So yes, I’ve earned the title of Chef.
“You coming, Montgomery?” he starts again. “I’ll buy you a beer or something with an umbrella you’ll probably like. Something sweet and pink.”
How this guy isn’t picking up on the fact his co-workers are silently begging him to shut up is beyond me.
“I know something else sweet and pink that I wouldn’t mind a taste of.”
He’s only trying to get a rise out of me, to get the one woman working in the kitchen to snap, but he’s not worth my time. And luckily for him, my timer beeps, pulling my attention back to my work.
Opening the oven door, I’m greeted by blazing heat and yet another sunken soufflé.
The James Beard Award is only a piece of paper, but somehow, the weight of it has crushed me. I should be grateful and humbled that I won an award most chefs strive for their entire lives, but the only thing I’ve felt since winning is a crippling pressure that’s caused my mind to go blank, rendering me unable to create anything new.
I haven’t told anyone I’m struggling. I’m too embarrassed to admit it. All eyes are on me more than ever before and I’m flailing. But there will be no hiding in two months’ time when I’m featured on the cover of Food & Wine magazine’s fall edition, and I’m sure the only thing the article will have to say is how sad the critics are to see yet another new talent unable to live up to their potential.
I can’t do this anymore. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I can’t handle the pressure right now. It’s just a bit of burnout, a creative rut. Like writer’s block for a pastry chef. It’ll pass, but it sure as hell isn’t going to pass while I’m working in someone else’s kitchen with the expectation to teach others my craft.
With my back to the staff so they can’t see my newest fuck-up, I plop the soufflé ramekin on the counter, and as soon as I do, a hand lands on my waist, every hair on my neck standing up in alarm.
“You’ve got two more months here, Montgomery, and I know a good way to pass the time. A way to get the staff here to like you.” The line cook’s hot breath brushes the back of my neck.
“Get your hand off me,” I say coolly.
His fingertips dig into my waist, and they feel like my breaking point. I need to get away from this man and this kitchen. I need to get away from every kitchen.
“You’ve got to be lonely, traveling around the country the way you do. I bet you find a friend to keep you warm in that little van of yours in every city you visit.”
His palm slides down my lower back, heading towards my ass. I snatch his wrist, turning my body and kneeing him in the balls, hard and without a second of hesitation.
Instantly, he keels over in pain, a pathetic whimper escaping him.
“I told you to get your fucking hand off me.”
The staff is silent, letting their co-worker’s cries echo off the stainless-steel appliances as he remains folded in half. Part of me wants to make some comment regarding how little his dick felt against my knee, but his actions made it obvious that he’s overcompensating already.
“Oh, come on,” I say, unbuttoning my chef’s coat. “Get off the ground. You look pathetic.”
“Curtis.” Jared, the head chef, turns the corner in shock, staring down at his line cook. “You’re fired. Get the fuck up and get out of my kitchen.”
Curtis, as I’ve come to learn his name, keeps holding his balls and rolling around on the ground.
“Chef Montgomery.” Chef Jared turns to me. “I am so sorry for his behavior. That is completely unacceptable. I promise you, that’s not the kind of culture I’m cultivating here.”
“I think I’m done here.”
For a multitude of reasons, I’m done. The line cook who will never be hired in a high-end restaurant again was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back, but I know in my bones I won’t be any help to Chef Jared’s menu this summer.
And I sure as shit don’t need others to learn that I’m struggling. This industry is cut-throat, and the moment critics learn a high-end chef, let alone a James Beard recipient, is drowning, they’ll start to circle like vultures, blasting my name in every one of their food blogs, and I don’t need that attention right now.
Chef Jared cowers slightly, which is strange. The man is revered in the food world and is twice my age. “I completely understand. I’ll make sure you’re paid out for the entire contract, including the next two months.”