A Dish To Die For

The woman stood assertively at the entrance of the bustling kitchen, her sharp, piercing eyes commanding attention as they scanned the room with an intense glare. The furrowed lines on her forehead deepened, accentuating the scowl etched on her face.

“Attention!”  Her commanding voice cut through the cacophony of noise in the kitchen, rising above the clattering pans and sizzling stovetops. With unwavering authority, she projected her words to be heard by all, asserting her presence in the chaotic culinary realm. The room fell into a hushed silence as heads turned towards her, captivated by the power and intensity behind her voice.  “I am Chef Tompson.  But you will call me ‘Chef.’ I am here to replace Chef York, who I understand did not know how to run this mess of a kitchen.  But now, there is a new sheriff in town and I will run this kitchen with cleanliness, precision, and grace.  Do you understand me?”

There were mumbles of “yes,” and “okay.” 

Chef Tompson gasped and returned her face to stress her stern and unfriendly countenance. “I’m sorry?  Can I get a ‘yes, chef?'” 

Various tones of, “yes, chef” came from around the kitchen.

“Well, we clearly have a lot of work ahead of us.”  

“You,” Chef Tompson’s accusatory finger landed on Fred, a weathered figure among the kitchen staff. Time had etched deep lines across his forehead, a testament to his years of culinary experience. Despite his seniority and long tenure, Fred hadn't ascended to lofty heights in the kitchen hierarchy. Nevertheless, he possessed a quiet proficiency in his craft that garnered respect from his peers. Fred's unassuming nature masked a wealth of culinary knowledge and a seasoned expertise that quietly commanded admiration.

“What do you do here?” 

A startled expression crossed Fred’s face, “me?” 

“No, the idiot behind you.  Yes you.  What do you do here?” 

“I man the grill,” said Fred.

“Not anymore,” Chef Tompson's gaze shifted to Teresa, a recent addition to the kitchen brigade. Teresa, her brown locks cascading in a loose ponytail with stray tendrils framing her face, stood before them. Her eyes, a shade of warm hazel, shimmered with a mix of determination and eagerness. The apron draped around her waist bore the signs of countless hours spent honing her skills, splattered with stains that told tales of her culinary endeavors. 

“And you?” Chef Tompson posed the question, a flicker of anticipation danced across Teresa's features, her lips subtly curving into a hopeful smile.  

Teressa’s voice shook, “I am a prep cook, ma’am.” 

“It’s ‘Chef’ not M-A-A-M,” she said ma’am in a mocking tone and set her thin, tightly pressed lips back to a firm line.  “And what is the deal with your hair?  It needs to be tied back so that every strand is out of your face.  No distractions or hygiene issues in the kitchen.  Like this one over here.  What is your name?” Chef Thompson turned to Meredith, the blonde with a tight bun.

“Meredith, chef,” she said with military precision.

Chef Thompson raised her sharp eyebrows, turned the corners of her mouth down, and gave an asymmetrical single nod in approval. 

"Today, Chez Sophie will be closed," Chef Tompson declared, her voice carrying through the murmurs of the gathered crowd. Curiosity and anticipation filled the air. "We will be making changes to our kitchen staff. I am seeking individuals to man various stations: the grill, saucier, pantry, prep, expediting, and pastry." 

Jim, the accomplished pastry chef of Chez Sophie, exuded confidence, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. However, the air grew tense as Chef Tompson's icy gaze fell upon him, her words laced with an unspoken warning. "And if you have been stationed at a particular station, do not assume you will remain there," she stated, her words striking like daggers. Jim's confidence wavered, his demeanor shrinking under the weight of her gaze. "But above all, I will be seeking a talented Sous Chef," Chef Tompson concluded, her words hanging in the air.

A wave of smiles swept across the room, and Fred's face lit up as he clasped his hands together. This was the moment he had been waiting for, his chance to shine. The determination surged within him as he saw it as an opportunity to prove himself in the kitchen, to showcase his skills and talent that Chef York had failed to recognize. He knew he was more than capable of becoming Chez Sophie's next Sous Chef, and he was ready to seize this moment with unwavering confidence.

“I will determine who will be doing what based on a single dish.  Each one of you will go one at a time and I will evaluate what I think and assign you as I see fit.  And the rest of the day will be for training.” Chef Tompson looked around the room.

“I have…” Teresa started.

“No questions.  Just acknowledgement.” 

