Page 10 of Until August
Sometimes I hated the adage that the customer was always right. Especially when they ordered an expensive bottle of wine and sent it back. “Take it off their tab and put that bottle behind the bar. Tell Rob it’s eighteen dollars a glass.” She nodded and turned to go. “And focus on managing your waitstaff and the restaurant instead of flirting with customers.”
“It was five minutes, Nic. And I’m the front-of-house manager. Keeping the customers happy is part of my job. But you should see this guy. He’s—”
“I don’t have time for this, Ari,” I gritted. My cousin was twenty-six, beautiful, and very much single now that she’d dumped her loser boyfriend of four years. He’d cheated on her (multiple times), and in retaliation, she’d been hooking up with guys left, right, and center. Which I fully supported. Except when she was doing it on my dime.
“Okay. Nic.” She held up her hands. “You know I love you, but you are so tightly wound. Is this because of that review?” My expression must have given me away. “It was just one review, Nic. You can’t let it get to you. Shake it off.”
God, that review was so scathing. I couldn’t get it out of my head, making me question everything. “Nicola’s at The Surf Lodge looks sexy but fails to seduce. The Dover sole was bland and unremarkable. The scallops were lackluster. And the duck was rubbery, served with a sauce reminiscent of a school cafeteria lunch. At these prices, everything should be exquisite, which, sadly, it is not.”
“Just stop and take a deep calming breath,” Ari said. “Everything is going to be okay,” she assured me.
Easy for her to say. She wasn’t responsible for keeping this restaurant afloat. And it wasn’t her name or reputation on the line.
As soon as she walked away, I was hit with a dozen new problems. Every line cook was in the weeds, and the service had ground to a screeching halt.
A few minutes later, Courtney showed up at the pass and looked at me expectantly. Shit. The filet mignon.
“Zach, where’s the steak?”
“It’s up.” He passed it to Luca, who was on the sauté station, ready to pan-sear it with chanterelles, garlic, and thyme.
Luca pressed his finger against the meat. “Dude, this is overcooked.” Luca set the beef in front of me for my inspection. “We can’t fucking serve this.” He crossed his arms and jerked his chin at it. “Cut into it. I’d bet on my life it’s medium. If I’m wrong, I’ll pay you for the steak.”
At twenty-four, my brother already had the arrogance of a head chef. I’d love to knock him down a few pegs, but sadly, I knew he was right.
“Zach, take over Luca’s station. Luca, I want you on the grill.” It was a snap decision and not one of my better ones to pit these two against each other. But Zach had just ruined two fifty-dollar entrées, and I couldn’t take the risk that he’d destroy anything else.
“No fucking way,” Luca said. “This is my station. He’s going to fuck it up.”
“Luca, now.” I wrenched the pan out of his hand and took over the sauté station.
Zach shoulder-checked Luca as he walked past him. Luca spun around and shoved him against the counter, rattling the plates on the shelves.
Zach’s hands balled into fists, ready to fight back. “You’re an asshole, Benedetti.”
“At least I know how to cook a fucking steak without incinerating it.”
“Get out of my space,” Miguel snarled at them.
“We don’t have time for this,” I yelled. “Both of you, just do your damn jobs. This isn’t a high school locker room.” Although there was so much testosterone in this kitchen that sometimes it felt like one.
They glared at each other before they did as I’d asked.
Why would anyone be crazy enough to open their own restaurant? The hours sucked. The work was labor intensive and never-ending. You had to break up fights and deal with big egos and hot tempers. You had to put your heart, soul, sweat, and tears into it. And sometimes, that wasn’t even enough. Critics slammed you. Customers gave you shit. Food got sent back, and wine was deemed undrinkable.
So, I was obviously certifiable because running my own restaurant was the only thing I’d ever wanted to do.
* * *
After the last table had been served, I bummed a cigarette from Jayden, one of my dish washers, and walked out the back door. Leaning against the wall near the dumpsters, I sucked in deep breaths of salt air.
My kitchen was the only thing I still had control over, but even that felt like it was slipping through my fingers.
The back door opened, and Luca stepped outside, his tall frame looming before me.
When did my little brother grow up?
He pushed his hand through his hair, chestnut brown and wavy like mine and blew out an exasperated breath. “You need a new sous chef, Nic. Aimee’s been gone for months, and you still haven’t hired anyone to replace her. And you need to get rid of Zach. He’s not cutting it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me.
