Yes, Chef: A Grumpy x Sunshine Kitchen Romance

If I close my eyes, I can feel my pulse in my skull.

I love the rush of service. The crushing pressure that cuts through the chaos and forces me to focus. The rhythm, the beauty, the moment a dish comes together. Some people do drugs or street race or jump out of fucking airplanes to reach that level of serenity. I cook. It's been that way since I was fifteen, watching the line cooks at the Sailfish crush service like an army drill.

Today, I need all the quiet I can get before the show gets underway. I went out last night with Jorge and Hazel and Martinez. We met up with other kitchen crews, drank our way through a few bars. Hazel tried to convince me to add another tattoo to the tapestry on my skin. Martinez flirted his way into an Uber with a woman from a bachelorette party. Jorge finally dropped me off at my apartment; told me to set at least five alarms to make sure I'd haul ass uptown on time.

I made it—not a given lately—with a monster hangover that hasn't been eased by aspirin or the beer I chugged in the alleyway an hour ago, all while eyeing Jorge's cigarette enviously. He ground it out underneath his sneaker before going back inside, patting my back with a pinched expression.

Despite the haze of nausea that feels at least forty percent tarragon-induced, in the gleaming silver kitchen of Pastiche, I can breathe.

Cooking is mostly about preparation. There are rules to follow. Systems in place to ensure consistency. Diners won't be coming into Pastiche until the evening, but we have a million things to do before the first reservations walk in. There's meat and fish to be butchered and portioned out, sauces to complete, components to finalize. A million garnishes to prepare, which is what I've been doing while contemplating the merits of puking in the graffitied staff bathroom.

Across from me, Jimmy, our sniveling dickwad of an executive chef whose idea of getting fancy extends only as far as adding a smear of purée to the plate, fiddles with options for the special. We have fresh snapper today, the flesh firm and gleaming; he's thinking of doing a take on al forno. It's tomato season, after all. Hazel passes by with flour on her hands. She's working the pasta station, focused on making the homemade cavatelli we're known for. Jimmy stops her, offering a spoon for her to taste.

"Delicious," she says. She glances sidelong at me. "Douglas is here."

"What? Why?"

She shrugs. "You know, Jimmy?"

Jimmy ducks his head. I think I catch a smirk, but I have dark spots swimming at the edges of my vision, so it's possible I'm imagining it. Hazel purses her lips, tucking a dark curl back underneath her bandanna.

Douglas Winfield strides into the kitchen. He looks as impeccable as he did the morning he accosted me outside the French Laundry, asking how much it would take to get me to work for him. Full suit, knotted tie, salt-and-pepper hair parted with precision. His pale blue eyes find me first. He looks a little like Jorge did outside, on the edge of a grimace.

"Sir," Jimmy says, making a big show of wiping his hands on a towel before reaching out for a shake. "Thanks for coming in."

"Always a pleasure, Scazzero."

Douglas does a visual sweep of the kitchen, nodding at what he finds. The stainless steel is spotless. Everyone is quiet, efficient, and focused. Then again, anyone can make the daytime prep seem fluid. Never mind that Jimmy does a shit job running the kitchen during service, that he'll disappear into the office after finalizing the special and argue with his ex-wife loudly enough we can all hear, then do a few lines of coke in the bathroom. Not that I haven't done the same—minus the ex-wife part. But my name isn't on the menu. Maybe Douglas is here to tell me that Green Street is moving along faster than planned. When I agreed to come work for him, it was with the promise of upward mobility. In a few months, Green Street will be the latest jewel in the Winfield Group's portfolio of restaurants—and I'll be its chef de cuisine. Once I'm there, I won't have to pretend that Jimmy's food is anything special, or fire people on his behalf, or any of the other shit I've been grinding through for years, same as at the dozen other places I've worked since culinary school. When we first agreed to the promotion, Douglas promised me free rein over the staff, the menu, even the wine list. Everything.

"Hartman, can we have a word?" Douglas asks.

My stomach knots. That doesn't sound very congratulatory.

I follow Douglas into the cramped office. The fluorescent light overhead flickers ominously. He leans against the wall. Peers at the whiteboard, which is covered in chicken scratch—mostly mine—and several unfortunately realistic dicks. Uncut. Probably Hazel's doing. She has an art degree. Got into cooking to pay off her student loans.