Chapter 14 Everything’s Better with Onion
Everything’s Better with Onion
Poppy
Jack throws a sack of onions on the prep table, a dangerous gleam in his eye.
I give it a polite examination. I’m in another ugly castoff today, a boxy Nirvana T-shirt stolen from Ryan and a navy apron
Jack thrust at me before even saying hello. My hair is in two braids instead of one, both tucked tightly under the branded
bandanna I borrowed from Kiara’s vet clinic. I’m both a walking advertisement for Coastal Pet Care and a middle finger to
Jack’s hairnet rule, which I’m convinced he’s enforcing purely for the power trip.
His eyes are a jungle today. The heart of a rainforest, deep where no one dares explore. As he takes in the sight of the bandanna,
his lips twitch.
I think he can smell my fear. He’s a wolf, and I’m a malnourished, inept little rabbit. He’s going to tear me to shreds. I
lace my fingers together behind my back, wishing I hadn’t gulped down two cups of coffee on the walk over.
It seemed like a great idea to push the cooking lessons last night. I had visions of myself using tweezers to place herbs
in perfect harmony along a plate. Effusive words of praise from Jack for being such a quick study. Now, in the light of day—or
at least the light of the overhead lamps—I know with absolute certainty that I’m going to fail.
“I expected more of a reaction,” he drawls. “You’re the one who said you wanted to chop onions.”
“Is that what we’re doing, then?”
“For now.” He sets a rolled canvas on the tabletop. “You know, it took me three months working here before I was even allowed
to touch a knife.”
“Must have been a steep bill you tried to bail on.”
That earns me a small smile, there and gone. He unties the canvas. My breath catches as I take in the polished, razor-sharp
blades nestled inside. There are tiny little knives and big, heavy ones; knives with wooden handles, knives with serrated
edges, knives that look like they’ve seen better days and knives that look like they’ve never touched food at all. There are
scarier objects, too, like a meat cleaver that I’m sure can easily hack through bone, and what might be a syringe. I’m afraid
to ask.
“Knowing how to properly handle a knife is one of the most important skills you can have in a kitchen.” He chooses a long
knife with a heavy black handle. It looks like the kind of knife a serial killer would use to stab his victims. I involuntarily
take a step back as he uses it to slice open the mesh bag holding the onions.
“Jumpy?”
“Around weaponry? Yes.”
“Anything can be a weapon. Right now, this is just a chef’s knife.” He places a wooden cutting board down, setting an onion
on top. “You always want to make sure you’re working with a sharp knife. They’re less dangerous than dull ones.”
“Why?”
“The sharper the blade, the less pressure you need to use to cut through whatever it is you’re working with.” He mimics a
chopping motion with the knife. “Less force means less chance you’ll slip and hurt yourself.”
“Got it.”
“Form is important, too.” He gestures at the way he’s holding the knife. “The fingers that aren’t controlling the knife are
curled and pressed against the flat part of the blade as a guide. Thumb and pinkie behind the others. See?”
I whip my phone out and bend to take a quick picture.
“Poppy.”
I look up. “Yeah?”
His gaze is stony. “What are you doing?”
“Getting some content.” I show him the picture I just took. The lighting needs help—for official photo shoots, I’ll need to
bring in my camera and reflectors—but with a few filters, it’ll be serviceable. “Pretty good, right? I’m not sure yet how
to introduce you, but it can’t hurt to have options. Sometimes I have to take, I don’t know, ten million shots before I land
on the right one.”
“Pay attention.”
“But—”
“I’m not taking you to the emergency room to get your fingers reattached.”
I tuck my phone into the apron with a frown. “Fine.”
“Use a downward rocking motion to chop, starting with the tip.” He demonstrates it. “You want to let the knife do the work.
Now, with an onion”—he cuts off both ends of the one on the cutting board with efficiency—“usually, we want more of a mince
than a chop. Watch me. You’ll try it next.”
He halves the onion, peeling away the skin. Instead of hacking away at it, he makes even cuts starting with the tip of the
knife, first down the length of it, then across. Little squares of onion begin to fall onto the cutting board.
I can’t help but fill the silence. “So, you liked dishwashing enough to learn how to cook?”
He shrugs. “More or less. It kept me out of trouble. I handled the dishwashing station almost every night, and finally, he
promoted me. I learned the basics from there.”
“Nothing online mentions that.”
He pauses. “What?”
“I poked around a bit.” Underneath all the recent stuff—including my mother’s Salt that’s a useful
skill in the culinary industry. My French isn’t awful. Japanese was a stretch.”
“See? That’s another thing that no one really knows.”
He sets down his knife. The onion has been deconstructed into a neat pile. “So?”
“So, it’s easier to be supported when you’re liked. If you want people to travel to taste your food, you need to give them
a story they find interesting. Food culture is huge, and chefs can be celebrities.” I lean across the counter. A wobbly feeling
bubbles in my chest at the sight of him looking at me, eyes sharp with attention. “It’s perfect for a restaurant called Fable.
