Get out of my kitchen.
He scurries away as my eyes drop to scan through the tickets. I rattle off a series of sharp commands — meat ragout, ratatouille, bouillabaisse, steak tartare — and everyone jolts into motion.
For the next few hours, my world is a whirl of carefully controlled chaos. Every burner on my custom gas range is occupied, spitting fire like a demon through the wrought-iron gates of hell as we simmer, season, and stir raw ingredients into culinary perfection. Plates vanish like clockwork off the pass, servers rushing back and forth as tables turn over and the night wanes on. All eight members of my kitchen staff, from the salad prepper to the sauté chef, somehow manage to maintain the breakneck pace — even the new guy, whose name I haven’t yet bothered to learn. (There’s little point; he’ll probably quit before his second shift rolls around.) I’m everywhere at once, a five-foot-three blur in a starched white chef’s jacket, moving too fast for camera frames to catch me in focus: my hands in every dish, my tongue unleashing a razor-sharp torrent of critique.
Steve, this marinade tastes like your personality: utterly flavorless.
Izzie, for god’s sake, it’s a paring knife, not a machete.
Kevin, you’re a saint, keep doing exactly what you’re doing.
Cooking is art. A dance, perfectly choreographed. There’s a rhythm to each sweep of my spatula, a cadence to each dip of my ladle. I lose myself in the music of every dish, reveling in the freedom I only ever feel when I’m totally in control of all variables.
I’m checking the progress of the mussels steaming in a massive pot on the front burner when a throat clears at my back. I turn to find a blonde server standing there, shifting nervously from foot to foot. My eyes scan from her squeamish expression down to the plate gripped in her white-knuckled fingers. A portion of my world-famous coq au vin — tender chicken braised in a white wine sauce with provincial mushrooms —sits untouched at the center.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, frowning.
“The gentleman who ordered this…” She looks down, as if she’s afraid to hold my stare. “He sent it back.”
There’s a collective intake of air from everyone in the kitchen.
No one — no one — sends back my coq au vin. It simply does not happen.
“Did he say why?” I ask, feeling my pulse kick up a notch.
She squirms again.
“Tell me.”
Her eyes flash to mine, full of apprehension. “He said it was bland and…”
“And?”
“Unimaginative,” she murmurs with a grimace. Her voice is no louder than a whisper, but it rings through the kitchen like a gunshot.
My coq — my award-winning coq — unimaginative?!
Impossible.
I shove my ego down as deep as I can manage, trying not to let the anger creep into my voice or onto my face. Everyone seems to hold their breath as I step forward and remove the plate from the server’s hands.
“I see,” I say carefully, trying to slow my racing pulse. “Please tell the gentleman in question I will endeavor to put more imagination into my next attempt.”
And I do.
I braise and season with meticulous precision. I take painstaking care with every step, going so far as to chop the damn carrots myself. When I finally pull the cast iron skillet from the oven, fragrant and still bubbling, a contented smile crosses my face as I examine the utter perfection that is my coq.
“If he doesn’t like this, there’s something seriously wrong with his taste buds,” I tell the server as I pass the warm dish into her trembling hands.
She nods and disappears into the ornate dining room.
Crisis averted, I return my attention to more important matters — micromanaging my staff until they meet the exacting standards I demand. The night is winding down, less than an hour left before closing time, but our pace only seems to pick up speed as a steady stream of patrons filter through the front doors. They are faceless strangers, distinguishable only by the orders they place.
Foie gras with poached pears.
Escargot with garlic-butter.
Gratin dauphinois with crème fraiche and gruyere.
I am a constant flurry of motion, a ceaseless storm of activity… until the sound of a familiar feminine throat clearing brings me to a standstill.
“Um. Chef Pryce?”
My jaw locks. My hand clenches around my whisk.
No.
Not again.
Passing off the roux to my sous chef, I turn stiffly to face the server. She’s hovering there with another goddamned dish in her hands. My dish. My perfect dish. The coq au vin looks totally undisturbed, as though he — whoever the hell he is — couldn’t be bothered to try more than the smallest of bites before sending it back.
For the second time.
I swallow down a scream.
“I’m sorry.” The waitress winces. “He told me to return this one as well.”
“What is it this time?” I practically growl, striding forward and snatching the plate away. “Let me guess — too imaginative?”
Her lips press into a line. She looks like she might cry.
“Just tell me,” I prompt impatiently.
“He said…”
My brows arch.
She swallows hard. “He said he’s tasted better chicken at KFC.”
Izzie’s gasp is audible from across the kitchen. Kevin drops the whisk to the floor with a clatter. Even the new guy, who knows me only by reputation, seems stunned by this grave revelation.
“He said what?” I hiss.
“That he’s tasted better—”
“I heard you the first time!” I set the plate down on a stainless prep table with a bang. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“Just a normal guy, as far as I can tell. Sandy hair. Blue eyes. Expensive suit. Sort of familiar looking, but I can’t quite place him. And he’s dining alone, which is a little weird… but otherwise he seems super nice.” Her cheeks flush. “I mean, besides him sending back the dish.”
“Twice,” I mutter.
“Right. Twice.” She blows out a breath. “What do you want me to tell him, Chef?”
Tell him to go stuff himself.
My teeth grit to contain the less-than-prudent words. “Give me fifteen minutes. I’m going to remake the damn dish. Again. And by the time I’m done, come hell or high water, it’s going to be the best damn coq he’s ever put in his mouth.”
A strangled sound of amusement comes from Kevin’s direction.
I turn my gaze to him. “What was that?”
“Nothing, Chef.” His lips are twitching. “I wouldn’t dare laugh about your coq.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn away and get to work.
I have a job to do.
Namely: making Mr. KFC eat his words along with every godforsaken bite I serve him.
Thirty minutes later, we’re putting finishing touches on the last round of orders before closing. I’m smiling as I call out commands, finally feeling like myself again. That rattled sensation I experienced earlier has all but faded… until it happens.
A door, swinging.
A throat, clearing.
A server, shifting.
The very world stops turning beneath my feet as I spin around to meet her apologetic stare. I don’t even bother looking down at the plate in her hands. I already know what I’ll see there: an untouched helping of my most-beloved recipe. The same recipe I slaved over for years in culinary school. The one I perfected in every spare moment I had, while working my way up the hierarchy of kitchen after kitchen as my twenties slipped away. The one that finally landed me this coveted position at Mistral at age twenty-eight, the youngest head chef in the city — at least, at any restaurant that merits a visit.
My coq au vin.
The French may’ve done it first, but I do it better.
It’s my brand.
My signature.
I should trademark the damn recipe — it’s that good.
I’m that good.
And yet…
The server looks like she would rather be anywhere on the planet except standing in front of me. I recognize her expression easily — it’s the same one my last three dates have worn when they dropped me off on my front doorstep without so much as a kiss goodbye or a promise to call.