Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
As my mom would say, “Once a cheater, always a cheater.” And the thing about Miles is, he wasn’t even a great boyfriend outside of the cheating. He’s a major workaholic with such a big head I’m surprised his neck can still hold it up. He’s also way older than me, which seemed fine, even cool, when I first started working for him last year.
Chloe, let me show you around the kitchen.
Chloe, stay back after work. I want to walk you through how to perfect that tahini chocolate mousse.
Chloe, hey, it’s just a kiss. We’ll take it slow.
Now, I realize I was naive. We should never have been dating. He was my direct superior. I’ve learned my lesson the hard way. No boyfriend, no job, no apartment—all in one fell swoop.
Cue defeated sigh.
Quite frankly, now that I’m reaching the end of the road in terms of potential head pastry chef positions in town, I’m having a hard time ignoring a niggling feeling in the back of my mind. It’s a desperate, blaring warning that I shouldn’t continue down this road. There’s no other way to slice it: restaurant work is absolutely grueling. I knew that getting into the profession, but somehow enduring it is another thing entirely. Fig & Olive is a 32-seat Mediterranean restaurant serving six- and nine-course tasting menus Monday through Saturday. Miles describes his seasonal menus as love letters to the Mediterranean islands. He’s vying for a Michelin star (or three), and the entire staff has cosigned that goal too. To him, we’re toy soldiers. Even though our first seating for the evening isn’t until 6:00 PM, we’re expected to arrive at the kitchen no later than 9:00 AM. Most of the time, we don’t finish cleanup for the day until well past midnight. This last year has taken a toll on me. I used to enjoy running; I don’t have time for it anymore. I used to dabble in the kitchen on the side, cooking not just pastries and desserts but all sorts of savory delights. Now, if I see so much as a spatula on my day off, I want to scream. The job has very nearly sucked the joy right out of me, but where do I go from here?
I mean figuratively. Literally, I’m going to my parents’ place because it’s Sunday and every Sunday we have a big family dinner with all my aunts and uncles and cousins. I didn’t go last Sunday because I wanted to spiral into a pit of despair in private, but all week my family has been hounding me about it.
From my brother: You sick, Chlo?
From my father: Why’d you miss family dinner? You upset your mother.
From one of my overbearing aunts (of which I have three): Family is family, you don’t turn your back on family.
If I missed again, they’d likely file a missing person report with the police. Yes, she’s about this tall, brunette, freckles, always smiling.
As you might have guessed, my big Italian family is a little loco. Oh, and yes, as a rebellious act, I took Spanish in high school instead of Italian. You can imagine how that went over.
I wince as I adjust my heavy duffle bag over my shoulder. I walked here in the boiling heat. I’m sweating, panting, lamenting every single life choice I’ve ever made as I walk up the stoop to my parents’ apartment building. They’ve lived in the same slightly run-down building in Little Italy off Baxter Street for thirty years. In fact, they took over the lease from my grandparents.
In a six-story walkup, they’re fortunate to be on the first floor, and though the lobby is worse for wear, they take pride in keeping their apartment clean and welcoming. My dad is handy; he’s worked as an appliance repairman since I was a kid. Meanwhile, my mom’s been a maid at the Plaza her entire adult life. She used to take me to work sometimes when I was off from school or out for summer break. She’d give me clear instructions: make yourself scarce, be respectful, don’t get in anyone’s way.
I would never dare to disobey her because I knew she was serious. If I messed up or made her job difficult, she wouldn’t take me back, and I loved going to the Plaza for one specific reason: the kitchen.
I’d sneak behind the swinging metal doors like one of those little bushy-tailed rats from Ratatouille. The manager was too busy to care, and some of the cooks hated it, but most thought I was cute enough to let it slide. All that really mattered, though, was that the pastry chef, Ms. Paulette, as I was instructed to call her, absolutely loved me.
She was a diminutive gray-haired woman from Paris, alone here in the States. She barely spoke English; it didn’t matter. She put me to work.