Eric and Alex exchanged a glance, and then nodded. Alex walked up to O’Shea. “Chef,” he said. “We’re a team here.” He paused, wiping the sweat off his brow. “And I’ve been wondering if everyone here has been playing on it.”
“What are you talking about, Alex?” asked O’Shea, his voice weak.
“I don’t have proof, but I think Sophie has had it out for you, for all of us. She’s got a chip on her shoulder.”
My jaw unhinged. My heart raced. My words came out as a barely audible wheeze. “He’s crazy, Chef. I don’t have it out for anybody—”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” said Eric. “I think she spices her dishes after I taste, adding in additional ingredients. Last week a guest, one of our regulars, requested to see me and told me they loved how much cinnamon was added into the potimarron velouté.” He paused. “And we—Alex and me—believe it’s happened more than once. It would explain the inconsistency.”
“Eric, you told me to spice,” I said, every muscle in my body tense. It took great effort to raise my hand to point a shaky finger with accusation. “You—”
“She’s always talking about her grand-mère Odette’s soups, how much better they are than yours. Bland. That’s what she said. Your recipes are bland,” said Eric, and then the skinny bastard shrugged. His twisted grin, the one he was trying to hold back, gave him away. His betrayal hit me. He’d set me up. My legs were about to go from under me.
“Chef,” I said, bracing myself. “Please, give me a chance to explain. Eric—”
O’Shea smashed his fist on the prep table and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “—would never stoop so low. He didn’t have people pulling strings for him after he graduated from a fancy cooking school. He knows what hard work is because he didn’t pay to play,” said O’Shea. He shook his head as if to clear it and then, with his face turning bright red, he barreled over to my stove. He picked up a spoon, tasted the base for the soup, and spit it out onto the floor. “The proof is right here. Your station. Your velouté. Not my recipe. You think you’re better than me?”
What O’Shea said didn’t make any sense. Eric was always holding the fact that he’d convinced Chef to hire me over my head. There were no strings. “But—” I began.
“Don’t say another damn word.”
I took in a sharp breath, feeling as if razors lacerated my throat. O’Shea picked up the pot and threw it into the sink. Orange potimarron dripped off the walls and onto the floor, splattering everywhere. I was rendered immobile, staring into the face of a man who looked like he wanted to skin me alive. O’Shea’s nostrils flared like a bull about to charge at a red flag. And I was the flag. For every step O’Shea took toward me, I took one back. And then he cornered me.
O’Shea’s baseball-glove-sized hands were just about to wrap around my neck when two of our roustabouts pulled Chef away and dragged him to the back of the kitchen. O’Shea stood in the doorway, panting. “Get your sabotaging ass out of here before I hang you up by your ankles and gut you open like the dirty, disgusting, and disloyal pig you are.” He turned around on one heel and entered his office, his last words: “Your career in the culinary world is dead. I’ll make sure of it.”
Breathless. I was breathless.
All eyes were on me, glaring, heads shaking. I whipped around to face Eric. Alex stood by his side. They both wore smirks on their faces. My hands curled into tight balls. “The two of you planned this? Why? Why would you do this to me?”
Alex cut me off. “Miguel, you’ve worked under Sophie. Tonight, you’ll take over her station. And who knows what else the future will bring?” he said. Alex’s posture challenged mine, the way he crossed his arms over his chest, the way he planted his feet.
“Miguel?” I questioned, turning to face him. “You heard Eric tell me to spice. You were standing next to me. Help me out here.”
Miguel’s posture caved, his shoulders slumping. “Sorry, chica, I need this job.”
Alex clapped his hands together. “Guys, we have a busy night ahead of us, and now, with this stars debacle, we’ve got our work cut out for us. Everything has to be perfect. Consistent! Miguel, clean up the mess and get on that velouté de potimarron.”
“Yes, Chef,” he said, head down. He shuffled over to my station and began picking up pots and pans, organizing them on the aluminum shelves. Miguel couldn’t bring himself to meet my panicked gaze.
I braced my hands on my knees. My eyes darted to each member of our eighteen-person brigade. “Nobody is going to back me up? Nobody?”
“I’d grab your knives and get the hell out of Dodge before O’Shea comes back,” said Eric.
“Come on, guys,” I pleaded, wheezing in between each word.
Not one person spoke up. Instead, they went back to chopping or sautéing or doing whatever the hell they were doing. The clatter of knives slamming against cutting boards. The sizzle of the fryer. The silence of nobody speaking up; it was deafening.
“I’m going to talk to him,” I said, making my way to O’Shea’s office.
“You’d risk your life to do that now?” said Eric. “I thought you were a smart girl.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Alex gripped my arm, stopping me in my tracks. “Get your stuff and get out of this kitchen. You are not seeing O’Shea.” He twisted his grip, burning my forearm. “I mean it.”
When the rest of the brigade crossed their arms over their chests, their eyes shooting daggers, I knew I was doomed. “The truth will come out. I’ll make sure of it,” I said.
“Whatever you want,” said Eric with a laugh. “Hey, that’s the slogan for that hamburger and pizza joint. Maybe they’ll hire you there.”
A harsh reality shook me to the bone, to my core. The brigade blamed the loss of the star on me, and along with this thrashing came a lofty pay decrease. Part of me wanted to fight—but not against eighteen guys. I didn’t stand a chance. With no other options aside from certain death, I bolted to my station and grabbed my knives too quickly, cutting my hand in the process. I raced to the changing room, stuffed my street clothes in my bag, and skulked out the back door among the rats. I walked in the pouring rain, each drop burning and pricking into me like needles. Still dressed in my checks and toque, blood streaming down my hand, I muttered and swore under my breath.
A text alert buzzed. I grabbed my phone out of my sack, hoping things had been set right. Eric and Alex couldn’t get away with this. Somebody must have fessed up. We weren’t ostriches cooking with our heads in the sand. Everybody knew everybody’s business in that kitchen. I clicked open the message, praying with every fiber in my heart, in my soul, only to find myself sucker punched by his words.