Page 27 of Unexpected Pickle
But I was reeling from their separation, particularly because it involved my dad’s work as a chef. Seems Mom was done spending her evenings and weekends alone. She wanted someone who was there for her, not leading teams of chefs at award-winning restaurants each night, never taking time off. She’d simply been waiting to leave him until I grew up.
By then, I had already started culinary school myself. And I wondered, would I ever find someone willing to put up with my hours?
Dad told me to marry another chef. It was the only way.
Instead, I stuck to the deli, where I more or less had ordinary work days since we don’t serve dinner.
But it’s time. I have to branch out. Take risks.
Working the awards event was a rush. I want more of that.
Maybe I will meet someone this week who is the link to getting there.
Or I could find a chef relationship.
Either would be nice. And what if I found both at the same time?
Are you going to squash me like a bug?
I blow out a breath. Stop it, Jeannie.
My snot is frozen again by the time I enter the lobby. This time, the chefs are directed to a service hall that runs alongside the restaurant as the dining areas is holding a brunch.
I pinch my nose to warm it faster, walking the corridor until it opens into a narrow space behind the kitchen and offices.
A young woman in a short chef cap motions the guest chefs to the lockers. “Chef Young,” she says. “Your locker is on the end there. Number 6. I can take your coat.”
I hand her my jacket and smooth my uniform. There is a variety among us, some in all black, others all white, some splitting the black pants and white jacket. Hex isn’t here yet. Iwonder what he will wear. Did he have a chef uniform made for this? I doubt he could buy off the rack with his shoulders.
Chef Moreau approaches me, all in white. His toque hat is ridiculously tall and pleated. I wonder if he’s making up for other things with his headwear.
“Cute,” he says, reaching out to tweak the beret-styled chef hat I picked up for the trip. I specifically avoided trying to act like I was something I wasn’t, and I certainly would not don the pickle-emblazoned headgear I wear at the deli.
“Thanks.”
Moreau rubs his hands together. “I’m looking forward to this. I have an interest in being a chef to the stars. Or a celebrity chef. All the good gigs are where you are, in LA.”
“There are a lot of celebrity chefs in Hollywood; it’s true.” At least I assume so. I barely keep up with the restaurants near me, other than the chefs my father sends my way.
“This way, chefs,” the young woman tells us.
I glance around, looking for Hex. He still isn’t here. Did he chicken out?
Moreau definitely wants to be near me. He sticks to my side as the group files through a narrow corridor to the main kitchen. “I looked up this Hex person,” he says. “He is quite the sports figure. Do you work with him already?”
How to answer that? “I’ve only known him a few months. His sports nutrition chef left LA recently. He wants to learn more.”
“With you?” Moreau’s eyebrow lifts. I think he’s asking if I’m sleeping with him.
I don’t answer, focusing on the new space. Rows of gleaming stainless-steel stations fill the room, each with their own burners and prep spaces.
The first row is a more traditional kitchen setup, occupied by working chefs busily preparing dishes for the brunch.
A large frittata passes by us, smelling of herbs and cheese.
More than one stomach rumbles, and laughter breaks out among the guest chefs.
The young woman stands in front of us. “I am Chef Sigal, the sous chef here at the Hotel Menagerie. I am tasked with leading your first morning. We have prepared a station for each of you with six ingredients. No two stations are alike, and you will not be able to see your items until you begin. You have thirty minutes to prepare your own breakfast. We have a nutritionist who will speak to the group once your work is complete about the macros of your dish and how the ideas and concepts of nutrition will adjust in your time here this week. Are we all assembled?”
