Trust 101

Culinary school teaches you a lot of valuable lessons, like how to artfully plate a dish and expertly handle knives. 

What it doesn’t teach you? That fellow chefs can and will stab you in the back with said knives—both literally and metaphorically. My experience was metaphorical, but if I could choose, I actually would’ve preferred literal. It would’ve been easier to heal.

To this day I still feel the all too familiar pang in my chest at the memory of Cole, my previous pastry chef, purposely oversalting a critic’s dessert. For some background, his father had been my favourite instructor in culinary school. I excelled in his courses, which eventually led to him calling me his star pupil. A little cruel given that his own son was silently seething in the station next to mine, but it’s not as if I’d purposely gained his favour with malicious intent. Cole, however, thought exactly that, and I unknowingly became the catalyst to his villain arc.  

They say seven is a lucky number, but not in my case. Exactly seven years after graduation, Cole exacted his revenge behind saccharine smiles and fake support. He befriended me when he’d heard that I’d found an investor for Meraki, my first restaurant, and applied to be my pastry chef. He succeeded and worked diligently for the first few weeks, but the moment a critic walked through the door, it was knives out.

“You stole my father from me,” he’d said. “So I’m stealing your chance at success.”

Then, in a dramatic fashion that would put Oscar winners to shame, he threw down his apron and stormed through the double doors.

I bristle at the memory. My restaurant was the flame under which I fired up my dream, which was to create core memories through food. My favourite ones revolve around sharing meals with my very big (and very loud) extended family, but Cole has since extinguished my passionate flame. Now all I can see is his menacing glare, all I can taste is his saltier-than-the-ocean custard, and all I can feel is him shattering my dream like it was the top layer of his deceptive creme brûlée.

“Chef?” Blaise, my sous chef, asks. 

His voice catapults me back into the present, where I’ve just been informed of the arrival of one of San Fascino’s most influential food critics. Our first critic since the Cole Catastrophe. 

I try to take a deep, calming breath, but when I inhale, the intake is almost as sharp as the santoku knife in my hand. Blaise notices. 

“Midas,” he calls again. “You good?”

Blaise and I have been close for years. We were partners on The World’s Palate: a televised cooking competition that challenged chefs in the art of international cuisines. He’d been my sous chef then, and we’d reigned victorious, leading to an investor’s interest in the birth of Meraki. We have a pretty solid foundation, so I allow his presence to ground me and settle my nerves. With a long, practiced exhale, I breathe out every unnerving thought from my mind and set the knife down carefully. I’ve always believed that stress rolls downhill, so if I’m stressed, everyone in the kitchen is stressed, and we can’t have that. It’ll be evident in the prep, the plating, the serving, and ultimately, in our customer’s taste buds.

I walk over to the door, crack it open slightly, and peek into the dining area. Given that only three tables are occupied, it’s easy to find who I’m looking for. Within seconds, I find them sitting at a table by the window. Cameron West: influential food blogger and my restaurant’s best bet at redemption. A glowing review from them would definitely put Meraki on the city’s culinary scene. Three would become thirty tables filled with eager diners, and I’d redeem myself from the mess Cole had made.

Cameron, however, is terribly early. I was told they’d be here somewhere around the 5 to 7 p.m. range, but it’s 4:55 p.m. and they’re already seated. Typically this wouldn’t deter me, but ever since the name Midas Cordino became synonymous with “epic failure”, Meraki has been on thin ice.

After my fall from grace, I ran the numbers with my accountant. If this place wasn’t consistently packed by the end of the season, I wouldn’t be able to pay my staff the salary they deserved, and if I wasn’t willing to lower wages (I wasn’t) or let people go, then I’d have to close Meraki for good.

The thought alone makes my lungs convulse. To have my restaurant close within its first six months… it wasn’t just unfathomable—it wasn’t an option. 

When I turn back around, my eyes are ablaze with determination.

“How much longer until the crema catalanas fully chill?” I ask my newly hired pastry chef, getting right down to business.

Everly was a young chef with doe-like eyes and a petite frame. She’d never worked in a gourmet restaurant before, but Blaise and I hired her because of her discerning palate. She’d performed well enough over the last two weeks, but this would be her first time under the scrutiny of a critic. She would be the last runner of our relay, so victory or loss would be in her hands entirely.

“An hour, chef,” she answers after glancing at her timer. 

I curse under my breath. That’s too long. We won’t be able to serve Cameron our signature dessert, but every second I spend grumbling is valuable time wasted. We’ll have to adapt.

“The critic is here much earlier than we anticipated, so we have to change the dessert,” I explain. “We need something quick but flavourful.”

“What entree do you suspect the critic will order?” Everly asks.

“The moussaka,” I answer. Our specialty.

“Was there something about the crema catalana that you knew they’d like?” 

“The orange,” Blaise responds. “Cameron West has been known to favour desserts with citrus.”

The intel must spark an idea within Everly because she immediately begins sifting through the pantry. She carefully examines a pear before looking at me.

“Do you have lemon sorbet?” she asks.

I nod. I’d ordered a pint for experimenting just last week.

“I can make pear compote,” she suggests. “I can have it ready in thirty-five minutes.”

My eyes narrow. “That’s not on our menu.”

My tone must have caused some sort of shift in the air, because the kitchen suddenly goes quiet. Chefs de partie and line cooks alike freeze like we’re doing that silly mannequin challenge.