“Yes, chef,” the group said, stronger than before.

“I would have started with you, loose hair, but I already know where you will be.  Stand over here.” She gestured to Teresa and then towards the dish washing station.  Theresa's eyes drooped as she followed the instructions. 

“You,” she said, gesturing to Fred, “make me an omelet.” 

Fred nodded multiple times as he gathered a pan, set it on a burner to heat, and gathered his humble ingredients from the walk in.  

Everyone in the cooking world knew the omelet was the one dish that held an almost mystical reverence among the cooks. Its simplicity masked a complexity that few could truly master. It was the ultimate test of a cook's finesse and skill. The delicate dance of heat, timing, and technique required to create a perfect omelet demanded precision and intuition. It demanded an understanding of the transformative power of heat on eggs, the ability to coax the curds into a velvety embrace without browning the delicate folds.  What may seem like a simple task, was anything but simple.

As Fred started, Chef Tompson took a step closer to position herself to see what he was doing. As the intensity of the moment hung in the air, time seemed to slow down. Beads of sweat formed on his furrowed brow, a testament to the immense pressure and nerves he carried. He could feel the moisture pool and then, as if in a suspended animation, a single drop of sweat began its descent. It glistened under the harsh kitchen lights, catching the ambient glow, as if aware of its own significance. In that lingering moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, anticipating the journey of that solitary droplet.  

As it finally broke free from his forehead, the drop embarked on its descent, its journey now guided by gravity's pull. The world around it became a blur, the droplet's motion a stark contrast against the backdrop of frozen time. It glided past his temple, gathering momentum, a tiny beacon of clarity in the sea of chaos landing directly into the bowl of eggs.

Fire burned in Chef Thompson's furious gaze, a seething intensity that consumed her. The air crackled with tension as she clenched her hand around the scorching hot skillet, her grip unyielding. In one swift motion, fueled by her rage, she unleashed her wrath upon Fred. With a forceful swing, the skillet flew through the air, its trajectory guided by her anger, until it collided with Fred's unsuspecting face. The impact echoed through the kitchen, a horrifying symphony of sizzle and the sickening sound of metal meeting bone. Time seemed to stand still for a brief, agonizing moment as the searing pain and the weight of the skillet bore down on Fred, leaving a mark that would forever etch itself into his memory.

“Wrong!” 

Fred dropped to the hard floor.  

“You,” Chef Thompson said, snapping her fingers at Teresa.  “Clean this up.” She pointed at Fred’s crumpled body.  

“You,” Chef Thompson said pointing at Meredith.

Meredith stepped forward, blonde bun on top of her head, her demeanor a delicate balance between unease and confidence. Despite her inherent self-assurance in her culinary skills, a lingering uncertainty lingered within her, stemming from the perplexing scene she had just witnessed mere minutes before. Her heart beat with a blend of anticipation and trepidation as she prepared to confront the challenge of the omelet that awaited her. 

She cleared the ingredients that Fred had brought forth and wiped it clean, leaving her with a pristine station.  

Meredith started similar to Fred.  She heated the pan, chopped her ingredients and prepared the eggs before starting to cook.  She added the beaten eggs over melted butter with an audible hiss on arrival.  Meredith tilted and swirled the pan with confidence ensuring an even distribution of the eggs.

As the edges began to set, she wielded a spatula, nudging the curds toward the center, creating gentle folds.  She guided the eggs by sliding the spatula underneath the omelet and carefully lifting and folding it in half.  It slid gracefully onto the waiting plate. She added a sprinkle of herbs and grated cheese and she looked down at her creation with a sparkle of satisfaction in her eyes. 

Chef Thompson gazed down at the plate of perfection.  She wielded a fork that appeared to come out of nowhere and cut into the fluffy eggs scooping them up and into her mouth.  She chewed once then twice before the room watched the creation slide down Chef Thompson’s throat.

In a swift and violent unexpected motion, Chef Thompson thrusted the fork in her hand stabbing Meredith in the eye, causing a spray of blood that splattered across the kitchen.  She removed the fork leaving Meredith’s perfect eye ball on the tines of the fork.  Meredith clenched at her socket and gasped.  The crimson droplets that stained Meredith’s white uniform into a vivid canvas of red.

“Not enough salt,” said Chef Thompson, putting the knife down on the table next to her.

“Now,” she raised an eyebrow, “who is next?”