Chapter Text
Soft, pillowy dough is one of your favourite sensations. The cool, buttery, yeasty scent, the little elastic tendons forming as you knead the gluten, shaping into a consistent, smooth boule.
Perfect.
Except, as your hands work, wrapping the ends of the dough under the round ball you've formed, it won't let you go. The dough is too firm- overworked, tight, and closing in on itself. It doesn't respond well to your hands desperately trying to make it as pliant as it just was, the dough becoming too taut as it pulls itself inwards.
"Fuck." You exhale, and wipe your hands on your apron. It's no use. Overworked dough only makes the toughest, chewiest bread, and your customers aren't paying for that.
It's only 6:30 AM and you're behind.
You don't think you're the reason why the dough became such a hard, inedible lump. At least, it wasn't your kneading, not when you’ve been taught so well by your mother to measure the elasticity. Maybe you added too much flour.
But as you prepare a new batch of dough, sifting in minor amounts of flour and just barely combining it, you watch as it falls apart between your finger tips. It’s too soft- there’s barely anything holding the dough together, and you see it stay shapeless, a formless blob that refuses to mould with your hands.
It’s not fair. The one time you decide to take time to prep new recipes, see if they’re worth it, worth cultivating to add to your bakery’s menu- and it all goes to shit instantly.
It takes a while to figure out new bakery items. You gotta start out making sample sizes, small boules and batters that will be filled with a whole slew of ingredients and toppings, baked at different temperatures, and washed with different savoury or sweet coatings. Then, when you finally feel like a recipe is actually really good, you need to carefully- almost with a chemist’s approach- measure out the ingredients in a much larger batch, so it retains everything that made it so delicious in the first place, and sometimes things in large quantities just don’t taste as good.
Cooking, baking, anything with food, is all a little risky, a little up in the air even if you try as hard as you can to make it not so.
You’re sweating a lot. The summer heat feels like it’s passing through the kitchen, and it makes the dough feel sweaty and saggy and more like paste rather than a sticky dough.
You close your eyes. You don’t want to believe that you’ve done this, but sure enough, as you bend around the corner, you see that you’ve left the backdoor open. That’s why your dough isn’t working. Your fucking dumbass let in the peak heat of the New York city summer, as if it was another essential ingredient.
You wrap it up in some saran wrap and toss it in the fridge, willing to work on it another day. When you get a chance.
You know, deep down, you’re probably not going to get back to it until it’s either the dead of night, or just early tomorrow, before opening to all the daily commuters and office workers stopping by your little bakery for their morning coffee and pastries.
You loathe them. They don’t exactly know you- you might as well be an automaton, making coffee and lattes and the occasional bubble tea, like some kind of glorified barista. Not that you have anything against baristas, but you know how your customers feel about them. That you’re a minimum wage, no good free loading youth, and you don't get it, you don't know how urgently they need their breakfast, how that fuel is the first step in their entire day, and if you don’t give it to them, you’re the reason why everything went wrong. A low level barista has this weighing on them, simultaneously being not worth of higher wages and yet having so much relying on them.
You’re not even a barista, you want to say, you’re actually a hard hitting journalist- okay, fine, a food columnist who worked for the New York Times before you were unceremoniously laid off for their burgeoning food bloggers who were being paid about half of what you were to post Instagrammy pictures and gifs about how “OMGLOL” their food was. Quick, easy content.
It left you with an almost irrational hatred of businesspeople, penny pinchers who care more about saving money rather than the important written aspects of food journalism, the culture that only helps food be considered as an outlet, an art, something worth actually indulging conversation on.
You know you’re passionate about that- how can you not be?- but it left you bitter, angry, and stuck working at a job that you do not care about. This bakery, Moe’s, is one that has many, many regulars that are businesspeople, and you know deep in your heart, they do not deserve your slaved over recipes if they will not appreciate them. Not when they’re casually berating you while smushing donuts with their indelicate hands, walking their fast paces to whatever skyscraper they work in.
Opening the store makes you feel a little sick in preparation for it all.
