30. Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty
Sam
R olling my neck, I step out of the shower. Chef asked me to come in early for a talk, so I will be in at 3 p.m. instead of 5 p.m. Nothing good ever happens from a “Can we talk?” message from your boss. And, apparently, one of the prep team guys called out sick on our busiest day—Friday night.
I slide into my black slacks and long-sleeve button up. The fact that we wear such nice clothes just for them to get completely destroyed by the end of the night is really fucking stupid to me, but I don’t make the rules. The head chef does wear a cooking coat of sorts, but the rest of us get to aggressively spray stain remover on our white shirts at the end of every shift. If I ever get to be in charge, we are switching to black shirts and pants and calling it a day.
Grabbing my freshly washed apron off the counter, I make my way down to where I parked and hop on the bike. The motion reminds me of the last time I got to take her for a ride, with my favorite girl in tow. I thought I liked riding before, but feeling her arms around me while we ride makes me feel unstoppable.
The weather is finally nice enough that I can ride my bike on a regular basis, and it has me feeling a bit more free. The sun warms my face as I stash my apron in my little back storage box. I feel my bike come to life underneath me, the rumble of the engine vibrating through me. It’s one of my favorite things to feel. Kicking off the brake, I twist the throttle and am on my way.
The anxiety is eating at me. The whole drive to Flambé is spent thinking of all the things I could have possibly fucked up in the last couple of weeks. I haven’t called any of the new hires fucking morons in weeks. Though, some of them are seriously missing critical-thinking skills. My patience is tested on a daily basis. I should get a fucking award for not stabbing anyone with a fork.
I’ve tried to work on my patience and remember what a complete and total asshat I was at nineteen and twenty, like the rest of these kids we’re hiring. I’m only a few years older than them, but I feel like the last few years—between clawing up the ladder and the whole shit storm with my family—have aged me and made me grow up a hell of a lot faster than most.
The gravel gives way to my tires as I park my bike in the back lot. Grabbing my apron, I head in. Even after the drive, I come up empty on things I could possibly be in trouble for. So, maybe today will be fine.
Walking from the back door through the kitchen, I make my way up to Chef’s office, located right behind the double swinging doors the waitstaff comes through from the dining room. His office is enclosed with see-through windows, and I’m pretty sure that was done so whoever is sitting there can make sure we’re not all burning the place down.
Chef is sitting in his office, and I gently knock on the wood framing of his open door. “Hey, Chef. You wanted to see me?” I ask, trying to steel my voice and not be a little bitch.
“Yeah, thanks so much for coming in early. Please, take a seat.” He points toward the gray, metal folding chair in the corner, and I feel like I’m in time-out. Fuck me.
“No problem.” I shrug and the chair squeaks underneath my weight as I take my seat. “A couple hours aren’t a big deal.” It really isn’t in the grand scheme of things.
“Good, glad to hear. How do you think things have been going the last few weeks, since we’ve added more to your plate?” His eyes give no indication as to what emotions he’s got going on. If he’s mad, I sure as hell can’t tell.
And as for his question, well, up until I was put in time-out, I felt like I had been making Chef’s job my bitch during our little trial run. Now, not so much. But we’re going to lead with confidence.
Taking a few seconds to make sure I’ve got my thoughts together, I respond, “I’ve been learning a lot. I feel like it has been going well.”
He levels me with a stare that makes me feel about two inches tall, but I still cannot read the look in his eyes. Is he trying to intimidate me? And fuck me, it’s working.
Not being able to take the pressure of his stare, I cock my head to the side and ask, “Has it not?”
“It hasn’t been going well.”
The air leaves my lungs. Complete and utter panic fill my body. Fuck, I cannot lose this job. For one, I genuinely enjoy it, and two, it pays really fucking well.
“It’s been going better than really well, actually.”
“You couldn’t have led with that?” I ask, air finally finds my lungs and I fight to convince my body we are not dying, and that this fight-or-flight response is a bit much. My hands rest on either of my knees, and I drop my head to reregulate and turn the corner on this half-ass panic attack.
“I’m an old man. Let me have my fun.” He laughs. Reaching forward, he pats my shoulder. I’d smile back, but I’m still salty from him scaring the shit out of me.
Deadpanning at him, I add, “Glad I can be the source of your entertainment.” Well, at least I am not fired.
“In the last couple of months, you have made some impressive growth. You have always had the talent in the kitchen. That was never something that needed TLC. Your people skills? Those needed some work.”
I shift in the hard metal chair, halfway from the uncomfortableness of the chair and the other half from the uncomfortableness of the moment.
“But you have grown. You did good work with the class. And the most recent round of new hires, they needed a lot of work. I haven’t had a single one come to my office crying about how you were mean to them. You have learned the difference between tough love and, well, just being a jackass.”
I huff out a laugh because that was a lesson that took me too long to learn.
Nodding my head, I reply, “Well, thank you. I have made more of an effort to remember what it is like to be that green in a kitchen and trying to be more patient with that.”
