My career took off from there.
Now, it’s bite-sized tarts, mousses most people can’t pronounce, and sorbets that we all like to pretend are more fulfilling than ice cream. And though there are parts of the high-end world that feel pretentious and ridiculous, I’m grateful this is where life has taken me.
My career is impressive. I know this. I’ve worked endless hours to be impressive, to reach these borderline unattainable goals. But now that I’ve achieved most of them, I’m floating without direction, looking for the next checkmark to chase.
And that’s exactly what my chaotic mind has reminded me over the past three weeks. I either maintain success or quickly take my spin through the ever-revolving door that names the newest and hottest chef in the industry.
With my mind reeling, I merge onto the highway headed towards my dad’s hotel just as my agent calls.
I answer on the Bluetooth. “Hi, Violet.”
“What the hell did that little prick do that made you, of all people, quit a job early? Chef Jared called me to apologize and tried to forward three months’ pay for you.”
“Don’t accept that check,” I tell her. “Yes, his employee is a raging douche, but the truth is, I wouldn’t have been any help to him this summer anyway.”
She pauses on the line. “Miller, what’s going on?”
Violet has been my agent for the past three years, and though I don’t have many friends due to my hectic lifestyle, I’d consider her one of them. She manages my schedule and lines up my interviews. Anyone who wants to write about me in their food blog or have me consult on their menu must go through her first.
And though there are very few people I can be honest with about what I’m dealing with, she’s one of them.
“Vi, you might kill me, but I think I’m going to take the rest of the summer off.”
If the Miami highway wasn’t so fucking loud, you’d be able to hear a pin drop.
“Why?” Her tone is frantic. “You have the biggest job of your career in the fall. You have the cover booked for Food & Wine magazine. Please don’t tell me you’re backing out of that.”
“No. God no. I’m still doing it and I’ll be in Los Angeles by the time my next job starts, I just . . .” Shit, how do I tell her that her highest-paid client is losing it? “Violet, I haven’t been able to create a new dessert in three weeks.”
“You mean you haven’t had the time?” she assumes. “Because if you’re needing more time to perfect the recipes for the article, I could understand that.”
“No. I mean I haven’t made something that didn’t fall apart in the process or burn to shit in the oven. It’d be comical how bad I am at my job if I weren’t on the brink of a mental breakdown because of it.”
She laughs. “You’re fucking with me, right?”
“Violet, a five-year-old with an Easy Bake Oven could make a better dessert than me right now.”
The line goes silent once again.
“Violet, you still there?”
“I’m processing.”
Taking the exit for my dad’s hotel, I wait for her to speak.
“Okay,” she says, calming herself. “Okay, this is fine. Everything’s fine. You’re going to take the next two months to breathe, gather yourself, and get out to Luna’s by September first.”
Luna’s is Chef Maven’s restaurant that I’ll be consulting at in the fall. Maven did a seminar while I was in culinary school, and I’ve been dying for my chance to work with her, but she left the industry shortly after we met. She became a mother, then came back into the food world by opening a restaurant named after her daughter and asked me to come help with her dessert menu. The interview for Food & Wine magazine will be taking place in her kitchen in Los Angeles, and I couldn’t be more excited for the opportunity.
At least, I was excited until everything turned to shit.
“You’ll be at Luna’s by September first, right, Miller?” Violet asks when I don’t respond.
“I’ll be there.”
“Okay,” she exhales. “I can sell this. You’re celebrating your new award by spending the summer with family and you’re looking forward to being back in the kitchen in September. God, the blogs and critics are going to be up my ass about this, wondering where the hell you are. Are you sure your dad isn’t sick? I could spin that.”
“Jesus, Violet,” I laugh in disbelief. “He’s perfectly fine, thank God.”
“Good. That man is too beautiful to be dying so young.” Finally Violet laughs through the receiver.
“Gross. I gotta go.”
“Tell Daddy Montgomery I said hello.”
“Yeah, I won’t be doing that. Bye, Vi.”
The Windy City Warriors, Chicago’s professional baseball team, have been in town for a couple of days. My dad has been the field manager, which is essentially the head coach, for the past five years. Before that, he worked with their minor league team after being snatched up from our local college back in Colorado.
Emmett Montgomery rose through the baseball ranks quickly. As he deserved to. He was already on the fast track to making a name for himself in the sport when everything changed for us. He gave up everything to become my dad, including his thriving career, refusing to leave his local coaching job until I graduated from high school and was off doing my own thing.
He’s one of the good ones. In fact, I’d argue he’s the very best.
It’s been just the two of us most of my life and, though you’d think I left home at eighteen to spread my wings, I really did it so he could. I knew then, just as I know now, that the moment I stop moving, he’ll tie himself to whatever city I settle in to be close to me. So, for his sake, I haven’t stopped running since I left home at eighteen, and I have no plans to. He’s given up everything for me. The least I can do is make sure he doesn’t give up any more.
I stop at a convenience store, grabbing a couple of Coronas, one for me and one for him, before trading my kitchen pants and non-slip shoes for a pair of cutoff overalls and flip-flops. I peel off my long-sleeved shirt, replace my septum ring to its rightful home, and take the furthest parking spot from the entrance to the stunning hotel my dad is staying at.
Even after watching him coach in the majors for the past five years, I still can’t get over seeing him like this. We never had fancy or expensive things growing up. He didn’t make a lot of money being a college coach, and he was only twenty-five when he became my dad. In a lot of ways, we grew up together.
He fed me mac and cheese from the box more nights than not because he wasn’t the most proficient in the kitchen. Which is why, when I was old enough to, I took over in that department, learning to cook and finding my love for baking. I lit up whenever I impressed him with a new recipe, which, let’s be honest, was every single time. He’s easily my biggest fan.
But seeing him here, thriving, doing what he loves most and being so good at it that he’s already got a World Series ring, makes me infinitely proud of how well he’s done without me around.
I want to make him equally as proud, especially after everything he sacrificed for me, and I have the opportunity to. After being one of the youngest recipients of the James Beard Award, I’ve been booked for an eight-page spread in Food & Wine magazine, including the cover and three brand-new featured recipes that I can’t find the inspiration to create. All happening in two short months when I get to LA for my next project.
No pressure, whatsoever.
I twist the cap off one of the beers to swallow down the sky-high expectations I put on myself as the elevator opens on the lobby floor. The two men inside don’t get off, so I slide in between them.
The one to my left has a head of light brown hair and what seems like the inability to keep his jaw from hanging open.