At first, it’s easy. You share niceties with customers, prepare teas and coffees fairly quickly, watch as they wait for you somewhat patiently in the pick up area, and at least thirty minutes pass by, until of course someone taps on your forearm.
“Hey, so sorry to make your clearly difficult job harder than it is, but you forgot my Splenda packets on the side.” A simpering, mocking older woman talks down to you, and you wince at her expression. It’s one of entitlement- where she sees nothing wrong with how she’s just talked to you. The passive aggressive tone is just the icing on the cake- she doesn't want to seem like a bitch, but you're already muttering that in your mind.
You gently place some Splenda packets into her outreached palm, inhaling all your anger at the same time, and the next customer impatiently shouts out his order in your face.
As you’re typing it into the register, letting him tap his debit card, you move to start making his drink. One large mocha latte with… Jesus, seven sugar packets, and three creams.
It’s diabetic enough that you find yourself pulling a face as you make it, and you can feel the stare of the next man in line, waiting for you to finish up so you can take his order. It’s infuriating.
You take the next three orders, figuring that you can make at least those many simultaneously, but when you’ve started on one man’s matcha tea, a woman yells out that she didn’t order that green bullshit in her drink.
You grit your teeth into a pantomime of a smile, rage continuing to build up in your stomach. “Sorry ma’am, I’m not working on your drink right now. Your drink is being blended.”
She lets out a little nod and squeak, like a kid that spoke up too soon, and you close your eyes. You don’t need to be talked to like that. You’re a smart person.
You don’t usually open by yourself. Moe, the relatively new manager who isn’t who the bakery is named after despite popular belief, is constantly late on Tuesdays. You have never bothered asking why, because he gives a non committal grunt and tells you to go back to work with every question you do ask.
He shows up now, anyways, right when you’re handing the twelfth drink of the day, and even though you’re doing all the work here- there seems to be a bit of a commotion at the sight of another worker. The rest of the line really thinks they’ll be getting extra help, even though you know Moe will be heading out back for an immediate smoke break, before coming in and only taking orders. While you make everything.
“Hey, honey.” A gruff, male voice says, and you turn, sifting cocoa powder over a drink as you do.
“Yes?” You try to have as neutral a tone as possible. You don’t like pet names, and you don’t want to lead the guy on, but you can’t exactly tell him off without causing a scene.
“When you finish making my drink-” He points to the cup you’re holding, and you look down at it. “Make sure to write your number on the side.”
You cringe, and you know your face is betraying you right now, but it’s just so out of the blue. You never get hit on here, and it’s the one thing you could appreciate about this job, until right now.
“Yeah, sorry… I can’t give out personal information.” You try to make an excuse, but you can tell he doesn’t like that.
“Really, why is that?” He leans in kind of close, and you get an uncomfortable amount of eye contact. None of the other customers are willing to come to your rescue, all of them staring away from the situation at hand.
“I don’t know you.” You answer flatly.
“Well, give me your number, and I’ll be sure to let you know me. ” He remarks as if he’s said something totally revolutionary, and not just a gross pick up line.
“...No thank you.” You state with a false cheery tone, hoping that will be enough and you can move back to order number 13.
“Hey. I’m still talking, lady.” He grabs your wrist, and now you really flinch. You pride yourself on typically being a strong woman- not taking shit from people- but the sudden, random nature of this situation has you flustered and confused.
“You a dyke or something? Why the fuck aren’t you responding?” He mutters. “Nah, you bitches are all the same. Talk a guy up and then leave them hanging just for fun.”
The level of anger, pure hatred, being spewed out of his mouth has you shocked for just a moment, until you finally let go of the anger that’s been stewing inside you this whole time.
“...You know what?” You stand up tall, straight, looking into his eyes. “Fuck off, asshole. I’m not interested. I’m just doing my job.”
His eyes narrow. “Right then. I guess I’m leaving a shit Google review.”
He leaves before you can say anything, and before you even get a chance to process what happened, the next customer is up at the register, saying something that’s barely reaching your ears, the blood pounding in them too loudly.
/
It’s four in the afternoon.
During your smoke break- in which you typically just sit outside, breathing in the fresh air- Moe comes into the outside, looking pissed off.
