Chapter 3 - The Cold Kitchen
Theo kicked open the double stainless-steel doors of the kitchen with a resounding crash that silenced the entire line.
Instantly, the rhythmic clatter of sauté pans, spatulas, and ticket printers died. Twelve line cooks, prep cooks, and dishwashers froze in their tracks. Steam billowed from the industrial pasta cookers, and the scent of sizzling garlic hung heavy in the air.
At the center island, Chef Victor Hale stood tall, immaculate in his double-breasted white chef’s jacket with his name embroidered in gold thread across his chest. He was adjusting a delicate sprig of micro-greens on a plate with silver tweezers.
“What is the meaning of this racket?” Victor snapped without looking up. “We have eighty covers on the board and the Vanguard board members are arriving in less than twenty-four hours! I will not tolerate amateurish—”
Victor looked up. His words withered in his throat.
“Theo,” Victor stammered, his arrogant posture faltering slightly before he recovered with a polished, smug grin. “You’re back early! You should have texted. I’m just putting the finishing touches on the dry-aged squab for tomorrow's tasting menu. Vanguard is going to be blown away. We’re going to secure that twelve-million-dollar expansion capital without breaking a sweat.”
Theo walked slowly down the center line. His expensive boots clicked against the wet quarry tile. He didn't take off his wet coat. He stopped two feet from Victor, staring at the man he had personally hired from a three-star restaurant in Manhattan two years ago.
“Where is Ruby Parker?” Theo asked.
Victor waved his hand dismissively, picking up his silver tweezers again. “Oh, that useless girl? I handled it, Theo. You don’t need to worry your head about front-of-house squabbles. The girl had no discipline. She was fraternizing with street vagrants during peak lunch service.”
“Street vagrants,” Theo repeated, his tone terrifyingly quiet.
“Yes!” Victor scoffed, shaking his head in disgust. “Some decrepit old pensioner in a moth-eaten coat wandered in here today. He ordered a six-dollar cup of soup and occupied Table Seven for two hours. Table Seven is our prime window seat! That table turns three hundred dollars during a standard lunch cover! And then, to make matters worse, that idiot girl brings out a disgusting, homemade lemon cake covered in cheap supermarket frosting and starts singing happy birthday right in front of our high-end clientele.”
The entire kitchen was dead silent. Samuel Reese, standing near the expeditor station, kept his head down, his jaw clenched tight.
“She broke protocol,” Victor continued, clearly believing he was entirely in the right. “Carrington’s is an elite culinary institution now, Theo. Not some greasy-spoon diner in Southie. We don’t allow outside food, and we certainly don’t allow senile old men to turn our dining room into a nursing home dayroom. I told her to get rid of it. She defied me. So I tossed the garbage where it belonged, fired her on the spot, and told the old bum to get the hell out before I called the police.”
Theo didn't move. He felt a ringing in his ears, a violent, volcanic surge of blood rushing to his temples.
“You threw it away,” Theo whispered.
“Straight into the bin,” Victor chuckled smugly. “You should thank me. I saved the restaurant's reputation. If the Vanguard scouts had walked in and seen that pathetic spectacle—”
Theo grabbed the front of Victor’s pristine white jacket, twisting the fabric into his fist and yanking the six-foot-two chef across the stainless-steel prep table until their faces were inches apart. Sauté pans clattered to the floor. A bowl of reduction sauce tipped over, spilling dark red across the stainless steel.
May you like
“Theo! Have you lost your mind?!” Victor gasped, his eyes widening in pure terror.
“That ‘senile old bum,’” Theo hissed, his teeth grinding together so hard he could feel his jaw click, “was Walter Carrington. The man whose name is on the front door. The man whose recipes you butchered to make your pretentious little foams. And the man who built every square inch of this foundation while your parents were still in diapers.”
