static, and I’ll make you wish you’d decided to become an accountant like Mommy and Daddy wanted. Now get to fucking work. You’ve got prep to finish. The new menu items are taped to the inside of your low boys.”
Amid a flurry of disgruntled grumbling and sullen stares, the cooks bent to the squat miniature refrigerators below each station. The lowboys held all the prep items necessary for every dish that came out of that station—plus a few extras, courtesy of Devon’s sneak afternoon delivery. For instance, along with the containers of softened butter, minced shallots, chopped parsley, and squirt bottles of dry vermouth for the pan sauce that normally accompanied the roast chicken, Devon had added large tubs of brown sugar, handfuls of ripe, unpeeled lychee, and bottles of rice wine vinegar for a tart, citrusy gastrique to spoon over the finished chicken.
He’d gone down the menu and augmented every too-simple recipe with more expensive specialty ingredients, things that looked great on a menu. That should take this place to the next level—not that the cooks appeared grateful in any way.
Devon crossed his arms over his chest and watched the frowns and shrugs, the low-voiced conferences. They didn’t seem to know what to make of his additions—the lychee, in particular, was raising eyebrows. Milo, the skinny line cook who reminded Devon of kids he grew up with in the North Ward of Trenton, fingered the spiny magenta orbs dubiously.
Peeling back the thin skin with his thumbnail, Milo made a face at the slimy texture of the white flesh beneath. Devon rolled his eyes.
“Peel them. Pit them. Chop them. Boil them with the vinegar and sugar until the liquid is reduced by a third. Strain it. Bring it up to the pass with the chicken; I’ll plate it,” he said.
Milo started peeling, his movements slow and halting. The rest of the cooks got to work, too, and Devon turned away. They’d figure it out. He didn’t intend to coddle the Market crew. This was his chance to dictate a menu again, to have the kitchen make something he came up with, rather than slavishly cooking someone else’s idea of good food. It was a relief to take back some measure of control.
Lilah wished fervently for a moment to pause, breathe, and possibly pay someone a million dollars to rub her feet. Who knew feet could hurt this badly! And she’d been a drama teacher, for sobbing out loud.
Maybe it was the frantic pace, the sense of always being a beat behind as she raced from table to table, clearing plates, filling water glasses, replacing dropped knives/forks/napkins.
“You’re doing great,” Jess, the poor unfortunate waiter to whose tables Lilah was assigned, assured her in passing. He couldn’t stop for a pep talk because he was carrying a fully loaded tray out to the front of the house. Lilah flashed him a quick smile anyway, thankful for the encouragement. Even if it was a big fat lie.
She wasn’t doing great. Unless it was considered “great” to drop not one, but two separate trays of dirty dishes in the middle of the dining room, creating such a loud crash her eyes had snapped to the older gentleman at table seventeen to make sure the noise hadn’t shocked him into cardiac arrest.
The guest, who looked like Colonel Sanders wearing a conservative navy suit, was fine. The other customers, however? No fewer than four people had commented on her twang, in grating, isn’t-she-cute tones that ought to be reserved for little girls attempting to play the piano for their parents’
friends.
And everyone wanted something! Busboys (and girls) were dressed just like the servers, so inattentive diners had a hard time telling them apart. Lilah would’ve thought the people in her section would at least be able to distinguish her plump, curly-haired self from slender, redheaded male Jess, but no such luck. One table had insisted on giving their order to her, and in her panic, Lilah had whipped out a pen and written
Amid a flurry of disgruntled grumbling and sullen stares, the cooks bent to the squat miniature refrigerators below each station. The lowboys held all the prep items necessary for every dish that came out of that station—plus a few extras, courtesy of Devon’s sneak afternoon delivery. For instance, along with the containers of softened butter, minced shallots, chopped parsley, and squirt bottles of dry vermouth for the pan sauce that normally accompanied the roast chicken, Devon had added large tubs of brown sugar, handfuls of ripe, unpeeled lychee, and bottles of rice wine vinegar for a tart, citrusy gastrique to spoon over the finished chicken.
He’d gone down the menu and augmented every too-simple recipe with more expensive specialty ingredients, things that looked great on a menu. That should take this place to the next level—not that the cooks appeared grateful in any way.
Devon crossed his arms over his chest and watched the frowns and shrugs, the low-voiced conferences. They didn’t seem to know what to make of his additions—the lychee, in particular, was raising eyebrows. Milo, the skinny line cook who reminded Devon of kids he grew up with in the North Ward of Trenton, fingered the spiny magenta orbs dubiously.
Peeling back the thin skin with his thumbnail, Milo made a face at the slimy texture of the white flesh beneath. Devon rolled his eyes.
“Peel them. Pit them. Chop them. Boil them with the vinegar and sugar until the liquid is reduced by a third. Strain it. Bring it up to the pass with the chicken; I’ll plate it,” he said.
Milo started peeling, his movements slow and halting. The rest of the cooks got to work, too, and Devon turned away. They’d figure it out. He didn’t intend to coddle the Market crew. This was his chance to dictate a menu again, to have the kitchen make something he came up with, rather than slavishly cooking someone else’s idea of good food. It was a relief to take back some measure of control.
Lilah wished fervently for a moment to pause, breathe, and possibly pay someone a million dollars to rub her feet. Who knew feet could hurt this badly! And she’d been a drama teacher, for sobbing out loud.
Maybe it was the frantic pace, the sense of always being a beat behind as she raced from table to table, clearing plates, filling water glasses, replacing dropped knives/forks/napkins.
“You’re doing great,” Jess, the poor unfortunate waiter to whose tables Lilah was assigned, assured her in passing. He couldn’t stop for a pep talk because he was carrying a fully loaded tray out to the front of the house. Lilah flashed him a quick smile anyway, thankful for the encouragement. Even if it was a big fat lie.
She wasn’t doing great. Unless it was considered “great” to drop not one, but two separate trays of dirty dishes in the middle of the dining room, creating such a loud crash her eyes had snapped to the older gentleman at table seventeen to make sure the noise hadn’t shocked him into cardiac arrest.
The guest, who looked like Colonel Sanders wearing a conservative navy suit, was fine. The other customers, however? No fewer than four people had commented on her twang, in grating, isn’t-she-cute tones that ought to be reserved for little girls attempting to play the piano for their parents’
friends.
And everyone wanted something! Busboys (and girls) were dressed just like the servers, so inattentive diners had a hard time telling them apart. Lilah would’ve thought the people in her section would at least be able to distinguish her plump, curly-haired self from slender, redheaded male Jess, but no such luck. One table had insisted on giving their order to her, and in her panic, Lilah had whipped out a pen and written
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