“Pam.” He tuts, and you look upwards from where you’re sitting on the steps. “You’re not doing very good, kid.”
“Okay, Moe. I get it.” You breathe out. You’ve spent this entire time swearing over customers and how much you hate their disregard for you. You just want to be surrounded by good food again. “I should’ve done at least thirty orders this morning.”
“No- well, that would actually be good, but-” Moe sighs, pinching his nose. “We got a lot of regulars, Pam. A lot of people who come into this bakery and expect top notch service.”
“You’re saying my service isn’t good enough?” You narrow your eyes. “But sales have been up like 5% in comparison to last month.”
“Sure, but none of that matters when we get reviews like this.” He holds out his phone towards you.
Your eyes widen as you read the fresh, new Google review.
Ed Long
★☆☆☆☆ - one hour ago
No consideration of service at this establishment. Woman at the counter refused to take order for twenty minutes. Would not talk to customers or look them in the face. Clear indication of snobby attitude, will not be visiting Moe’s again.
You frown. Based on the profile picture, this is the creep who went after you. He’s clearly lying in his review, and you tell Moe as much.
“Doesn’t matter, Pam.” He shrugs. “Just write a fake number. Or take that shit as a compliment.”
“Are you serious? ” You stand up.
“Dead.”
“Moe, Jesus fucking Christ, man.” You place your hands on your temples. “I’ve been stressed all morning with customers, I don’t have time to be acting sweet with assholes like that.”
“He’s one of our regulars, Pamela.” Moe chides you, and you hate the use of your full name- you’re not a child- and the fact that he seems to want you to act like a pseudo prostitute. He wants you to simper because the loss of a customer- and thus potential profits- is too much for him to handle.
God, you hate penny pinchers.
“And I guess you wouldn’t have time since you’re prepping random doughs in the back, huh?” He lifts the saran wrapped dough out of his apron, and your heart sinks. Moe is supposed to sign off on new recipes before you even try them, which means, more often than not, you don’t get to. At least, you’re not supposed to do so in secret, like you just did earlier today.
Yet, you ask all the time about various potential pastries like dried fruit filled croissants and egg washed, golden buns, which always leads to Moe telling you to fuck off, because it’s not your business. Supposedly. Even though you’ve been writing your food column for at least six years now, and those six years of experience have taught you everything you need to know about reinventing, maintaining relevance, in the restaurant sphere. Your knowledge is going wasted.
You groan, and lean against the brick wall behind you.
“Listen, Pam. I’m only gonna say this fucking once. So listen good.” He broke the silence of your thinking. “You can’t be making shit in the back. It reduces our stock, makes it harder for the actual bakers who drop off their work here. We’ll lose money if you continue.”
“Noted.” You think about how you never actually see the bakers working there. You’re assuming Moe has some sort of night shift operation going on.
“I’m not finished.” Moe’s eyebrows sink even lower, making him look even more exhausted and terrifying than before. “You needa go and apologize to Ed, there. And you’re gonna be taking less shifts starting next week- you’re messin with the flow of business.”
You feel your blood boiling.
Despite all the efforts you’ve made here, you’re being treated like absolute shit. You grovel at customers’ feet already, and now you’re expected to do more of that for someone who harassed you. You know you’ve been working your ass off- and you can afford to take a few months finding a new job with your meagre savings. If this is the way things are going to go, you’ll never be appreciated.
You’re worth more than this.
“Save it, Moe.” You push your way into the back, and take off your apron. “I quit.”
/
It’s not your proudest hour, or your wisest decision, but goddamn , if it doesn’t feel good to walk out of there, your head held high, as the customers stare you down, and Moe is left scrambling to take orders that he barely knows how to do.
You can’t help but giggle a little.
Still, walking down the especially crowded streets of the forever luxurious NYC to the nearest subway stop reminds you that yes, you’re not in a really good financial position, and you should start looking for a job ASAP.
