Lola
Sometimes things go so poorly that life decides to throw you a bone. Which is great…except sometimes you weren’t ready for the bone, and then you’re like, what the hell am I supposed to do with this bone?
Anyway, that bastard finally did it. My chef, Julian, quit on me mid-breakfast shift. After threatening me for months, that spineless pig actually followed through with something for once.
I would have been happy about this development if I wasn’t entirely screwed. Because, as luck would have it, Southern Charm was busy for the first time in months.
See? Life threw me a bone, and that bone bonked me right on the head.
I was peeking out of the kitchen like an anxious meerkat every few minutes, trying to determine how deep in the shit we were going to be. Based on the full tables and the groups of people I could see waiting just outside the front of the small restaurant, the answer was pretty deep.
This was the type of thing my dad would call “a good problem to have,” which was an overly optimistic way of looking at a problem—a trait that ran in the Maloney family.
It was also an extremely inconvenient problem to have because I was down a chef with a full house and one server.
Despite being a trained chef, I typically spent my days working between Front and Back of House, alternating between dealing with customers and my chef’s bad attitude.
Sweat gathered on my forehead as I worked the flattop grill and tried to keep orders straight.
Everything was a mess because Julian preferred chaos over systems, and getting on my nerves over trying to improve.
It was a wonder to me that he’d ever gotten the job in the first place, because Julian wasn’t particularly nice to Dad either.
But in a small town like Roswell Falls, connections meant everything—and Julian was the youngest son of one of our older family friends.
Being a good person was optional, it seemed.
Al, my cousin-slash-server-on-weekends, called out another order from the pass-through, and I cursed under my breath. Why did it feel like the whole town was in my restaurant?
I was being unfair. It was the first sunny weekend we’d had in a while after an uncommonly rainy May. People wanted to get out of their homes and spend time doing things other than chores. And now, everyone—and I do mean everyone—wanted brunch.
As soon as Julian jumped ship, I marched to the office, grabbed a piece of paper, and aggressively scribbled a Now Hiring sign with permanent marker.
If he wanted to come crawling back here to beg for a job, Julian would be out of luck.
After slapping the sign on the front door, I grabbed an apron, tied my hair back, and got to work.
Those egg benedicts weren’t going to cook themselves.
Back when I was younger, and Southern Charm had a regular stream of customers, the kitchen was staffed with a chef, a line cook, and a dishwasher.
The way things were going, we’d trimmed the Back of House team down to just a chef with myself as part dishwasher, busser, server, and general manager.
That thing about wearing many hats at work?
Yeah, that basically defined my life at my family’s restaurant.
And now I could add the head-chef cap to the tippy top of my teetering tower of responsibilities. (My head-chef cap was a ratty University of Tennessee baseball cap, in case you were wondering. Go Vols.)
I rang the bell that indicated an order was up, and shouted to Al when she came to pick it up. “How’s it going out there, Al?”
“Can’t complain!” my cousin called back, whisking the plates onto a tray.
Even though Al was technically a nepotism hire, she was also one of the best servers I had ever worked with.
Quick, graceful, good on her toes—and if she were to break down, I knew we would be up the creek without a paddle.
She was hanging in there, though, which meant I could, too.
Eventually, I got into a good flow. The muscle memory of being in the kitchen came back, just like riding a bike. A flip here, a sauté there, stir, plate, garnish, ring bell.
I was so caught up in the work that I almost didn’t notice when Al poked her head through the pass-through and pointed a thumb at someone behind her.
“Got someone asking about the job, chef.”
After years of working in toxic kitchen environments, I had a mild aversion to the typical hierarchy of things. Getting called “chef” like I was some kind of authoritarian figure was one of the things I was happy to leave behind when I came home.
“You don’t have to call me that, Al. We’re cousins—just call me by my real name.”
“Whatever you say, chef.” Al flashed me a cheeky smile. “I’m going to leave him with you.” And, strangely, she winked before walking away. I didn’t know people actually winked in real life.
It only took a split second to realize why.
The guy behind her was cute in a disheveled sort of way, despite smiling wide like a lunatic.
I suspected Al thought she was being sly by bringing him back here instead of taking his resume.
She had been on me for weeks about trying to date again, and I always shut down her suggestion.
I wasn’t anti-dating. I just didn’t see the point in trying to date in Roswell Falls, where everyone was either a distant relative, older than the invention of sliced bread, or had known me in my pimply wannabe-goth phase.
And if they didn’t fall into those three categories, they were probably my on-again, off-again ex, Walter.
My grip tightened on the spatula just thinking about that cheating asshole, and how unfair it was that he not only lived nearby, but had opened a restaurant down the street from mine.
I eyed the guy up and down. Jeans and a t-shirt, tennis shoes, and a backpack. Not the outfit I would have chosen to apply for a job, but hey, it’s not like this was some kind of high-powered executive role. We needed a cook, and cooks weren’t necessarily known for their sartorial choices.
“Hello!” The guy waved enthusiastically and smiled like he had a hanger in his mouth.
Aggressively chipper. We were already getting off on the wrong foot.
But I was desperate, and we’d just hit a lull in orders.
I had time to chat. Besides, there was nothing inherently wrong with being an upbeat person.
If anything, my grumpy mood was the real problem.
I probably could have benefitted from a boost of positive thinking.
“Hey,” I said, putting on a friendly face and waving him in. “Come on in, and we can chat.”
He entered the kitchen with tentative steps, nearly wiping himself out with the swinging door. Inside, his eyes darted around like a kid’s at the zoo, as if everything was something interesting to take in.
I sensed right away that he was a bit of an oddball. No problem. I could deal with oddballs. I liked oddballs. But was he kitchen material?
I got right down to business. “You got experience?” I asked, grabbing a spoon to stir a pot of pepper gravy.
The guy ran a hand through his brown hair, mouth twisted like he was considering what to say. “I’m competent in many normal things!” he said eventually.
Ohhhhkay.
Strange answer, but not a deal-breaker. And I could appreciate humility, if that’s what he was going for.
“Are you a fast learner?”
“I believe so!”
Another unusual response. But again, I liked the honesty.
Male chefs were, by and large, not known for their humility, which made many of them unpleasant to work with.
I didn’t want another person who would yell and stomp around and throw a fit.
I wanted a solid, hard worker who didn’t have such a bad attitude that it made me break out in hives.
“Can you start today?”
“Absolutely!”
The magic word. I’d just caught a glimpse through the pass-through of a party Al was seating. Ten people. Fancy outfits and loud voices. Tourists.
And not just any kind of tourists. They were tourists who brunched.
I was going to need the help if I wanted to get through the rest of the day.
“Then grab an apron. I need someone on eggs.” I turned back to my station to plate a bowl of shrimp and grits, adding a sprinkle of parsley with a flourish.
Just like riding a bike.
When I looked up, the guy was still standing there by the kitchen door, staring at me with a goofy grin. Just…watching me.
My hackles rose. I had always been a pretty good judge of character, but I didn’t always get it right (hence the cheating ex).
Did I just offer the opportunity to a quirky weirdo, or a certifiable creep?
I decided to test the waters by putting on my best I’m-a-very-stern-and-formidable-boss act, which I only used on rare occasions on account of it being the antithesis of my relatively easygoing nature.
“What are you doing waiting around?” I barked. “Aprons are over there, the sink to wash your hands is right there. Eggs are in the walk-in,” I pointed, “and your station is here. You want the job or not?”