Fifty Recipes For Disaster - Book 1 (Fifty Recipes For Disaster New Adult Romance Series, #1) Read online

  I respond with a firm handshake and a smile. "I'm Kiara Sands. Thank you for this opportunity."

  "You're here because you deserve to be. No thanks are necessary," he assures me.

  "Chef Weston, it's an honor to meet you," Jenny gushes as she shakes hands with the executive chef. "I'm Jenny Foster."

  "It's nice to meet you, Jenny," he says before turning to Robbs. "And I'm assuming that you're Robert Martin?" he asks while extending his final handshake.

  "Just Robbs, Chef Weston," he responds with an air of professionalism. "I admire your talent and your vision. I'm confident I'll be a strategic asset to you."

  "That will be for me to decide, Robbs," Chef Weston replies curtly. "Thank you all for being on time. I'm going to start by going over the rules here at Fission, and then we'll tour the building." He signals Megan before taking the final seat at our table.

  "First and foremost, while you are here, you will show nothing but absolute respect for the rest of my staff. I take much care in handpicking each and every person who works in this restaurant. If you find yourself doubting the ideas, techniques, or decisions my staff makes, assume you are wrong, not them. You will do what you're told, and you will do it quickly, with a positive attitude. Is that understood?"

  The three of us nod in unison.

  "Fantastic. Now, that being said, I am open to hearing your ideas and opinions. You will discuss those ideas and opinions with me, and only me. If I like what I hear, I'll address it with the rest of the staff. I believe you all met Patrick Lawton, my sous chef?"

  We all nod again.

  "In addition to Patrick, there are seven line chefs working in my kitchen. You will work with each of them in turn, and they will provide me with input on who deserves the apprenticeship."

  I shift uncomfortably in my chair as Chef Weston speaks. While there are three of us at the table, it seems as if he's speaking only to me. His eyes remain fixed on mine, and his face reacts to my expressions. It's because you're the only one who comes from The Bleu. He knows you come from the best training... that's why he's speaking directly to you. I repeat this over and over in my mind, but there's still a small part of me that suspects Chef Weston is interested in more than my cooking skills. As I try to convince myself that those suspicions are unfounded, Chef Weston continues to speak.

  "Fission is open seven days a week, you will work six. You will all work twelve to fourteen hours on Saturdays and Sundays. If that presents a problem for any of you, you should leave now."

  "That's not a problem at all," Robbs replies pompously. "In fact, I could pull more hours if you need it, Chef Weston."

  "That won't be necessary," Chef Weston replies dismissively. "But your statement brings us to another point of discussion. When we are in the kitchen, you are all to address me and the other staff as 'chef'. Outside of the kitchen, you're welcome to call me Paul. The other chefs and I will provide you with the same courtesy."

  "Let me explain my vision behind Fission," Paul continues. "I've always been intrigued by the role food plays in different cultures. After graduating from culinary school, I spent three years traveling the world and learning about exotic ingredients and techniques. When I came home, I opened Fission as a way to showcase what I'd learned and show how those ingredients and techniques can be blended to create food that is both exotic and familiar. There are no rules in my kitchen regarding the types of cuisine you can blend and the types you cannot. I encourage you to use your imaginations and your talent to make the best dishes possible."

  "This sounds like my dream job," Robbs interjects. "And I'd like you to know I'm highly skilled in executing farm-to-table menus. I know that's important in today's culinary atmosphere."

  God, will he ever stop bragging about himself?

  "Robbs, if you're as skilled and knowledgeable as you should be, then you already know the farm-to-table concept is nothing new," Paul answers impatiently. "In many areas of the world, all restaurants are 'farm to table' and families rely on their harvest to feed their customers. While I admire the American chefs who are utilizing that concept in the U.S., I refuse to limit myself and my staff in such a strict way. At Fission, we use as many locally sourced ingredients as possible. All of our beef, lamb, pork, and chicken come from farms in the surrounding area, as well as our seasonal produce. But exotic ingredients are imported from the countries that know how best to grow them. I'm sure a chef of your caliber understands that."