On the subway, you scroll through your phone a bit, looking at job postings on LinkedIn and Indeed, sighing at the exceedingly slim pickings for people working in either the food or writing industry, before you get a notification.
slim sydney: we still good to talk? works being particularly shitty today
You go to your texts.
pam beesly: fuck, give me a sec
Syd is your greatest, only friend. She was your best friend when you were both in the city- you would both eat out together every Saturday afternoon- but she decided to move out pretty early on, wanting to head to a small restaurant in her hometown, Chicago. You’ve never hated her for that. You know she wants to make her own path in the world, and the intensity of her program at the CIA left her wanting a small-fish-in-a-big-pond sort of situation.
She’s pretty lonely over there, though. You know how she feels about being a young black woman in an industry that doesn’t always take her seriously. She speaks her mind. And sometimes that makes Sydney lonely.
Everyday is the same thing for her. She wakes up, takes the train, and preps food in the Beef’s kitchen with Carm and Tina and Ebra and other names that you’re forgetting. It sounds monotonous like your job did, but you know Syd likes it so far, and you’re not gonna diss her for that.
It’s only when you’ve come in through your apartment’s front door, sat on the old, sagging leather couch, and taken a long sip of beer, that you call her.
“Pam, jeez, it’s been like ten minutes.” Sydney sounds kind of agitated on the phone.
“Sorry. Needed to get home first.” You recline in your seat. “What happened?”
“Ugh, well you know… Richie, right.” She whispers the name, and you think for a moment.
“Weird, tall guy? You got mixed signals from him last time?” You can’t remember exactly. “Oh, the one who can’t stop talking shit.”
“Yeah. Mixed signals is Carm.” Syd sighs loudly. “Anyways. He’s such an asshole.”
“Carm?”
“No. At least I don’t know yet. We’re talking about Richie.”
“Right.”
“He’s always calling me sweetheart, putting me down. You know today he told me they don’t need any fancy culinary expertise in there, they just need good ol’ fashioned grit.” She exhales, like she’s been waiting to say this all day. “The restaurant is flailing, dude. If we don’t do what I- what me and Carm want- it’s not gonna get better.”
“I know, Syd. People are stuck in their ways.” You stare out your window, seeing the rain begin to fall. “Maybe ignore him? I mean, he probably just wants attention, especially if that Carm guy seems to know what’s up.”
“Ha!” She cackles. “Maybe I could ignore Richie if he wasn’t constantly breathing down everyone’s necks, doing bare shit other than calling us fuckheads.”
“Oh.” It sounds horribly similar to Moe. “Yeah… Syd?”
“What is it? You sound scared.” She’s horribly intuitive to exactly how you are.
“I quit.”
“ What?! ” You hear her breath in a few times. “Why? What the hell happened?”
You recount for her how the customers don’t care about you, how Moe leaves a bunch of shit for you to do and doesn’t give you any respect for it, how you’re wasting away your talents and knowledge, and how, today, the last straw was a total major fucking creep.
“Fuck, Pam.” She sounds stressed for you. “That really sucks. Sorry to hear it.”
“It’s fine. Kind of a wake up call, anyways.” You gulp down some more beer. “I never really wanted to work in food- or I never wanted to work with customers, I guess.”
“Right, right. Big food journalist, Pamela Palmer over here, set to be the new Anthony Bourdain-” She says a quick rest-in-peace, and so do you, causing you both to laugh rather hard. “You could still do that, you know.”
“How? Where do I go from the New York Times?” You feel sorrow bubbling under your chest as you say that. It was truly maybe the peak of your career.
“Start a blog, dude.” She snickers, and you roll your eyes.
“I’m not turning into one of those influencer types who use food pics as an excuse to post their cleavage.” You shudder jokingly and Sydney cackles.
“That’s cool. I mean, I’m sure you’d get loads of likes and shares and internet traffic, if that guy today is any indication.” Sydney states as if she’s just reading a stock market report.
“Syd, c’mon!” You shake your head as you grin. Not many people get Sydney’s humor- they think she’s being an asshole when really she’s just teasing you. It makes the horrible situation today feel a little less, well, horrible.
“Well, it’s true. You’re hot. You could make it that way if you wanted to.” She’s not exactly joking now, and you shake off her compliments with a “thank you, but no ,” while she thinks of jobs that you could do.
