“Why haven’t you opened your own patisserie? With your name on the project, there’d be a line down the block.”
“I uh . . . never felt the desire to stay in one place long enough to do that. I liked getting to live in a new city every three months.”
She nods, continuing to flip through my notes. “Do you still like it?”
“Huh?”
“You said ‘liked’。 Do you still like it?”
Her brown eyes lift from the pages to find me sitting in silence.
I take a sip of my chai. “I won’t lie, it’s lost a bit of its luster.”
She chuckles, closing the book and sliding it back to my side of the table. “My advice, after twenty years in the industry, stop giving your brilliance to other people. Put your name on it and own it.” She pulls her espresso back to her lips, smiling behind the tiny cup. “After you finish donating a bit to me this fall, of course.”
Chuckling, I tuck my notebook back in my bag.
“Sorry we haven’t gotten a chance to sit down like this yet,” she continues. “You know how hectic prep time is and I’m sure you’ve noticed I only work two dinner shifts a week.”
Thursdays and Sundays, to be exact.
“Shannon, your second in command, is great too. The kitchen really respects her.”
“She’s a lifesaver, having someone I trust so much to run things while I’m not here. When I decided to open Luna’s after my daughter was born, I promised myself and my family that work would come second. It’s a hard balance to have. This industry isn’t conducive to families, as I’m sure you know.”
“Oh, I’m well aware.”
“But I love this.” She gestures around the dining room. “Running a kitchen, shaping a menu. Trusting my staff is the way I get to have both.” She finishes her espresso, pushing the saucer away from her. “So, what’s your favorite part of all this, Chef? Is it the chaos? The gratification of getting through a busy night? The creativity? What’s your why?”
There’s no hesitation when I say, “Feeding the people I love.”
Maven chokes on her own saliva with a laugh. “Then what the hell are you doing here? I couldn’t tell you the last time I cooked for a loved one. Now it’s all critics and fine dining . . . what do they call themselves? Foodies? But that’s what I enjoy most, feeding the people who want that kind of food.”
I don’t respond, using my chai to keep my mouth occupied.
“This little summer hiatus of yours,” Maven fills the silence. “You’re named Outstanding Pastry Chef of the Year and disappear. You had the food world in a tizzy, Miller, and I’m honored to be your first kitchen back. But you’ve got to tell me, what the hell was that about?”
Do I tell her the truth about the burnout and the pressure? Will she look down on me for it? Judge me? Use it against me?
I tread cautiously, but honestly. “I was feeling a bit burnt out.”
“Already?” she raises a single brow.
I pull my eyes from her.
“I hit that place about four years ago. Granted, I was fifteen years in at the time. I left and had my daughter. Found a new passion for life in her, but I still had this ache to be here too.” She taps her finger against the tabletop, referencing her restaurant. “Do you mind if I give you a piece of advice? From one old chef to a fresh, young one?”
I laugh. “You’re not old, but yes, please do.”
“If you ever feel like you’ve truly lost your passion for this, quit. Your food will never meet its potential because you’ll never meet your potential. This career is not for the faint of heart. You will be beaten down on the line, day in and day out. You know this. But if you’re questioning if you made the right decision, you’ve already made the wrong one.
“Find your passion, Miller. Find what makes you excited to get up every morning and if it’s not this, walk away.”
Well, fuck me, am I that obvious?
“This is what I’m good at.”
“Oh, you’re fucking brilliant at it. But you know what’s better than being the best at something you don’t love? Being mediocre at something you do.”
“It’s really not that easy, Chef. I have a four-year waitlist of kitchens I’m scheduled for, just like this one.”
“Do you have signed contracts? Has money been exchanged?”
“Just verbal agreements.”
She waves me off as if saying I didn’t owe anyone anything with only a verbal contract.