What follows is without doubt the hardest shift of my life. Enough orders come in to occupy a kitchen twice our size, and all the while I glue my face to my phone as I call every seafood distributor in town looking for an emergency package. Most just laugh off the request, and others don’t even answer at this time of night. The best I get is a box of crab that’s good for about three orders.
But even though every member of the kitchen works hard enough to win a medal, proving all my hiring instincts right, and even though Tony puts in a star-quality performance as ma?tre d’, head waiter, and occasional dish washer, we’re a sinking cruise ship with nothing but buckets to bail.
I don’t give up, but a million tiny heartbreaks stretch my hope to its limit. The stove breaks—and this time no amount of cap slamming brings it back to life, leaving us with two burners when even four wouldn’t be enough for this hungry mob. Then, in the manic frenzy of the kitchen, the last crate of our most popular craft beer smashes to the ground, causing us to lose precious time cleaning up, and to run dangerously low on alcohol. The seafood dishes have to be reduced to artisanal-small portions, and I overhear the waiters fret constantly over the customers complaining about how long the food is taking.
Even the constant stream of happy diners who pass through to the kitchen to compliment the food only frustrate me, taking up my time and forcing me to be ruder than I’d ever normally be, just to get them out of my hair. When Tony pops back for a moment to happily tell me that some of the customers are ordering multiple entrees, and that a couple of tables seem to be working their way through half the menu, I shriek at the ceiling. The last thing I need is customers staying for hours at our already limited tables. Having folks love our food is great for the long term, but it isn’t helping me tonight.
At nine-fifteen I go outside to check the crowd, and see that word seems to be getting around—the line is no smaller than it was before we opened, but now the mood is substantially different. Impatient faces roll eyes at each other, or stare into the distance with glazed expressions due to the length of time it’s taking to move forward in the line. I see a few people break off from the middle and walk away, shaking their heads, already mentally composing their bad Yelp reviews.
My breaking point comes soon after, however.
“Uh…Willow.”
“Yes, Shane?”
“The seafood’s here,” he says, and I immediately drop the soup spoon into the boil. “Watch this, Jack,” I say, as I march angrily out to the delivery entrance with Shane.
It’s the same leathery guy as last time, staring at his folded paper in the same way, while the same companion I remember unloads the ice boxes beside the door.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I yell, the second I see him.
He looks up and smiles, as if surprised. “Is there a problem here?”
I stare at him open-mouthed until I overcome my dumbfounded anger.
“Yes there’s a fucking problem! What time do you call this? I’m halfway through my opening night!”
He looks at me as if listening attentively, then checks his paper again.
“You sure? I have before nine-thirty written here.” He checks his watch. “And it’s only a couple minutes past.”
“Nine-thirty in the morning,” I say, my voice low, hard, and steely with rage now. “Who the fuck has their orders delivered at nine-thirty on a Friday night?”
He continues to look at his paper, brows furrowing.
“Ah, I see the problem. My ‘am’ looks like a ‘pm.’” He holds out the paper to his companion who dumps a box and looks. “Doesn’t that ‘a’ look like a ‘p’ to you?”
“It does,” the guy agrees.
“See,” leather-face says, smiling at me as if everything is ok now. “Anyway, delivery’s here now, so the way I see it, no harm no foul.”
“No foul? I’m not serving my customers fish that’s been sitting around in your truck all day!”
I launch myself toward him but find myself constricted, Shane grabbing at my hands to hold me back from doing something stupid, or possibly worthy of pressed charges.
“It’s fresh enough,” the man says, pointing his pencil at the box sitting on the ground.
I shake out of Shane’s grip and pry the lid open, stumbling backward as the smell hits me hard. I throw my hand over my nose and glare at the man. “This is not fresh. It’s not even edible.”
He laughs gently. “Easy now. Squid doesn’t smell like roses when it comes out of the sea, you know.”
“I know what fresh smells like, and this smells like it’s been out in the sun all day.”
The guy gives his companion a ‘women-don’t-get-it’ look, then shrugs back at me, already backing away to retreat to his van.
“Smells fresh to me,” he says. “And you paid in advance, so sorry—no refunds.”
I launch myself again, but Shane gets there just in time, holding me back even as I flail in his grasp. The two men get into the van and slam the doors and finally Shane’s grip loosens, allowing me to kick the bumper as the van revs away.
“You think anybody I know is ever going to use you again when I tell them this?!” I yell at the departing van. “I’ll ruin you! You just lost a whole load of business!”
I stand there, panting as the vehicle turns the corner. The unmistakable sound of a pile of dishes smashing to the floor tears at the edges of my sanity, forcing me to release my grip on reality, threatening to make my entire being crumble. I bury my head in my hands, consciously struggling to inhale shaky breaths, willing my body to not just give up right here, right now.
“Uh…Willow? Should I—”
“Yeah, just go,” I say, sending Shane back into the kitchen with a wave.
I stagger back to the door, struggling to hold it all together.
“Fuck!” I yell, and kick one of the boxes aside, sending rotting cod and melting ice sliding into the alley.
“A real chef’s temper you’ve got there,” a voice says.
It’s him. Cole. Standing with his hands in his pockets in the darkening alley like some kind of comic book supervillain.
“Oh, great,” I say, looking up at the night and laughing. “As if it couldn’t get any worse. If you came to gloat, do me a favor and make it quick.”
“I didn’t come here to gloat,” he says, taking a few steps closer.
“Sure you did. This is a fucking disaster,” I say, gesturing at the fish, the restaurant, the sound of the impatient crowd rumbling just around the corner of the building. “You got exactly what you wanted.”
“No I didn’t,” he says, looking deeply into my eyes. “I didn’t get what I wanted at all.”
I tear my gaze from his and point at him angrily.
“If you think this is it, that a bad opening night is going to do me in and have me crawling back to Knife, as if this proves anything, then you’ve got another thing coming. I’m going to make this place work if it kills me.”
Cole laughs gently and holds his palms up. “I believe it.”