His words had tumbled through my mind for days afterward, leaving a bitter aftertaste that I could only cleanse by admitting they were probably true. Finally I realized I had nothing left to lose but the little bit of pride I still clung to like a comforter. So I packed up some clothes, books, and all my anxieties and then left my dusty hometown for good. But as I drove down to L.A., I felt more like I was leaving all my dreams behind unrealized than heading toward them anew. Struggling and just about managing to suppress the feeling that I was heading for another personal disaster, that L.A. would chew me up and spit me out.
Karma decided to start cashing itself in when I arrived though. Within days I found a great apartment with an awesome fitness instructor roommate named Asha, Tony had me taking on open shifts at the sushi place he worked at, and after just a couple of months I landed an interview at the hottest place in the city: Knife. I didn’t expect to get it, being one of the most inexperienced of the candidates, but it turned out to be more of a cooking test than a formal interview, and I got the job. Martin—the manager who was looking after the place while Knife’s owner set up his new spot in Las Vegas—said it wasn’t even close.
That was just over a week ago, and things couldn’t have gone much better…until about twenty minutes ago when I decided to fuck it all up because I didn’t ask anyone in the kitchen if we had any plain thyme. So here it is. Smacking me in the face. Rock bottom. Now I’m pushing open the door to my apartment, struggling not to cry in case I find I can’t stop.
Asha’s sitting on the couch watching TV, her long, powerful legs propped up on the coffee table. She turns moon-like brown eyes in my direction as I enter, and with the kind of perception that only someone who genuinely cares can show, asks, “Is something wrong? It’s not even ten. I thought you were finishing after midnight tonight?”
“So did I,” I say, letting myself slump onto the loveseat beside her.
She keeps those eyes fixed on me, and I know she wants the whole story. Asha used to be an MMA fighter, so she’s good at staring people down.
“Spill it.”
I take a deep breath. “I just fucked up the job at Knife. Royally.”
“What?” Asha cries, pulling her legs from the table and facing me directly, toned muscles twisting in my direction. “How? Everything was going so great.”
I rub my eyes and sigh deeply as I replay the scene in my mind.
“I used a slightly different ingredient for the potatoes than what’s listed on the menu. It was the first time I’ve ever done that, and ninety-nine point nine percent of people wouldn’t have even been able to tell the difference…so—of course—the plate was going out to the one guy who could.”
“Who?”
“Cole Chambers. The owner. My boss.”
Asha breathes in through her teeth, and puts a hand on my arm. I can tell she’s already thinking of how to soften the blow.
“So…he fired you? Just like that? I mean I know he’s supposed to be a jerk, but—”
“I didn’t give him the chance. Once he started yelling, I walked out.”
“Willow…” Asha says, shaking her head.
“What was I supposed to do?” I say, frustration and anger at myself seeping into my defensive tone. “Just stand there and let myself be embarrassed?”
“Come on now,” Asha says, her tone gentle but firm. “You shouldn’t have just walked out like that. He might not have fired you.”
“No, he would have,” I say, shaking my head adamantly. “It’s not like I haven’t seen him fire somebody before. I recognized the look on his face. He was pissed, and he wasn’t giving me any second chances. I was just saving my pride.”
Asha sighs and tilts her head in disappointment, braids falling over her shoulder.
“Would he really fire you over that? One ingredient out of dozens, out of a hundred dishes? You could have explained it was a mistake, that it won’t happen again. Surely he would understand that.”
“No, you don’t get it. Cole’s whole thing is that he’s precise, meticulous. His recipes are like paintings, every brushstroke matters. For me to just throw something else in there—”
I stop myself to drop my head in my hands, my own stupidity sounding even more ridiculous when I’m forced to articulate it out loud. Asha reaches out and rubs my back.
“Whatever,” she says, in a voice as soft and soothing as aloe. “It’ll be okay. Los Angeles is full of restaurants.”
“And all of them are a step down from Knife,” I say. “It’s not like I can just coast much longer. I’m still paying off my debts, and I’m not even sure I’ve made rent this month.”
“Leave all that for the morning,” Asha says, standing up with a sudden burst of vitality, enthusiastic defiance in her voice. “Look, the night’s still young. Let’s go get a couple of drinks—maybe a few too many. My first class isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. We’ll get dressed up, we could dance a little,” she says, swaying her hips, “and I guarantee you it’ll all seem much less like the end of the world when you wake up with a hangover.”
I look up at her, forcing a smile to show how much I appreciate it.
“Thanks, but…I don’t really feel like going out. All I wanna do right now is make a gigantic batch of the sugariest, chocolateyest, meltiest fudge brownies and eat myself into a sugar coma.”
Asha raises an eyebrow mischievously as she considers it, and I can almost hear her stomach growl.
“Well. That works for me.”
3
Cole
I turn up at Knife early the next morning. Early enough to smell the jasmine still lingering in the coolness of the night air. Insomnia can be a real problem, but in the restaurant business it’s virtually a necessity. So here I am, in the only area of Knife that I allow to be a mess: the back office.
I’m sitting behind the desk, among the filing cabinets and piled-up receipts, a few crates of wine in the corners (I let the staff use the room for storage sometimes). The sound of the dish washers hosing down the last of the pans a satisfying background music as I run through the accounts and figure out the pricing of some seasonal menu items.
As a couple of the chefs start arriving for the lunch shift, I hear a knock on the open door and look up to see Leo’s bald head in the doorway. He’s wearing a buttoned-up checked shirt and creased slacks that would have been out of date even in the sixties. He’s one of the few chefs for whom the chef whites are a step up. Even though he’s forty two, he still has the smooth, puppyish skin of a baby. Clean scalp reflecting even the dim light of the office, skin pale enough to make you wonder if he commutes from Alaska.
“Hey boss,” he says, in his gritty, quiet voice. “Willow just turned up. Should I tell her to leave?”
“Why would you tell her to leave?” I ask, my voice firmly dismissing his assumption.
“Ok, ok,” he says, holding up his hands. “I didn’t know you wanted to fire her yourself.”
I lean back in my chair, cross my arms, and shoot him a look like I’m about to challenge him to draw.
“Who told you I was going to fire her?” I’m feeling defensive about her all of a sudden, and I don’t know why. Especially considering that her behavior last night was unacceptable.