Chapter 9

In the back of the house at Verde Oliva, where I’ve been working as a sous chef for the last two years, I’m queen of the kitchen. I’m tasked with the noble duty of prepping the ingredients for our chef’s special: gnocchi with a truffle parmesan sauce.

When I’m cooking, I’m like a conductor of an orchestra, where every ingredient hits its cue perfectly. The kitchen’s buzzing, pans are clattering, and I am in my element, humming a tune that’s stuck in my head. Lost in my chopping and dicing, my mind effortlessly slips back to Patrick, and I cut myself for the first time in years.

It’s a minor cut on my finger, but it’s enough to snap me back to reality as I run my finger under cold tap water. It’s moments like these that remind me of the delicate balance between passion and precision, both in the kitchen and, apparently, in matters of the heart. I put on a Band-Aid and a glove before I finish prepping for the dinner special, my mind continuing to flash back to Patrick.

Chef Marco comes around the corner and looks at me. “Did you cut yourself, Allie?”

I sheepishly nod. “I did, Chef. The knife slipped, but I’m all good.”

He gives me a condescending look and walks away.

Great, now I feel like an idiot.

Back at my station, I dive into finishing the gnocchi, temporarily suspending all thoughts of charming men. I focus on the task at hand, each movement precise and practiced. Proudly, I hand the plate over to Chef Marco, my confidence buoyed by the dish’s undeniable excellence.

Marco sighs, picks up his fork and takes a bite. I watch him closely, not missing the brief flicker of surprise that lights up his eyes.

Gotcha.

However, it takes him no more than a heartbeat for his face to settle back into its usual stern mask. ‘It’s lacking,’ he declares, setting the fork down with a finality that suggests the matter is closed.

‘Lacking?’ I can’t hide the incredulity in my voice. ‘I’m sorry, Chef, but did we taste the same gnocchi? I think it’s good, very good.’

Marco fixes me with a withering look, but I stand my ground. ‘The sauce is too heavy, the gnocchi too soft,’ he says disdainfully.

‘Too heavy?’ I counter, my frustration growing. ‘The balance is perfect. And the gnocchi is exactly as it should be—light, pillowy—precisely the texture it should be.’

‘Try again,’ Marco says dismissively, waving me off, but I know I saw that initial spark of delight in his eyes.

Fuming, I stomp away. I saw that initial look on his face. He knew it was good. No, not just good—great.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize Marco has been edgy around me lately. It’s like he’s looking over his shoulder, watching his back in his own kitchen. And suddenly, it dawns on me—he’s worried about being upstaged in his own restaurant—by me.

I taste the gnocchi again, and it is indeed excellent. It’s crystal clear to me now—he’s not just critiquing my cooking; he’s trying to keep me in my place. But I also know I’m too much of an asset to him for him to even think about letting me go.

As I’m about to throw the gnocchi into the trash, I notice movement at the food prep window. It’s Caleb, my ex-boyfriend. What the heck is he doing here? He waves at me like he’s just dropped by for a casual visit.

I wipe my hands on my apron and walk over to see what he wants. Luckily, the restaurant hasn’t opened yet, so I have time to chat.

He leans against the counter with a confident ease.

‘Hey, Caleb,’ I say as I step out of the kitchen. ‘What brings you here?’

He smiles familiarly. ‘I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d say hi. Plus, I wanted to see the queen at work,’ he adds, gesturing back toward the kitchen.

“Really? That’s it?” I ask with a smile. “You just wanted to pop by and say hello?”

‘Well, not exactly. I’m interning with a lawyer who asked me where to find the best Italian food in the city, and obviously, I thought of this place—and you,’ he says.

I smile, remembering how sweet Caleb is. He’s a great guy, and I’m not sure why I ended things, except that I just didn’t think the relationship was going anywhere.

‘So, you still happy working here?’ he asks as if he’s genuinely curious.

I hesitate before admitting, ‘Sure, but it’s stressful, to say the least.’

He leans in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Is Chef Marco still being a complete dick?’

‘Yes!” I say and burst out laughing.

“The reason I ask is that my dad is the owner and executive chef at Savor,’ he says, a note of pride in his voice.

Savor is the culinary Olympus of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It’s got a five-star rating and a mile-long waiting list. Although it’s only been open for a few months, it’s already getting rave reviews.

‘He is? That’s incredible, Caleb. I’ve heard it’s amazing,’ I manage to say, trying to sound nonchalant and failing.

‘Yeah, it’s a great place. And, well, here’s the thing,’ he continues, his tone serious, ‘he’s looking for a new sous chef.’

I feel my face get hot. ‘Seriously?’

He nods, smiling. ‘Seriously. I thought of you immediately. If you’re interested, I could meet you there tomorrow morning, show you around, and introduce you to my dad.’

‘That would be fantastic!” I say immediately.

Caleb laughs, the sound rich and warm. ‘I figured you’d say that. So, you’ll meet me there?”

‘Of course,’ I say, more firmly this time, “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

We set a time to meet, say our goodbyes and I float back into the kitchen. Finally, I think the universe is smiling at me. It makes Marco’s attitude and the stress of his kitchen seem to fade away.