The kitchen was loud with clanking pans, sizzling oil, and fast stirring, but every now and then, like a tide, the noise slowed. In those lulls, Lisa and I caught fragments of conversation from the chef's office — sharp voices cutting through the steam.
"...he doesn't respect you, he doesn't respect anyone!"
We guessed it was about a server, or maybe one of the cooks.
"He arrived late yesterday and you—"
The kitchen noise swelled again: a pan spilling over, a steak scorching, customers voicing their impatience.
"...and now he's saying he wants to quit—"
Definitely a worker. But who? I come here at least once a week, mostly for the lasagna. I know the staff and their drama. Could it be Jenny, showing up high again? Or Dylan? Poor Dylan — his car runs on prayers, and he's still drained from that brutal divorce settlement. He needs the job too badly, though. Maybe he was just late.
"GO TALK TO YOUR SON!"
The shout rippled across the restaurant. Everyone turned toward the kitchen. The staff glanced at one another, raising their eyebrows, then watched as their boss stormed out of the office and headed for the door. Not before grabbing a bottle of red wine, a glass, and a plate of lasagna.
My old plate. I'd sent it back because it was missing cheese. Three bites in, I hadn't even noticed.