People—especially people with money—will always travel for an experience. A story. One about you, specifically. You’ve been
in those circles enough to be known, but no one really knows you. Even in the interview with my mom, you barely said anything real about yourself or your background. What about the fact
you have ADHD? That’s noteworthy.”
“So, what, they’re all going to flock here once they realize I’m neurodivergent, speak broken Japanese, and got my first job
by acting like a scumbag?”
“Exactly.”
He laughs shortly. “Rich people.”
“It’s not just about rich people. All kinds of people like stories. The fact that you started as a dishwasher and ended up
working in Michelin-starred restaurants—”
“Princess, most people start at the bottom and work their way up,” he interrupts. “That’s not the unique sob story you think
it is.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I didn’t say it was a sob story.”
“We’re wasting time.” He picks up his knife, wiping away the remaining flecks of onion, and holds it over the table. “Your
turn now.”
My protests about this not being a waste of time die in my throat as I eye the knife. It looks bigger than ever. If I drop it, it might take out one of my toes. I suddenly have begrudging appreciation for Jack’s closed-toe shoes rule. “With that?”
“What did you expect to use? A pair of safety scissors?”
I point to a smaller knife with a pearly handle. “What about that one?”
“That’s for deboning fish.”
“It looks much safer.”
“It’s better to learn how to use the right equipment from the start. The right way.” He picks out another onion and makes
quick work of it. As he chops, he adds, “See how the cuts are even? Use the tip of the knife to make the slices while you
hold it in place. Then you can go in the other direction, and the pieces will be uniform. Chopped pieces would be larger.
Diced, smaller. Minced, smallest.”
“Do it again.” My eyes flick up to his. “Please, Chef?”
He pauses, jaw tight, the tendons in his arms flexing. He has that exasperated look in his eyes that I think might be reserved
exclusively for me, but he gets to work on another onion. “Pay attention.”
“Heard.”
I keep quiet this time and try to imagine making the cuts myself. When he’s finished, I take the knife.
It’s heavier than I expected, but balanced. I could be imagining it, but the handle feels slightly warm, as if holding on
to the ghost of Jack’s fingertips. I reach for an onion and take a deep breath as I stare at it.
“Do the whole bag.” He starts walking away.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
He holds up his cell phone. “Permits.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, unwilling to admit I was hoping he’d stay and watch. I chop off one end of the onion, then
the other. Cut down the middle. It’s not even, but at least my fingers are still intact. I sneak a look at Jack. He’s leaning
against the doorway to the office, engrossed in a phone call. As I watch, he runs his fingers through his hair, an absentminded
motion that just makes it flop back over his forehead.
“Well, can you expedite it?” he’s saying, a bite in his voice. “Seriously? How much?”
Where his cuts were smooth and precise, mine are tentative and uneven.
I end up with a pile of onion pieces too, but they’re nowhere near the same size.
My heart sinks. I move the pieces to the edge of the cutting board and start in on the next one, blinking away the small, irritating tears forming at the corners of my eyes.
I never noticed before how strong onions smell.
I bounce on my heels, determined to pay attention to the task and not give in to the multitude of distractions around me, like eavesdropping or trying out one of the other knives.
It’s a torturous process. By the time I finish them all, I’m about ready to chuck the knife across the room. Cleaning this
place from top to bottom sucked, but this wasn’t much better. Jack, as if sensing my frustration, wraps up his phone call.
He strolls over with a positively pleasant look on his face.
“How did it go?”
I just shrug. I’m sure my eyes are red; they’re still stinging.
He picks through the pile I made, examining individual pieces. He shakes his head.
“Hey!”
“They’re sloppy. Do you know what would happen if we used these during service?”
I fight the urge to lunge across the table and show him how much of a weapon “just a chef’s knife” can be. “No, Chef.”
“They’d cook unevenly.” Horror of horrors, he brings out another bag of onions. “Some would burn. Some wouldn’t soften like
they need to. That would result in an incorrect, subpar dish, and subpar dishes don’t have any place in my kitchen.”
“You’re saying it’s about timing, again.”
“Timing, and uniformity.” He sweeps away the onions and skins, too, leaving a fresh canvas on the cutting board. “I used to
chop onions all throughout service. Pounds and pounds of them. The smell would seep into my skin. My eyes would burn like
hell.”
“So?”
“So, keep going.” He rinses off his knife, then dries it with a cloth. “Knife work is a skill. You get better by practicing.
Prep onions we wouldn’t be embarrassed to serve, and then I’ll show you another skill.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. I want to tell him where he can shove that bag of onions, but manage to keep my mouth shut.
I haven’t walked out the door yet, no matter what he’s thrown at me so far, and I’m not going to today.
He might’ve tossed my progress in the trash, but at least it was progress.
Something I did on my own, with my own two hands.
It felt good to have concrete proof of my efforts.
I pick up the knife again, and start in.