Romance Impossible(2)

My throat instantly went dry.

"I'm so sorry," the chef said, again. "I should've...I should've told him I made it. But I didn't. Stupid. I had no idea he was going to..."

"It's fine," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "You don't have to lie for me. I can take the heat." I smiled what I hoped was a reassuring smile, took a deep breath, and walked out into the dining room.

I was instantly, painfully aware of how out of place I looked. In spite of everything, Chef Souverani still tried to maintain a classy atmosphere in Giovanni's. And here I was, in a grease-stained chef's coat, walking amongst the people in their sleek evening outfits and the waiters in black and white. My hair must be a mess under my hat. But those were stupid things to be worrying about right now. Right now, all I needed to focus on was the man across the dining room, who was currently boring holes directly through my soul with his eyes.

Pasting on a smile, I walked right up to him.

"You wanted to see me?" I couldn't believe how clear and cool my voice sounded.

Chef Maxwell Dylan looked me up and down, his eyes raking across me, like he was seeing every flaw, even the ones I fought to keep hidden.

Well, there was no need to get so melodramatic over it. I took a deep breath, and held my smile in place.

"And what's your position here, may I ask?" His voice was deep and resonant, with a light accent that hinted at his rural English upbringing. And more than that, he sounded pissed.

"I'm a line cook, sir."

"And you're cooking my entire dinner...why?"

"The sous chef couldn't make it in tonight." I could feel my smile growing more brittle by the moment. "Was there something wrong with the food?"

"Something wrong with the..." he echoed, exasperation tingeing his voice. "Tell me, truly, would you eat this food?"

"I do," I said. "I eat it every day."

He made a tsking noise, looking down at his plate. My ears were burning, but I couldn't back down. I couldn't let him win this thing.

We're a temperamental bunch, in the culinary world. It comes along with the stress, I think, not that we're saving lives or anything - but from the way some diners carry on, you'd think their survival was on the line. "High-pressure" is the term people use to describe it. You either collapse, or you turn into a diamond. But either way, you're guaranteed to take some abuse. And probably sling your fair share of it, too.

But even amongst chefs, Maxwell Dylan had a reputation. And now, I was starting to see why.

"I'm sorry," he said, "that your standards are so low. But mine are not yet, thankfully. Are you really proud to serve this kind of food? Does it make you happy?"#p#分页标题#e#

I couldn't answer him. My mouth trembled with the effort to keep it closed. No, of course not, I wanted to shout at him. Do you think I have any control over where the food comes from? I can't help it if everything comes in frozen. I hate it, it's sucking the passion out of me every day, but what am I supposed to do?

He just kept looking at me. Even under normal circumstances, he would have been intimidating. Heavy brow, stormy eyes - even his sandy hair seemed like it didn't want to follow anyone else's rules. He was roughly handsome, like someone who ought to have been working on a dock, or perched out on a giant steel girder, eating his lunch out of a box with a rounded top.

But he wasn't. He was sitting here, in the restaurant where I'd been working for almost five years now, staring me down like he wanted a fight.

"Look," he said, finally, his voice dripping with condescension. "I know it's not entirely your fault that the food is abysmal. But you have to aspire to more than this, you know? Settling for this...I mean, you can't be happy, can you?"

His blue-gray eyes were still fixed on me, but they'd softened somewhat. He was trying to throw me off-balance. Rumor had it, he'd once worked under Chef Sully DePalma, a man so notorious that it was said no one could work in his kitchen for more than a month, without leaving in tears. Chef Dylan worked there for six months, and on his last day, it was Chef DePalma who went home early with "something in his eye."

I steeled myself.

"I don't believe my happiness is relevant, Chef." I took a deep breath, looking him right in the eyes. "Would you like me to make you something else?"

He glanced down at this plate, and then back up at me. "Do you have anything that isn't frozen?"

My eye twitched.

"The salad," I heard myself say.

Customers were staring. I couldn't believe this - being questioned, shamed, in front of my diners. I felt tears pricking behind my eyes, but I refused to let my weakness show.