  Listening to Paul take down Robbs relaxes me, and I'm comforted to know that the executive chef and I share the same attitude toward food.

  "Of course, Paul," Robbs replies in a defeated tone. "This is your restaurant, and I respect your vision."

  "Fantastic," Paul continues. "Now that we've covered the cuisine, let me describe what your next twelve weeks will be like. As already stated, you will each work six days a week. During each shift, you will either assist one of the line chefs or you will be assigned other tasks that will help me understand your talents, skills, and visions. Once a week, we will hold a cooking challenge with specific requirements. The winner of each challenge will have their dish featured as a weekend special. High volume, fast-paced kitchens aren't for everyone, so if at any time you feel overwhelmed, you may bow out of the competition. As you're each receiving college credit for your work here, anyone who chooses to bow out will be allowed to continue helping in the kitchen through the end of the semester. Any questions?"

  The three of us shake our heads.

  "Perfect. We open for lunch in thirty minutes. I'll give you a quick tour of the kitchen, and then your first shift will officially begin. Today you will be shadowing the wait staff."

  Robbs appears disappointed by the announcement, while Jenny's face reflects the confusion I feel at the assignment.

  "I know what you're thinking." Paul smiles. "This competition is for a spot in the kitchen, so why are you bothering with the servers? I feel too many chefs become complacent in the kitchen. The chef is rarely the person who takes heat from the customers when their order isn't to their liking. I've also witnessed many chefs who believe, unjustly, that their training and skills make them superior to the servers. That is not the case here. Each employee serves a specific purpose. We are a team, and each member of the team is vital to the restaurant's success. During your time here, you will learn to appreciate the roles of each and every one of my employees. Is that understood?" Paul asks the question to all of us but directs his gaze specifically at Robbs.

  "Of course," Robbs answers tensely. I can tell the day isn't playing out the way he expected.

  Paul rises from the table and the three of us do the same. We follow him through the swinging doors at the back of the room and enter the biggest kitchen I've ever seen. Viking ranges line both horizontal walls, while a line of butcher-block tables cuts the room in half. Five chefs work on the lunch specials, in anticipation of the crowd that's sure to descend at any moment.

  "Each member of the kitchen staff works their own station, ovens, and stovetops," Paul explains as we walk to the back of the room. Three-fourths of the back wall is made of stainless steel, and I correctly assume it's the walk-in refrigerator. Paul opens the metal door and gestures inside. "The walk-in is to remain clean and organized at all times. The introductory packet provided by your instructor details the health department codes for food storage. You will be tested on those first thing tomorrow."

  Paul shuts the metal door and moves to the wooden one that opens to the other quarter of the space. "This is the pantry," he informs us. "Like the walk-in, it is to remain organized at all times. I can't emphasize the importance of this enough. For service to run smoothly, everyone who works here needs to be able to open these doors and go straight to what they need."

  "Understood, Chef," I respond.

  "Yes, with your Cordon Bleu background, I expect you do," he replies with a warm look. Once again, he holds his gaze on me a little longer than necessary.

  Robbs visibly tenses beside m
e. He clears his throat. "Chef, I was told we'd receive our jackets when we arrived this morning?" he asks in an obvious attempt to steer the subject away from my education.

  "You will receive your jackets when I decide you've earned them, Chef," Paul answers firmly. He turns to face the rest of the kitchen. "Chefs, gather for just a moment please," he calls out.

  There is a clamoring of noise as each of the chefs pull pans off of their stoves and place utensils to the side. They line up in front of us as if they are military officers reporting for inspection.

  "Chefs, these are the new up and comers who will be competing for the apprenticeship spot." As Paul introduces us by name, I now feel as if I'm the one being inspected. "Chefs Robbs, Jenny, and Kiara, this is most of the team you'll be working with. They will now introduce themselves and describe their duties."

  The portly, bald man standing to the far right takes one step forward. "Welcome to Fission. I'm Chef Michael, and I'm the Roast Chef. I also serve as Butcher. I hope to enjoy working with all of you."

