Page 64 of Best I Never Had

I rap lightly on the door sitting ajar as I peek inside and see Pat hunched over his desk, his reading glasses on and forehead creased.

“Come in,” he calls without looking up from his desk. He looks up as I step through the threshold, and he gestures for me to have a seat.

“You wanted to talk to me, Pat?”

“Yes.” He closes the binder he was flipping through, removing his glasses and placing them gently on his desk. “Have a seat.”

I eye him. He’s never spoken to me like this, all formal and businesslike. Putting aside the uncle-nephew relationship and putting in place the employee-employer one. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he answers. His voice is hoarse and tired. He clears his throat. “I just wanted to talk to you about some changes I want to make around here.”

“Oh,” I say, finally understanding. “Is Chef going to be here too then?”

He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Listen, you know it’s been a little tough with Chef and his ego.”

I scoff. To say I understand the wrath of Chef DuPont would be an understatement. I live under his constant scrutiny and his anger toward me, claiming I only got the sous chef position through the small push of nepotism. I’ve never told Pat this, but I would have been long gone had it not been Pat who hired me.

“I want him to resign,” Pat finally says.

I push my face toward him, angling my head to the side with a twisted face of confusion to make sure I’ve heard him correctly. “So you won’t have a head chef?”

He clears his throat again. “I was thinking you could take over.”

“Me?” I squeak.

“You’re the only one I know who’s qualified.”

“Pat, I–I don’t know…I mean…” I stutter. “You don’t want to hire someone new? Someone with more experience?”

“You’ve had plenty back in Chicago,” he argues. “It’s time you run your own kitchen.”

Head chef. It’s a position I’ve dreamed of stepping into since I returned stateside from France. A medium before I eventually have the courage and experience to open my own restaurant like I’ve always wanted. It’s one more milestone closer to having my name on the building as people seek out my food.

But it’s a huge responsibility. One small mistake, and the whole restaurant is at stake. I don’t want to let Pat down. I don’t want to let the whole restaurant down.

I shift in my seat, the air suddenly feeling too hot and stuffy. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course.” His voice is calm and understanding. I nod, leaving Pat’s office while muddling over this offer.

I spend the rest of the day in the busy kitchen. Chef DuPont comes, makes his rounds, and continues his wrath while stalking the kitchen floor,keeping the rest of the staff on their toes. We have one incident of him reducing our saucier to tears and almost firing a busboy when he nearly walks into Chef DuPont, carrying a tray full of dirty dishes. It’s actually a good day considering the last time Chef DuPont completely lost his temper, one of our newly hired waitresses got caught in the crossfire between him and a plate he threw against the wall. Pat had no choice but to send her home after she spent a good hour trembling in the service area.

I can’t help asking myself, will that be me? Angry with anyone trying to do their job and fearing me in the process. Hurting people just so that I can prove myself. I don’t want to be that person. But what if Chef DuPont was a kind, timid sous chef like me at some point? And over the years, he became this ball of anger out of necessity rather than by choice. As badly as I want to be a head chef, I don’t know if I’m ready to take on that role and not turn into an asshole in an attempt to prove myself.

But now, watching every integral member of this team, I see how they respect me. They don’t fear me or turn the other way with resentment for making their lives hell. They come to me for help or advice. They share their thoughts so that our kitchen and this restaurant can be successful. We all manage to turn the gears in unison and keep them grinding despite Chef DuPont’s glaring presence.

I work through the rest of the dinner rush, Chef DuPont’s early departure a godsend after he saw that the dinner service was moving along without a hitch, something he does quite frequently now as he relinquishes some of his control to me. I fall into a comfortable routine, one that allows me to imagine how it would feel if I didn’t have Chef DuPont breathing down my back. All of the doubt and insecurities fogging my judgment disperse, like a sea of hesitance that parts, creating a path that I finally feel confident I can take. I see a future where I’ll be running my own kitchen. One that I want to embrace.

With the kitchen scrubbed and cleaned, the stainless-steel countertops shining against the dimmed fluorescent lights that veil over the now empty kitchen, I walk into the dining area.

“Hey, Pat?”

He’s lining up wineglasses behind the bar, carefully inspecting them for chips, scrapes, and water spots. He looks up when I call him, an expectant look on his face as a warm smile spreads.

“I’ll take it,” I say, my voice still wavering between confidence and doubt. “The job. I’ll take it.”

His smile widens, his teeth exposed as he grins ear to ear. “You’re going to be a great boss, kid,” he says, extending his hand toward me.

I take his offering, gripping firmly as we seal the deal.

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