Cocky Chef(77)

"A hundred," Tony corrects me. "At a push … "

"We've got five cooks, and I must be looking at about two hundred and fifty customers." I check my watch. "And it's ten-to-seven. Shit. This is not good, Tony."

I look at him for a moment, with a glint of hope that he might come up with an answer. Some batshit crazy idea for how this could work, the kind of thing he's always been good at, the kind of thing that got us to this point in the first place.

But it doesn't come. And for some weird reason I remember what Cole told me that day at the beach, about trusting only yourself. A slight sadness coloring my frustration as I realize how much I miss him, even in the midst of all of this.

"Open the doors," I say, suddenly purposeful. "Start letting people in."

"What?" Tony gapes, following me back inside the restaurant. "But we still have time-"

"No we don't," I cut him off. "If we're gonna get through this many people we need to start turning them over quickly. You!" I point at the waiters. "Push people toward anything that isn't the seafood. Recommend the paprika chicken, or the kimchi steak."

The waiters nod and stiffen. I pull my phone out and start looking for seafood distributors, dialing the first one as I push past the doors into the kitchen.

"Showtime!" I call out to the chefs as I tuck the phone between ear and shoulder to start readying the counter. "Orders coming in thick and fast and very soon! Show me what you've learned. Chow is open for business."


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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 maître 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!"