21
Three hats.
We bloody did it. Despite everything life has thrown at me.
A champagne cork rockets past my ear, missing me by inches and exploding against the stainless-steel wall. “We Are the Champions”
blares through the sound system like we’re the triumphant underdogs of a football final. Someone is crying—probably Lou the
pastry chef. The sommelier’s twirling a tea towel like it’s a victory flag. Chaos. Bloody unfiltered chaos. It’s slightly
beautiful but bittersweet.
I’d imagined this moment so many times, but Beau was always at my side. He was meant to be here.
Will this be enough to plaster over the cracks? To pull me from my grief? To outcook my past? To silence the gnawing voice
that’s been with me since I was eight? But if this is what absolution feels like, it’s flat and fleeting.
The Star meant something, of course, but that was someone else’s kitchen. This one’s mine. Built with my name, my scars, my
recipes, in my hometown. I glance out the front window and see Mum’s name glowing in brass letters above the entrance.
Does it make up for what I cost you, Mum?
Matilda, my sous-chef, is at the pass, tall and broad-shouldered, her strawberry blond curls piled neatly under a hairnet.
Her faith in me never cracked. Not once.
“Here, have some champers!” she says, handing me a glass.
“Thank you, chef. My god, you’re a tough boss, but I wouldn’t be here without you! ”
I smile and lift my glass half an inch, unable to stifle a yawn after too many nights of broken sleep, my body stuck on high
alert while my mind sinks deeper into mourning.
She spins away, topping up someone else’s drink. Everyone’s drunk on success, and tonight I let them be. I take a sip, let
the crisp sweetness cut through the noise. The moment hangs golden in the air, weightless. And then the office phone rings.
I step away from the kitchen and pick up the receiver. “This is Griffith Barlow.”
“Mr. Barlow, Barry Kincaid here from the City of Melbourne’s Environmental Health Unit. I’m calling in relation to suspected
cases of serious foodborne illness reported by a number of diners at your restaurant earlier this week. We’ll require your
temperature logs and supplier records. A site inspection will be scheduled within the next twenty-four hours.”
My chest goes tight. “Right,” I say. “Understood.”
He gives a list of follow-up details, but I’ve stopped hearing him. The phone feels slippery in my grip. I set it down, my
hand still on the receiver, hoping it might ring again and tell me it was a mistake. That they got the wrong restaurant. That
some other chef’s week went to hell as quickly as it went to heaven, not mine. But I know better.
Through the glass, the kitchen is still roaring with celebration. Someone’s popped another bottle; someone else is yelling
about getting matching tattoos. I should be out there, pretending to smile, letting them believe this is the best night of
our lives when it might be the worst.
Instead, I lean on the countertop and try to remember exactly when the meat was delivered. What its internal temperature was.
Who was on prep that day. What exact dish it could’ve been. My brain’s racing ten steps ahead—into damage control, into every
worst-case scenario, into a shame spiral I don’t have time for.
My throat burns. Another mistake.
Three hats. And one phone call that could rip them right off my head.
Three hats. How many would it take to cover my sins?
It’s not enough. Not for what I caused. Not for Dad.