“I’ve noticed. Even the staff has mentioned your overall demeanor is much more positive. A few didn’t even know that you could smile.” He chuckles at this and I join in.
Shaking my head, I roll my eyes. “I smile all the time while cooking. So, they’re just being dramatic.”
“You smiled at the food, but not really the people.”
I don’t need to tell him that most people suck; he’s lived and worked long enough to know. The few friends I have made here, have seen me smile.
“I’m not sure what has changed for you, but it was what I have been looking and waiting for.”
I know exactly what changed—a little redhead walked into my class and pulled the jackass stick out of my ass. She’d probably argue that I can be a bit of one still, but it has been slightly muted.
“I’m glad.” I don’t know what else to say, and compliments feel repulsive. Especially when they’re about me. You can rave about my food, and I will gloat all day. But my character? Write it on a card, so I can feel uncomfortable in solitude.
“Well, son, I called you in early today to let you know this week will be your last week as my sous-chef. Starting Tuesday, the kitchen will be yours.” He grins at me, the wrinkles under his eyes becoming more pronounced with the intensity of the movement.
“What?” Shock and disbelief fill me. There's no way. No fucking way. This was supposed to be a year-long transition, and we’re doing it next week? A trickle of fear enters my mind at the thought of being the one holding all the responsibility, but the excitement wins the overall battle of emotions.
He must sense a bit of my conflicting emotions because he quickly jumps back in with: “I will be staying on staff the first month of the transition, but starting next week, it’s yours. Planning menus, hiring kitchen staff, arranging schedules. All of it.”
Confusion etches deep into my furrowed brow. “What happened to the transition period?” Not that I am complaining, but I feel like I have to convince myself that this is actually happening.
Chef jerks his shoulders in a shrug. “You achieved what I was needing to see in order to feel like it was your time.” He lays his index finger on my chest with each point he makes. “You did it. You worked hard. You showed up and grew up. I’m proud to know you and proud to have you as my successor. Now, I get to retire knowing it’s in good hands.”
Tears fill my eyes. I blink them away as quickly as they came, not wanting to show all my cards. The I’m proud of you means even more than the promotion.
He gives my shoulder two quick taps. “Let’s take a walk and we can chat some more.”
I nod my head in response, not quite ready to trust my voice.
Walking out into the dining room from the black swinging doors, colors flash in front of my face as mini streamers and confetti pop. Chef gives me a few big pats on the back and sends me on my way to my celebration. Taking a second to look around, I find myself dumbfounded.
Addie’s smile in the crowd guides me to her. “Congratulations, baby!” Just as I go to reach for a hug, a loud pop goes off as she sets off another round, and bright streamers dance in my face.
“Thank you.” Her arms wrap tight around my waist, and I feel every nerve in my body settle. Stepping half a step back, I release one arm and wave it toward the room. “How did this get set up?”
“Well, one of your coworkers had Theo’s number. Theo had Regina’s number, and then she called me. And, well, here we are.” Her soft, small hands find each side of my face, forcing me to look down into the prettiest shade of green I’ve ever seen. “I’m so proud of you! I thought this was like a year down the road.”
Shaking my head in disbelief, I say, “Honestly, I did, too. Chef had me thinking my ass was getting fired. I came in, racking my brain for shit I've done wrong.”
Theo walks up, smile beaming. He’s holding a handful of multicolored balloons, some say Congratulations , and some have a chef knife on them, making me wonder where the hell he found those.
“Congrats, man. Well-earned and deserved. We will throw you a proper celebration down at the bar when you get a day off.” Theo grabs my hand and pulls me in for a one-arm hug and a pat on the back.
This is one of the biggest moments of my career. I’m about to be the youngest head chef Flambé has ever had. While our town is on the smaller side, this restaurant is on the map. People come through just to get a chance to eat here.
A quiet, almost undetectable bit of sadness hits me. While everyone in this room is incredibly supportive, it makes me sad that not a single member of my family is here. That’s partly my own doing. It’s taken a moment like this to realize that I’ve successfully pushed everyone away.
A loud laugh causes me to look over to my little group of people—the family I made on my own. I smile because, well, not everyone has been pushed away. I make a silent promise to hold on to these ones with all I’ve got.
A round of drinks gets distributed. “To our current staff, close friends, and family of Sam and all others. Thanks for joining us today. Cheers to our new head chef! May your career be ever bountiful,” Chef says.
A collective cheer rings throughout the crowd. “If you’re on staff tonight, please limit yourself to only one drink. If any of you cut your finger off in my last week as the boss, it just might be the last straw I need to lose it.”
We all chuckle. Chef would probably die at some of the off-hour drinking games we have played over the year. Now that I think of it, he really would have a lot of arsenal if he ever found out and wanted me gone.
It doesn’t go over my head how lucky I am to have him as a mentor. He took me in at my worst, both personally and career-wise. He has said even a turd can be polished. Not that I enjoy being compared to shit, but he wasn’t wrong. My attitude and life were shit before this. And now? Well, I guess I got what I prayed for.