To ease the awkward tension, Blaise puts a hand on my shoulder. Years of friendship have given him the ability to communicate with me through a single look, and in his expression, I understand two things:

1. Calm the fuck down. You’re killing morale. 
2. Everly isn’t Cole. You can trust her. We picked her for a reason.

Yes, I recall. We did.

Of all the candidates that were tasked with crafting a dessert, Everly was the only one who asked about the ingredients of the dish that would precede it. The others may have executed classics like tiramisu and lava cake to perfection, but Blaise and I believed that a truly good meal was composed of dishes that worked well together, not separately, and we liked that Everly understood that. 

So I subdue my discomfort and entertain her suggestion. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

She straightens her posture and keeps her voice even despite the thick silence. “We’d serve the compote with lemon sorbet and drizzle basil syrup on top.”

While Blaise nods in approval, my well-trained taste buds do a test run of the combination. Pear compote with lemon sorbet would offer a smooth texture and a pleasantly cooling sensation. Together, they would create a delicate balance between sweet and sour with an earthy herbaceousness from the basil. It would also be wonderfully refreshing after the moussaka.

“It’ll work,” I decide, taking the leap. “Places, everyone.”

While the kitchen returns to its usual chaos of clangs, clinks, and constant clamoring, I reflect on what just happened. I may have sounded nonchalant on the outside, but I’m secretly impressed on the inside. Given her inexperience with gourmet restaurants, I expected Everly to crumble in the face of a well-respected critic. Instead, she throws the pear in the air, catches it, and gets straight to work with a self-assured nod. As she walks over to her station, one of our waiters walks in and provides me with Cameron’s order. Zucchini flowers to start and, as expected, the moussaka to follow.

“I’ll prepare the zucchini flowers and make the béchamel sauce. You start on the moussaka filling and keep everyone in line,” I instruct Blaise.

“Yes chef,” he responds.

For the next twenty minutes, Blaise and I work as if we’re contributing to the same culinary symphony. Together our hands go through the familiar motions of recreating the dishes that had secured our victory on The World’s Palate. Our specials are like beloved songs we no longer need the sheet music to, and despite playing different instruments, we know the queues and remain in-sync. While I expertly plate the appetizer with vibrant dollops of pink garlic sauce, his station is filled with the hiss of sizzling beef, which is soon accompanied by the pungent smell of mint and oregano. By the time Blaise has assembled the moussaka, I pour a blanket of béchamel sauce on top that will elevate the dish with its richness. When both our dishes eventually go out, we rest easy with the certainty that they’ll be thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated. We’ve performed admirably and the food will reflect that. We’re in our element and it will show.

Everly, however, is in her own world. She flits around her station like a fairy, and she sticks out like a sore thumb with her boysenberry-coloured hair and bright yellow apron. She’s vivid technicolor against a monotonous world of stainless steel, and yet… I can’t help but feel captivated by her. She appears as though she’s dancing on air, but there’s a practiced certainty to her actions. Watching her is a nice little respite in a typically high-pressure setting. I observe carefully as she places the finishing touches on two desserts and raise my eyebrows when she pushes one lustreware bowl towards me and hands me a little spoon.

I examine the plating. It’s neat and neutrally elegant, but a fresh basil leaf and singular blackberry give it some intriguing bold pops. I scoop myself a generous amount and place the spoon into my mouth. A heavenly chorus immediately rings in my ears. The flavours sing together in perfect harmony, and my taste buds plead for an encore. Unable to help myself, I go for the blackberry and feel electricity rush through my veins at the invigorating zing it adds.

“Very good. The blackberry was a nice touch,” I confess. “Adds tartness and crunch.”

A lovely blush dusts her cheeks at the compliment. “Thank you, chef.”

Beside me, one of our waiters, who I didn’t even hear re-enter, clears their throat while eyeing the untouched dessert that Everly had plated. 

“Is this ready for service, chef?” they ask.

“Y-yes,” I stammer out.

I nod at Everly thankfully before turning my sights to the waiter’s retreating figure. In the time it takes for the door behind them to close, I catch a glimpse of Cameron scribbling something into their little notebook. It’s almost funny how something so small holds my salvation or further demise, but for Meraki’s sake, I desperately hope it’s the former. 

The following morning

Ever since The Cole Catastrophe, I was rarely happy in my office. I’d typically be hunched over my desk, meticulously poring over sheets of numbers, schedules, and inventory, but not today.

Today, I’m ecstatic.

Cameron had just released their review of Meraki on The Tasteful Table, their culinary blog, and their review didn’t just glow.

It was absolutely radiant.

Their meal had been a “flawless tribute to Mediterranean cuisine”. The moussaka read like a rich, layered novel, and Everly’s pear compote was a refreshing and satisfying ending to a book they couldn’t put down, and would happily read again. 

I check Meraki’s website. Reservations are already starting to trickle in, and the flames in my heart roar at the promise of the restaurant being as loud and crowded as my family’s dining room table. In its wake I feel the icy distrust that had once restrained me beginning to thaw, and it was all because I decided to take a chance on Everly.

Culinary school teaches you a lot of valuable lessons, like how to balance flavours, respect ingredients, and turn accidents into delicious discoveries. 

What it doesn’t teach you? That if you put your trust and faith in fellow chefs, they can and will surprise you.