Mother's Day

I twisted my fingers in the pocket of my apron, my stomach knotting. The restaurant manager looked at his clipboard, then at us, and then at the clipboard again. Adam was probably the best manager we’d had in years, but his resting-bitch-face always made me sweat. His dark, bushy brows drew together in concentration.

“Chelsea,” he said, in his cold, commanding voice, and Chelsea, who stood beside me, straightened her spine. “You’re on clearing.”

“No problem,” Chelsea said, but I noticed the slump in her posture. No one enjoyed clearing duty. It was gruelling to clean dirty tables for hours on end. Nothing but cold leftovers, slimy baby wipes and filthy napkins. The joys of catering at a tourist attraction. When turning tables at the rate we did, every staff member had one job, and one job only. Kept the place running like clockwork. And today, we had no room for screw ups.

Mother’s Day...

    “And that leaves...”—Adam dragged his finger down the clipboard before eyeing me over the top—“Samantha...”

There was only one role not yet allocated, and my stomach lurched as he said, “You’re on the pass. Think you can handle it?”

Any other day, it would be a simple “Yes”. Chef and I had a rapport rivaled by no one. But today, the pressure was already getting to me, as memories of last year’s Mother’s Day flooded my mind. We’d had a weak manager back then, and a B-team of servers. Absolute carnage.

I nodded, forcing a smile so wide my cheeks ached. “Sure.”

“You’re positive?” he asked, eyebrows knitted together so tight his forehead wrinkled. He must have spotted my nervous twitching. I removed my hands from my pocket and whipped the pen from behind my ear.

“Oh yes,” I said, feigning confidence. I almost convinced myself. Almost...

“Everyone, get set up,” Adam said, and with that, everyone scattered to their various stations. Some on tills. Others topped up drinks in the coolers, and cakes on the cake stands.

Not me. I headed to the kitchen, along with Tina, Diana and Pippa: my food runners.

As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, my senses were bombarded. The dry heat from the lamps over the pass. The scent of oil and spices. Clanging pans and the hiss of steam.

And there he was, behind the pass.

Chef.

“It’s you and me today,” I said, standing opposite him, the pass separating us.

He looked up at me as he set up his station, a smile creeping across his lips. A smile that radiated more warmth than the heat lamps, dimples forming in his cheeks. My insides liquified.

“You alright?” he asked, and from the way he cocked one eyebrow, I knew he could see through my facade.

“Of course I am.”

His smile widened, forming creases at the corners of his emerald eyes as he said, “We’ve got this, yeah?”

I returned his smile, and the tension in my shoulders eased ever so slightly. “Yeah.”

It didn’t take long for the ticket machine to shunt out an order, the noise piercing through the kitchen banter and clang of equipment.

“We’re live!” Chef called out and ripped the ticket from the machine. “I need two fish, one burger!”

“Yes, Chef!” two line cooks chorused.

My heart fluttered as Chef handed me a copy of the ticket, his fingers brushing against mine as he did so.

You’re fine. You got this. Just do what you always do. Check the order and send it. Easy...

I scrutinized the ticket. Yes, Chef had called out the correct order. He usually did. But two sets of eyes are better than one.

Table five...

I wrote a big number five on top of the ticket—easier to read than the tiny, printed letters. Today had to run smoothly, so I was taking no chances of food going to the wrong table. I slotted the ticket into the rail over the pass as the machine spat out another order.

Chef’s rumbling voice echoed throughout the kitchen once more. “That’s another burger, two chicken, and two pies!”

“Yes, Chef!”

And then another order. And another. The grinding noise from the ticket machine never seemed to stop.

A line cook delivered food for Chef’s inspection, the metal serving plate hitting the pass with a crash.

“I have two fish! Where’s that first burger?!” Chef called as he slotted another ticket into his rail, handing me the copy.

“Behind!” The second line cook brought the burger to the pass.

“Plating up table five. Service!”

I turned to the three girls stood beside me. First in the row was Tina.

“That’s two fish, one burger,” I said, loading her up. “Table five.”

“Table five,” she repeated.

“Service!” Chef called. Sure enough, he’d already plated the next order.

And so it began...

My body acted on its own, adrenaline fueling me. Checking. Double checking. Calling tables. Writing numbers. Meanwhile, Chef’s hands were a blur as he plated one dish after another.

“Service!” he called.

“Table twenty,” I told Diana, “Got it?” Her hands trembled as she tried to carry three plates. “Tina, help Diana carry these.” The two of them disappeared through the swinging doors.

“Service!”  

Food sat on the pass, but my runners were still front of house.

“Service!” Another order was ready.

I peered through the circular window through to the restaurant, and what I saw made my heart thump so hard my chest hurt. A queue running from the tills, through the restaurant, and out the double doors. Just like last year...

“Service!”

Food stretched from one end of the pass to the other.

“I got food dying here, Sam,” Chef said. Heat shot into my face and my skin prickled. “Where are the runners?”

This was no time to mess about.

I marched round to pot wash. “Chelsea! I need you to run an order for me!”  

Chelsea, who had been scraping dishes for the kitchen porter, instantly stopped what she was doing and came to my aid.

I loaded her up and sent her on her way. Then Pippa got back. Then Diana. And Tina.

“Pippa—table twenty-five. Tina and Diana—table three. Let’s go!”

And with that, the pass was clear.

The tightness that had been growing in my chest eased as I took a deep breath.

On it went. Ticket. Food. Runners to the table. The kitchen buzzed with shouts from Chef, the calls of response, of fryers bubbling and the slamming of oven doors.

“Table ten,” I told Pippa. “Table seventeen... Table thirty-three...”