  Chef Michael steps back and is followed by Chef Cole the saucier, Chef Henry the seafood specialist, Chef Harrison the grill-master, and Chef Jacqueline the fry chef. They each greet us warmly, but with reservation, as if they're sizing us up to determine if we're worthy to be in their kitchen.

  "Chef Patrick and his assistant, Chef Carlton, as well as Chef Claire, our pâtissier, will arrive for the evening shift," Paul explains. "You will meet them before you leave tonight. If there are no questions, I'll escort you to the server station, where you will receive your shadow assignments."

  ***

  I sit alone at a small table in the back of Fission. This is my third day at the restaurant, and the first I'll be allowed to cook. It's Thursday morning, and the first challenge for the weekend special will start in half an hour.

  I've discovered I like to come in early and enjoy a pot of coffee before work begins. It gives me time to settle in and feel comfortable in the restaurant I still find a bit intimidating. Over the past two days, I managed to follow all of Paul's instructions and complete the chores assigned to me with a happy disposition. Tuesday, I shadowed Kinley, the head-waitress. I made polite conversation with the customers, carried her trays, and filled her drink orders. When we arrived yesterday, Jenny, Robbs, and I were informed we would be the cleaning crew for the day. Jenny and I bussed tables, washed dishes, and cleaned the bathrooms, all the while maintaining a pleasant, cheerful attitude. Robbs begrudgingly completed the same tasks, letting everyone in the restaurant know by his attitude that he felt he was above doing the scut work.

  I hope my positive attitude, especially compared to Robbs' petulant one, is the reason Paul seems drawn to me. Over the last two days, I caught him gazing in my direction several times. He even helped me clean the ladies' room yesterday. He said as the boss, he believes he should never ask an employee to do something he's not willing to do himself. While that's a wonderful philosophy, I still feel like there's more to the attention he's giving me than professional admiration.

  As I sip my coffee, I wonder about today's cooking challenge. I am confident in my skills, but I haven't seen Jenny or Robbs cook yet. For all I know, they are better than I am. I check the time on my phone just as Jenny walks through the front door. She sees me sitting at the back table, grabs a coffee mug from behind the bar, and joins me.

  "Good morning," she greets me brightly. "Are you ready for the challenge?"

  "I hope so," I answer with a nervous grin. "Paul said these challenges will be specific. I wonder what we'll be doing today."

  "I don't know. I must say, the way this competition is set up reminds me of all of those cooking shows on television. I keep expecting a cameraman to pop up any second."

  "That's exactly what I think!" I agree with a laugh. "I admit, culinary reality TV is one of my few guilty pleasures. I watch all of them."

  "Me too!" Jenny replies. "I'd love to be on one someday... or judge one."

  "Maybe one day we'll do one together." I don't make friends easily, but I like Jenny. She seems kind, honest, and genuine.

  "My parents would just die if I end up on television," Jenny says. "They're incredibly conservative. I was never allowed to watch anything but the public access channels. And even then, they had to approve each show before I watched it."

  "That sounds rough," I respond uncomfortably. I know what's coming next, and I dread it.

  "What are your parents like?" Jenny asks.

  This is a common question, and one I never answer honestly. "They were great," I answer quickly. "But they passed away when I was sixteen. I've been on my own ever since."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that," Jenny quickly replies. She can sense I am uncomfortable and pulls out her cell phone. "I'm going to take advantage of these last few minutes and study."

  I know this is her way of giving me some space, and I appreciate it. One thing I said to Jenny was true. I've been on my own since I was sixteen years old. Everything else was a lie. My parents weren't the best people, and they aren't dead... at least, not that I know of. My earliest memories with them are happy ones, but everything changed when I was around nine years old. That's when my father, a once-successful salesman, lost his job at the company he'd been with for twenty years. Instead of picking himself up and finding a new job, my father drowned his depression in drugs and alcohol. And instead of putting her foot down or leaving him, my mother joined him in his addictions.

