’
Cyrus shook his head with a laugh. ‘The town ain’t gonna like that.’
Archer frowned. ‘The town will like it. Elevated comfort food. What’s not to like about that?’
‘The elevated part,’ Cyrus said with a chuckle.
Jess started to laugh, too, but caught herself and clapped a hand over her mouth. It was possible Archer had raised his voice one too many times today.
‘People will like it. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’ Maybe he didn’t know anything about raising a child, but he sure as hell knew food. He knew the menu would be delicious. People would like it. ‘I’ve worked in restaurants all over Europe. I think I can handle a new diner menu.’
Cyrus’s bushy white brows rose. ‘You might know what those European folks like, but I know Dream Harbor. If you take away people’s favorite pancakes, especially the mayor’s, well…’ He let the threat trail off, just shaking his head in pity for the man that took away the town’s pancakes.
Archer scoffed. They were diner pancakes. How could there be anything special about them? ‘You leave the menu to me.’
The old man shrugged. ‘It’s your funeral.’
Jess giggled again and even Maribel cracked a smile.
‘You’re dismissed.’
Cyrus gave him a mock salute and the women wandered off to gather their things, chatting together quietly. Archer gave one last look around the kitchen before turning out the lights for the night.
* * *
‘What do you mean, they sent the pancakes back?’ Archer growled at Maribel even though he knew it wasn’t her fault. Even though it made him an asshole. Even though Cyrus was right and he sure as hell wouldn’t be admitting that anytime soon.
‘The customer didn’t like the pancakes,’ she repeated her voice a little quieter than before.
Archer ran a hand angrily through his hair, hard enough to hurt. They were in the middle of the breakfast rush and this was the third time this morning that someone had complained about the pancakes. About his new pancakes. The ones he’d made with ricotta, sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar and topped with a creamy lemon sauce. The ones that were objectively delicious. It was the one menu change he’d implemented so far, and they’d been sent back three times. Three times.
He avoided Cyrus’s smug expression as he wiped his hands on a dish towel and tossed it on the counter.
‘Who?’ he demanded, already walking toward the dining room. Maribel scurried along behind him.
‘Table two. The mayor, I did warn you…’
Archer pushed through the swinging doors and stormed toward table two. A man with glasses and a hideous tie smiled up at him.
‘Was there a problem with the meal, sir?’ Archer asked, swallowing down everything he wanted to yell at this mayor who was apparently some kind of pancake connoisseur.
‘Oh, hello!’ the mayor said, sticking out his hand. ‘You must be the new chef. I’m the mayor of this fine town. Pete Kelly.’
‘Archer Baer.’ He shook the man’s hand and attempted to organize his facial features into something other than a scowl.
‘And this is my daughter, Hazel.’
‘Hey, Archer.’
Archer blinked. His neighbor was the mayor’s daughter? ‘Uh … hello.’
‘How’s Olive doing? Noah mentioned she stopped by again.’
Stopped by, like his daughter was just paying a social visit and not continuously trying to escape him.
‘Yeah, sorry about that.’
Hazel waved away his apology. ‘Don’t worry about it. We love Olive.’
His neighbors loved Olive. He should love Olive. She was his daughter for Christ’s sake. He shook off the thought. The middle of his new restaurant (he refused to call it a diner even in his own mind or he would surely have a breakdown) was not the place to unpack every anxiety he was having about his inability to bond with his kid.
‘Right. Okay, thank you.’ He turned back to the mayor. ‘The pancakes weren’t to your liking?’
The mayor smiled up at him with pity. ‘I’m a simple man, Archie. May I call you Archie?’
He went on before Archer could tell him absolutely not.
‘I’m a simple man, Archie, and I think I just preferred the old pancakes. Do you still have those?’
Archer swallowed his frustrated sigh. It had been the same thing with the other complaints. They liked the old pancakes better. Could he make them those?
And the answer should be no. No, he could not make them sub-par pancakes because this was his kitchen now and he wasn’t going to cook them pancakes that tasted like roofing tiles served with maple-flavored corn syrup.
But the actual reason he had to say no was that he didn’t have the recipe for the old pancakes. And somehow no one else did either. Which was obviously bullshit, but Archer couldn’t get the recipe from any member of his staff.
Cyrus swore up and down that the old cook, Martha, was always on pancake duty and that he was purely an omelet man. He’d pointed Archer to an ancient binder filled with the diner’s old recipes, but Archer hadn’t had time to go through it yet.
So, for the other complaints, he’d whipped up a simple pancake batter and served those. The customers hadn’t dared complain again, but he’d noticed the plates came back with plenty of pancake left on them. Apparently, they weren’t up to Dream Harbor standards either. Which was insane. They were just pancakes! Archer could make them a souffle with his eyes closed if they wanted, but somehow a simple recipe of flour, baking soda, eggs and milk wasn’t good enough for them?
It was like he was caught in one of those nightmares where you’re in school but can’t remember how to open your locker or tie your shoes. The one thing he’d always been good at, always been able to do, somehow wasn’t working anymore.
He cleared his throat.
‘I can certainly make you a simpler pancake. I’ll get it right out to you.’
‘Thanks so much!’ Pete clapped a hand on his shoulder before he could walk away. ‘We are delighted to have such a talented chef in town. I’m sure you’ll get your footing soon enough.’
Archer forced a smile before stalking back to the kitchen. Get his footing? He was a world-renowned chef, for fuck’s sake. He had his footing. His footing was great. It was world-renowned.
‘Cyrus,’ he barked, storming back into the kitchen. The old cook looked up with a smirk. ‘Make me another batch of simple pancake batter.’
Cyrus raised a gray brow but didn’t argue. ‘Yes, chef.’
‘And Maribel, the mayor eats for free.’
‘Yes, chef.’
Yes, chef. Those words used to mean something. They used to mean that he was the captain of the ship, that he was in charge, in control. And now the whole damn ship was sinking.