“I’m so sorry, Kiara, I couldn’t help it,” Paul tells me again. It’s eight-thirty at night, the kitchen is slammed, and I’m rolling my sushi to order after losing two and a half hours of prep time to the delivery fiasco.
“Yes, I know you’re sorry. But your apologies aren’t getting my food plated. Either help me or get out of my way,” I tell him.
Robbs and I had picked up over half of the food order and returned to the kitchen at three o’clock. I’d expected Paul to be there, but he didn’t arrive until almost five. We’ve been snapping at each other ever since.
“I’m sorry, you’re right,” Paul mumbles as he takes a rolling mat and spreads it with Indian rice. “You handled the Lancing issue perfectly. You’re going to make a great executive chef one day, Kiara. You think on your feet, make quick decisions…”
Robbs clears his throat from his station, to let us know he’s listening to our conversation.
“Picking up the order ourselves was Robbs’ idea,” I tell Paul. “If it was up to me, I’d have let us run out of everything. Maybe then you’ll snap back to reality and remember your responsibilities.”
“Reality?” Paul snaps back. “I’ve been dealing with reality all day, Kiara—the reality that my child will be here in six months and will have nowhere to sleep. You know I have to get settled in a bigger place, and today was the only time the realtor could meet with me.”
“This kitchen is what’s going to pay for your big new place,” I remind him. “Keep running things the way you have been and see what kind of home you’ll be able to afford.”
I know I’m right, but I also know that I’m being a bit harsh on Paul. The truth is that what’s bothering me most isn’t that he’s neglecting the restaurant, but that he’s neglecting me. We’ve been dating for months, and he didn’t even stop to consider I might like to give my opinion on potential homes.
I layer chopped tomatoes and sea bass onto the Mediterranean spiced rice and roll it into sushi.
“Kiara,” Paul says. “I know you’re right. I’m sorry I put the Lancing problem on you. I should have handled it myself. I’ve been taking advantage of your capabilities. I’ve been so distracted lately and when something comes up that I know you can handle, I let you. That’s not fair, and I promise I’ll try to do better. Do you forgive me?” He flashes me a smile that melts my heart.
“Of course I forgive you.” I sigh.
He leans down and plants a soft kiss on the top of my head. It’s the only public display of affection we share in the kitchen, and none of our coworkers seem to mind.
Paul slices a Latin roll, tops it with the accompanying sauce, and samples a piece. “This is amazing,” he says with a grin, his mouth still full. “And it’s the perfect dish for Fission… so many flavors, so many cultures… we may add this to the permanent menu.”
I laugh. “If you keep this up, we’ll be serving more of my recipes than yours.”
“I’ve been thinking maybe it’s time to completely revamp the menu,” he answers seriously. “Most of the dishes we serve have been around since I opened the place. We can scrap them all and start fresh… create the new dishes together…”
“That would mean a lot of time in the kitchen together.” I smile.
“I know. That’s the best part of my plan.” He grins devilishly. “What do you say?”
“You’re the boss,” I tease. “If you want me to help you create a new menu, who am I to argue? But let’s talk about it later… I’m in the weeds here.”
“No problem.” Paul reaches for another scoop of Latin rice, but I stop him.
“Please, I can cover this. I just need some space,” I tell him.
“Yes, Chef.” He says, walking back to his station.
I take a deep breath, center myself, and get to work, focusing only on the food in front of me. I spend thirty minutes rolling sushi to order, and then the early rush dies down. I spend another thirty minutes rolling the rest of the appetizers, in anticipation of the late rush.
“I’m finally finished,” I tell Paul as I approach his station. “Can I observe you during the late rush?”
“Of course.” He nods. “I’ll walk you through the dish a few times, and then we’ll see how you handle it on your own.”
While Fission has a large, permanent menu, the only dishes Paul cooks himself are the nightly entrée specials. The specials change every day and are always a unique, exciting twist on ethnic staples. Tonight, Paul is making Italian sausage and roasted vegetable pot pies. The meal is rich, heavy, and decadent, the perfect choice to warm you up on a cold February night. The meal is also complicated… everything from the garlic and cheese pie crust to the sausage itself is made from scratch. I watch as Paul mixes a fresh batch of sausage in a stainless steel bowl.
“We’re not going to put it in casings,” Paul explains, “because we want the meat to soak up as much of the sauce as possible. And also, casings are gross…”
“Chef Weston!” a squealing voice interrupts. We turn and see Charlotte, one of the waitresses, at the front of the kitchen. “You’re not going to believe who’s here!”
“Calm down, Charlotte,” Paul says patiently. “Whoever it is, there’s no need to make a fool of yourself. Who’s here?”
“James O’Toole!” she replies shrilly.
I blush with excitement. “James O’Toole?” I ask in disbelief. “As in Kitchen Wars, James O’Toole?”
“Yep!” Charlotte nods in delight. “Megan’s seating him now. He said that he’d like for the chef to choose his menu.”
“Oh… my… god,” I say, leaving my mouth agape.
Paul rolls his eyes. “Seriously, ladies, you have to calm down. He’s just a guy, the same as any other customer. Charlotte, tell Mr. O’Toole I appreciate his trust, and that his starters will be out shortly. And please, try not to look so star-struck when you speak to him. If I hear that you’re hovering over his table, I’ll replace you myself.”
“Yes, Chef Weston.” Charlotte nods, trying to calm herself. She takes a deep breath and calmly returns to the dining room.
“James O’Toole.” Robbs whistles. “What are we going to serve him?”
Paul surveys the kitchen and makes the decision with lightning speed. “Starters are the sushi trio and the duck ravioli. For entrées, we’ll do the spot prawn enchiladas and the pot pie. Claire, I’ll let you decide the desserts,” he says to the pastry chef.
“Thank you, Chef.” Claire nods.
“All right everyone, get to work. And don’t let this distract you from our other orders. James O’Toole isn’t the only customer in the dining room… hell, I’m going to comp his meal. Concentrate on the customers who keep the roof over our heads.”