  After their savings ran out, my parents started selling drugs to pay for their habits. Between my ninth and sixteenth birthday, we moved fourteen times. Each new place was smaller and dirtier than the last, and I was usually left to fend for myself. When I was sixteen, I arrived home from school one day to find my parents had moved without me. The note they left behind is still tucked away in a box in a far corner of one of my closets. Dearest Kiara, You'll be better off without us. One day you'll understand.

  I have no siblings and both sets of my grandparents died before I was born—that note was the end of my family. I shamefully explained my situation to the landlord, and he let me stay in the apartment until I graduated from high school. I worked two jobs to pay the rent and utilities, and I've become quite adept at taking care of myself. I'm not ashamed of my past, but it's not something I like to talk about, and I'm relieved Jenny isn't pushing the subject.

  "I hope we're not required to make a dessert," Jenny says from across the table. "I haven't mastered pastries yet."

  "I doubt it," I assure her. "The winning dish is going to be one of the weekend specials, so I'm assuming we'll be doing entrees."

  "I hope so." She sighs. "I admit, I'm nervous."

  "I am too," I agree as I refill each of our coffee mugs.

  "If I don't win, I hope you do," Jenny says. "Robbs is a total ass. I wish we could vote him off the island."

  "That would make life easier," I reply. As we joke, Robbs walks in the front door. He sees us immediately and joins us at the table.

  "Good morning, ladies," he says with an arrogant grin. "Are you ready for the first of those ass kickings I promised you?"

  "Sure, Robbs." Jenny smirks. "Give it your best shot. At the end of the day, we'll know who's got what it takes to be here."

  "Your trash talking could use some work, Jen." Robbs smirks.

  "I'd prefer if you didn't call me Jen, Robert," Jenny retorts.

  As they glare at each other, Paul emerges from the kitchen with a pile of black jackets over one arm.

  "Good morning," he greets us. "I hope you're all well rested and ready to get to work. There are three open stations in the kitchen. Today's assignment is fairly straightforward. You will each get a full hour to prepare an entrée. You must incorporate Latin cuisine with any other cuisines of your choosing. You're also required to incorporate at least one wood-fired element in your dish. At the end of the hour, you must present five professionally plated portions. Any questions?"

  "No," Jenny, Robbs, and I answer in unison
.

  "Great. I'll be moving around the stations watching you as you work. I'll be judging your techniques as well as your final product." He pulls the jackets off of his arm as he speaks. "Before we step into the kitchen, I thought you all might like one of these." He passes each of us a jacket adorned with the Fission logo and embroidered with our names. We pull them on eagerly, but there is no time to admire them... Paul turns and moves toward the kitchen, and we follow. I know the exact dish I want to make, and I'm raring to get started.

  We step into the kitchen, and I see the three stations closest to the back of the room are cleared off for us.

  "You'll get quick access to the pantry and walk-in," Paul explains. "Chef Harrison has the grill fired up and ready, and he will taste your dishes today. You will also taste each other's dishes, not as a judge, but so you know what you're up against. Your knives are located at your stations, and your time starts now."

  Robbs and Jenny immediately rush to the walk-in, so I head for the pantry. I'm going to make green curry tamales, so I gather mesa, corn husks, curry paste, and an assortment of other Indian spices. I deposit my selections at my station and move to the now unoccupied walk-in. I grab a beautiful piece of lamb, and then return to my station to mix up my marinade. I want to use the grill twice, first to cook my meat and then to sear the outside of my finished tamales. I slice the lamb and toss it into the marinade before starting on my corn mixture.

  The aromas of soy and ginger fill the air and I know at least one of my competitors is preparing an Asian-inspired dish. I'm tempted to peek at their progress, but I control the urge. It wouldn't be professional, and I can't spare the time to worry about what anyone else is doing. I finish my corn mixture and then spread it out across the corn husks. Paul comes to my station to observe and I do my best to pretend he isn't there, despite the fact my pulse races every time he looks at me.

  "This is an interesting combination," he says, glancing toward my marinating lamb. "I can't wait to taste it."