Four #3
The kitchen was a cacophony of hissing pans and clattering utensils, full of the rich scent of roasting meat.
His brow slick with sweat, a weary frown etched across it, George darted around the stove like a bird trapped in a greenhouse, flitting desperately from one end to the other, trying to juggle the orders.
The methodical movements of his kitchen prep had morphed into a frantic two-handed muddle of stirring as if he were a sailor attempting to bail out a sinking boat.
Fiona leaned against the cool metal of the serving counter, her arms crossed, observing the mayhem.
‘Josh! Get me the asparagus!’ barked George.
Josh rinsed the tray he was washing, set it to drain, then ambled to the fridge, returning with a bag in his hand. ‘Here ya go.’
Momentarily the chef took his eyes off the pans. He huffed, then shouted, ‘No, not the frozen stuff.’ George’s voice sliced through the din. ‘I want the fresh stuff.’
Josh grinned and strolled back to the fridge. Whistling, he rifled through the crates, examining then discarding produce like a museum curator examining ancient artifacts, each item worthy of careful consideration.
‘Come on, come on!’ George snapped, stirring a pot of sauce that bubbled furiously.
The smell was intoxicating: a blend of tomatoes, herbs and something unidentifiable that lingered in the back of her throat.
She could almost taste the acidity, the promise of a dish coming together.
Her mind conjured wines to match the flavours.
‘Sorry, Chef! There’s no asparagus!’ Josh’s powerful voice echoed off the stainless steel surfaces, before being replaced by cheerful whistling.
‘Hang on ... got it’ he announced, pulling out a limp bundle of herbs.
George’s face turned a shade darker. His low rumbling voice sounding like thunder, as he shouted.
‘Not those! Asparagus, Josh! The ones I prepped earlier – you were here!’
Acutely aware of the brewing storm, Fiona stepped forwards. The heat from the stove smothered her, a comforting warmth compared to the tension crackling in the room. Once beside Josh, she elbowed him aside. ‘Let me look,’ she said, reaching into the fridge and quickly retrieving the asparagus.
‘Hey, beauty! That’ll sort out Mr Angry’ joked Josh, strolling back to the sinks.
But George’s voice rang out again, demanding and impatient.
The kitchen felt like a ship caught in the middle of a violent storm, with George desperately spinning the wheel and shouting commands into the gale.
Meanwhile, Josh lounged against the sinks like a man on Bondi Beach, watching his captain’s panic with the mild amusement of someone who’d seen far worse swells back home.
Thinking it safest to keep out of George’s way, Fiona slunk back to the serving counter, where she remembered why she was in the kitchen.
‘George,’ said, ‘I asked for extra chips for Table 5.’
‘Shit sorry, coming up.’ He charged to the deep-fat fryer.
Behind her, Fiona heard the swing door open, then Rose asking, ‘George how long for Table 7’s mains?’
He looked up, his face mutinous. ‘Fifteen minutes?’
‘Needs to be faster – they want pudding, and they’ve got a taxi booked for ten.’
‘Delay it.’
‘I didn’t arrange it.’
‘Well tell whoever did to delay it ... I’m on my own back here,’ the chef responded sarcastically.
‘Chef,’ said Fiona, sniffing, ‘those chips ...’
‘Oh shit’ said George, lunging for the deep-fat fryer. He rescued the chips, drained them and dumped the food on Fiona’s tray. ‘Rose I know we said we’d try and manage, but I need help!’
‘The kids return to school soon, which will give Mum some time to help out, and at the end of September we’ll start closing on Monday’s too’
‘No, get me some proper help’ yelled George, stalking back to his saucepans.
‘I’ll advertise’ promised Rose, mentioning the online recruitment firm Fiona always used when she was looking for staff.
‘And I’ll ask Mum to help as a stop-gap.
’ Rose turned to Fiona. ‘Sorry you’re not seeing us at our best. End of a long, busy season.
We did have a sous chef and a junior. If he’s overwhelmed his artistic side takes over, his temper flares and everyone suffers,’ said Rose.
Fiona smiled. She didn’t care how grumpy the chef was. Fiona wanted this job. She needed money to fund her studies, and the work was a diversion. Fiona picked up her tray and backed out of the kitchen.
‘Hold that door!’ shouted Rose. Fiona pressed herself backwards, allowing the other woman out, ‘It’s tough working with your other half,’ huffed Rose.
Yes, thought Fiona, an image of the Chef’s Table at the Fork & Cork forming in her mind, but that was in the past. And it would be a while before she was ready to revisit it.
Hearing someone whistling, Fiona cast a quick look around the kitchen. Josh was leaning against the sink, casually drying a plate, the tune light on his lips. When their eyes met, his smile deepened. Then he winked. Just once.
Fiona looked away, but not before the corner of her mouth betrayed her.