Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Tristan had been at Sullivan’s for four years. He was a hard worker and a bit of an ass-kisser. More importantly, he was an evil, bitter guy. He started at the bottom as a kitchen porter, spending the first year and a half of his career scrubbing dishes and cleaning floors hoping Miguel would notice his dedication and promote him. It took a while, but he was finally bumped up to commis chef, or junior chef, and was next in line for the chef de partie—a fancy way of saying station chef.
Until I was hired.
Had he been angry? Jealous? Spiteful? It was hard to pinpoint exactly what his problem was, but he only had himself and the stick shoved up his ass to blame for not advancing. He berated other chefs and tore at people’s confidence. We were in a cutthroat business, true, but no successful kitchen could be run by one person. His arrogance and inability to be a team player held him back—something that landed me the promotion to chef de partie.
I give my mom a theatrical scoff. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less. I didn’t even like that job.”
Didn’t like it? Psh. I’d been in love with it. No longer just assisting, I was creating. Miguel saw something in me he didn’t see in the rest of his staff. A kitchen is a revolving door of aspiring chefs who, quite literally, leave because they can’t take the heat. Not me, though. I loved the adrenaline. The yelling. The hundred-degree kitchen making me sweat while I seared the highest quality of meats and fish. I was kicking ass and well on my way to making a name for myself when a little accident happened—or sabotage—ruining my entire career. Keyword being sabotage.
It was no secret Sullivan’s and Miguel’s dishes were well worth the Michelin star the restaurant had obtained. The food was beyond exceptional. With two stars already under their belt, rumor had it inspectors from all over were making their appearances, assessing the resturant for a third star.
Tristan somehow got wind of the final inspector made a reservation, and I was called to the front lines to assist Miguel. I knew it was my shot—my time to shine.
I had just finished plating the most beautiful pasta with black truffle, foie gras, and marsala. Miguel was at his highest stress point, riding the entire kitchen over every little detail. Me? I’d tuned out the mayhem while I finished my dish, drizzling truffle oil on top.
I watched as each plate was carted off to the tables, knowing one of my beauties was soon to be consumed, moans following each bite. That was before I discovered someone had swapped my truffle oil for mushroom oil.
An ambulance was called for a woman who had been dining alone and began having trouble breathing. Her face swelled to the size of a balloon. The waiter saved her life when he found her EpiPen and stabbed her in the leg. It seems three other people were carted away due to mushroom allergies. And when the article about Sullivan’s mishandling dishes and endangering the well-being of their clientele was released, it was clear I had cost them a third Michelin star. Due to the severity, a star was even removed. Who knew you could have stars taken away?
Oh, the things I learned when I got super fired. Miguel didn’t even let me explain that I would never have made an error like that. The second my eyes flashed to Tristan’s, I knew he had switched the oils. It was no secret the little twit had been gunning for my job, but I underestimated how low he’d sink to get it. Not only was I humiliated and fired, but I was barred from any restaurant within a billion-mile radius. They didn’t even allow me to turn in my apron, the worst ‘fuck you, you’re fired, get out’ gesture. Before I could even wrap my brain around what happened, the entire food industry knew.
“Seriously. I’m way happier. The bartending gig is really working out.” And I am happy! Life couldn’t be better.
Okay. I’m lying.
I tried to find other work and spent months throwing myself at any kitchen that was hiring. I had a natural talent not many had, but when they saw Sullivan’s on my resume and put two and two together, the excuses rolled in one after another. Sorry, we’re full. Not what we’re looking for. . . Shithole restaurants that would thrive with my expertise turned me away. The message was clear: I’d been blacklisted.
I’ve never been in a serious relationship, but I imagine the end of one would evoke the same feeling—the guy, a.k.a. my former restaurant, ripping my heart out and leaving me for dead. That’s what it was. Someone had torn the one thing I loved out of my chest and crushed it.