Time became fluid. Like we were in a pocket dimension, separated from the world behind those swinging doors.

The ticket machine was silent. But service couldn’t be over. Could it?

I peered through the window. Still an enormous queue. What was going on?

Jason, who’d been working a till, burst into the kitchen, a stack of tickets in his hand.

“Something’s wrong with the tills,” he said, slightly out of breath, a bead of sweat running down his face. “We’re taking orders by hand.”

The bunched-up tickets in his fist drew the attention of every eye in the room, and my mouth dropped open as he shoved the stack into my hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I gotta get back out there.”

For a second, Chef and I stared at each other. He wore the same mask of horror that I was, mouth hanging open. But with a nod and a flash of his eyes, we arranged the tickets.

“What the bloody hell is chicow?” Chef snapped, unable to hide his temper as he jammed a ticket onto his rail.

“Chicken,” I said, translating the scribble. “For table fourteen. But—agh! This one doesn’t have a number! Tina, give this ticket to Jason and ask what table it’s for!”

Food appeared at the pass...

I worked on autopilot. Unable to think. Unable to feel. I could only act. Sending food. Checking orders. No time to drink. No time to breathe.

Adam burst into the kitchen. “What’s the waiting time?”

“Thirty minutes!” Chef called.

“We need to reduce that waiting time, Chef.”

“I’m a staff member down; you’ve got three tills open; the ticket machine is broken; and it’s fucking Mother’s Day!” Only Chef could get away with swearing at Adam.

Without another word, the manager left the kitchen, plastering on a plastic smile as he went front of house, no doubt to confront a cranky customer.

As he left, Jason returned with more tickets.

“You’re killing me!” I wiped sweat from my brow. “Stop giving me stacks like this!” I snatched them from his hand. There had to be ten to fifteen orders there!

The ticket rail was full, and so I slotted the stack at one end.

Rookie error...

The rail, now overloaded, dropped the tickets. Pink pieces of paper fluttered to the floor, my heart crashing down with them. I scrambled to pick them up, trying to remember which order had been next. But it was no good. All I’d done for the last few hours was scribble number after number and read the same dishes over and over again!

“Chef...” I said in a small voice.

“I know,” he said, emerald eyes locked on mine, frowning with determination. “I got you.”

“I’m running blind.” My voice wavered as I spoke, a ripple of panic shooting through me. “I don’t know what order—”

“I know,” he said again, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I said, I got you.” He held out a ticket toward me between his index and middle finger. “One pie, one veggie, one fish. Table four.”

I ran my eyes down the ticket, then found the dishes at the pass. I looked at Chef, whose smile widened, and for a second, I was lost in his eyes before I could snap myself out of it.

“Tina, one pie, one veggie, one fish to table four.”

We soldiered on. Every time, Chef would hand me a ticket, I’d check it, and then send the runner. Service finished at four, but we kept on grinding until we sent the last order at four-thirty.

“That’s it!” Chef said. “Done!” Cheers reverberated through the kitchen. “Don’t celebrate just yet. Time to clear down.”

He glanced at me as he switched off the lights to the pass, and the oppressive heat lessened slightly. I couldn’t wipe the silly grin off my face. We’d survived another Mother’s Day.

“Got much work left to do?” he asked as I pulled tickets off the spike, chucking them in the bin.

“The usual,” I said. “Rolling cutlery, cleaning the coffee machines, counting stock. The fun never ends.”

“Exciting stuff,” he said. “I’ll be in the office.”

Our eyes met, and I wanted to lean across the pass and kiss those fine lips of his.

“See you at quitting time?” I asked, brushing a strand of loose hair behind my ear.

“See you then,” he said, smirking, before heading out of the kitchen, leaving his underlings to clean up.

My feet were throbbing, and my heart still raced as I rolled cutlery, my mind far from my work. That last hour dragged more than any other, but soon Adam approached me.

“You want to sign out, Samantha?” He held out his clipboard.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, you were here for breakfast. Tina and Jason can close down.”

I clapped my hands together in the prayer position. “Thank you.”

“Oh, and good job today,” he said, and I swore he almost smiled.

I checked the chef’s office but found it empty. My heart dropping, I forced my legs to carry me up the flight of stairs to the staff changing room.

Whoever thought the changing rooms should be upstairs is a sadist, I thought, my feet screaming in protest with each step.

 After changing back into my civies and grabbing my bag from my locker, I made my way to the car park.

And once again, my heart gave a jolt as I saw him: Chef. Out of his whites, now in jeans and a T-shirt. Not Chef anymore.

Steven.

He was leaning over the roof of my Ford Focus, smoking a cigarette.

“Oi,” I said, as I approached. “Get off her.”

“It’s a rust bucket,” he said. I couldn’t help but snort with laughter. Not everyone understood our banter. He flicked the bottom of the box of cigarettes so that one sprung out for me. I withdrew my clipper lighter, sparked up, and exhaled, the tension bleeding out of me with the smoke.

“I can always leave you here,” I said, arching a brow.

“Don’t joke,” he said. “Not after today. Get me out of here.”

We finished smoking before getting in, and I took the driver’s seat. As I started up the car, he rummaged around in the glove box.

“You quite finished?” I asked.

“Yep,” he said, as he took out a small box and opened it. Inside were rings. Three of them. One was set with an emerald—the same color as his eyes. The other two were simple white-gold bands. He slid the largest onto the ring finger of his left hand.

“Stupid health and safety policies,” he said with a grumble as he handed the box to me, and I closed my hand around his.

“Thank you for today,” I said.

“Anything for you, boo. Now then, let’s get home so a certain little someone can wish you a happy Mother’s Day before bedtime.”