Page 5 of Sweet Rivals
“Your instincts are wrong. I am scared of literally everything.”
“I’ll have to work on being less creepy then.”
“Well,” I said, turning away reluctantly. “I guess I better finish my walk.”
“Nice meeting you,” he said standing up straight and turning to watch me walk away as I passed him. “Maybe I’ll see you at the Food Fest.”
“Maybe,” I said.
As I continued walking through town, my thoughts lingered on this guy. Strangers came and went in a town designed almost exclusively for tourists, so I couldn’t figure out why I gave a shit about what this person thought of my conversation skills or my wardrobe choice. I had interacted with hot tourists before. Maybe it was the way he looked into my eyes like he knew me, reaching down into my soul for secrets that I kept hidden from everyone. Whatever it was, the feeling left me more unsettled than usual.
Chapter Five
By the time I walked into the kitchen with my hair pulled back into a tight bun and wearing my jeans, t-shirt, and no-slip shoes, I had gone through my normal routine of talking myself into showing up to work. The routine listening to my “I can do this playlist,” which included “I Won’t Back Down,” “Black Hole Sun,” “I’m Just a Girl,” “Only Happy When It Rains,” among other songs that helped convince myself I could get through another day without a mental breakdown. It probably wasn’t as bad as my nervous system had deemed it, but still a knot formed in my stomach before every shift. I didn’t know exactly what gave me that feeling every day, but I had to guess it was the subtle dismissive behavior from the all-male staff, some of which had practically raised me while the others just saw me as a girl in a man’s place. Either way, it made it hard to command respect.
The guy I met earlier somehow only made that feeling worse. As if he knew that I was putting off my dream. Playing it safe. Avoiding risk. I reminded myself that it didn’t matter what some random vacationer thought of me or my progress toward life goals. They were life goals after all. I had time to reach them.
I texted Cat just before heading into the kitchen from the back parking lot beside the giant dumpsters.
Jenna: Beware, the streets are flooding with tourists.
Cat: It’s your time to shine ??
Jenna: UUUHHHGGG!
Cat: I’ll find you tonight ??
I pulled open the back door of the restaurant that led directly into the kitchen. Kitchens, an hour before open, had a unique kind of organized chaos. To the uninitiated, it probably looked like an accident waiting to happen as men carried giant pots of au jus and seafood stock through the maze of quickly shifting bodies. Any accident would set the prep back thirty minutes, putting the whole kitchen into the weeds before service even started.
But there was a rhythm to it if you knew what to look for, a thrum of excitement that was hard not to appreciate. The best part about the kitchen was the lack of time for doubts or hesitation. Still, there was a monotony to it too. I could never decide if I loved it or hated it. It had been my life from the time I was tiny, living in the kitchen with the grown men who shouted and cursed and raged and laughed—all big emotions, spilling over in every moment as the stress of feeding countless patrons overshadowed rational thought.
“Uh oh, it’s a Leather Face day,” Jose said as he brushed past me into the walk in. He came out a second later, falling into step beside me as he carried a tray of carrots.
I buttoned my white chef’s coat over my t-shirt and tied on my apron. I shrugged. “I didn’t realize how much of a conversation starter it would be,” I said, thinking once again of the man on the boardwalk.
Jose lifted an eyebrow. “Whenever you wear Leather Face, I know not to mess with you.”
He had at least twenty years on me. He worked as a dishwasher the first time I showed up with my chocolate cake and had worked his way up to the head of garde mange, a fancy word for the cold side of the kitchen responsible for salads and appetizers.
“Am I that predictable?” I asked, feeling a little offended but not at all surprised.
“Always,” he said. “There’s an all-staff in the dining room ahead of service tonight.”
I nodded. The all-staffs became more frequent the closer we got to the Food Fest. Everyone expected it. Like me, my mom had been raised in the kitchen. Dad worked as a prep cook through all of high school, and the two married the second they graduated. It wasn’t exactly a marriage made in heaven. They were kids when they got together, and sometimes, it felt like they stayed married for comfort and convenience over real love. By the time I reached high school, they felt more like roommates and business partners than husband and wife, but they seemed relatively content with that arrangement. They just weren’t exactly passionate, public displays of affection type people. The one thing that always brought them back together, though, was the restaurant.
To most people, The Lobster Tail was just a cute seafood spot that they made a point of getting to at least once during their visit. To my parents, it was everything. I couldn’t tell if they loved it or hated it, but they would be damned if it closed on their watch.
That’s why the Food Fest necessitated more all staff meetings to plan and prep. A while back, likely before I was born, the town started coming up with ways to bring in more tourists during the on-and off-season. Thus, the Christmas Street Market, the Spring Art Show, the Summer Food Fest, and the Fall Ghost Tours were born. It was cheesy and forced, but we had no choice but to revolve our business strategy around it when the time came. The Lobster Tail defined us all for the better or worse, to the point that I worried I would never find a new definition.
“Jenna!” The call came from Fabio who ran fish. “We don’t have enough trout. The shipment was short.” His voice was appropriately frantic.
Quickly any thoughts of my bakery, the vacationer, or self-doubts were forcibly pushed out of my head. It was one thing I appreciated about the food industry. No matter what may have been going on outside of the kitchen, it became static in the busy tempo of firing orders, pacing the courses, cooking, and plating. There was no space for hesitation or deep pondering. I was fully in it until the last guest got their final course. Even then, it was a race to break down and clean, so we could get out of there.
“Tell the front end to 86 the trout. I’ll call the vendor,” I said as I made my way to the dining area for the meeting.
In the main dining room—done in dark wood panels, dark wood tables and dark red upholstered chairs—the front- and back-end staff clustered around my parents who leaned against the bar. Mom had her usual stoic expression that caused everyone to give her a wide berth. My father always wore a warm smile. They were like good cop, bad cop as final prep for Food Fest was underway.
We spent months debating the menu. Of course, we would have lobster rolls, but Dad liked to add something new and fresh each year, although our regular menu already felt unwieldy.