“Okay, maybe try looking for smaller, local papers. They might need a columnist.” Syd answers, finally, and you moan. “What now?”
“I’ve tried that already. Most of them are either too small and can’t afford another columnist, or they’ve had a food columnist working for the last thirty years.”
“Damn.” Sydney checks her watch. “I’ve got about four minutes left of my break, and one crazy idea I know you won’t agree to.”
“Let me hear it.” You lean back in your seat again, expecting her to suggest stripping or something similar.
“Maybe you need to walk away from weekly stuff? Because if you’re not feeling blogs or newspapers, it might be good to go into books.” She explains, and there’s a bit of silence as you think about that. “Print media like that is a great way to get your name out there. Then you can start working for some hoity toity magazine.”
It’s not a bad idea at all, it’s just a terribly risky one. Publishers are picky- but not as much as they once were, what with the boom of the internet and e-books and self publishing. And you do need something more in your portfolio before you try applying for more writing positions at different places. You just don’t have any books to your name yet.
Nevertheless, you start smiling a little. “That could be an idea. I’d just need to really distinguish myself somehow.”
“You wrote food reviews for the New York Times.”
“Ah, that’s barely anything with some publishers.” You stretch your arms and crack your knuckles. “I don’t know if books full of reviews do well if people don’t really know who you are, yet. I think it’d be best if I was an editor… or if I wrote a cookbook.”
“Really?” Sydney giggles but she’s not mocking you. “I mean, go for it, but you might need some help. Maybe a co-author or something. Because your reviews were all about taste, not…”
“Making stuff. Got it.” You snort. “Hey, wait, there’s an idea, Syd!”
“What is?”
“A co-author. ” You hug your knees to your chest, grinning. “Sydney, I know you’re crazy busy, but would you consider- maybe over a process of a few months- being my co-author?”
“How romantic, Pamela.” She remarks. “I mean, maybe? But how would we do it?”
“Well, nothing’s really tying me here anymore.” You admit, thinking about how you’re just itching to leave the city. “I could pop by Chicago and the Beef just for a visit, a break, and we can talk it over?”
“Sounds like you’re desperate to go.” Sydney clues in on your response again, and you sigh before laughing.
“Yeah, man. If things work out, I’m willing to stay over there and work as an editor for a bit.” You frown. “Most editors in NYC are, again, old rich white men. And they never want to hire me unless- you know.”
“Ugh, gross.” Sydney gags mockingly. “Okay. We can plan your trip in a few hours, Pam. I can hear the kitchen getting hectic behind me.”
“Chef, I need you to come back now. Sorry if I’m interrupting something important, but you can get back to it later.” You hear a male voice gently admonish Sydney.
“Heard, Chef.” She holds the phone back up to her ear, and her voice gets louder. “Bye, Pam. See you soon.”
You find yourself drunk on your couch, daydreaming of book binding, as if you’re going to do it by hand. Sewing the papers to the spine.
/
“Who’s Pam?”
The question catches Sydney off guard. She’s working on stock, slowly sauteing onions when Carmy breaks the silence.
“Um, just a friend of mine.” Sydney confesses, although she’s not sure why’d that be a bad thing.
“You were talking to her for quite a while, Chef.” Carmy looks at her, and Sydney kind of hates how Carmy always does that face, the vulnerable, open blue eyes, always ready to hear what she says, even if she’s going to say something that might go against what he thinks.
“She’s my best friend. She’s struggling with work stuff, had to quit and all that.” Sydney shrugs. “You know how it is.”
“She a chef?”
“Nope.” Sydney pops the p, while chopping up some veggies for Tina. “Why, you want her to work here?”
“We could use the extra hands.” Carmy admits, as he stuffs sandwiches full of overly hot beef. His hands hurt, but he can’t stop.
“Well, too bad. Pam’s not really skilled like that.” Sydney declares, before feeling bad, like she’s giving you a bad rap. “She used to be a food columnist for the New York Times.”
“Damn.” Carmy blinks, runs his hands through his hair.
“Yeah. Damn.” Sydney sighs. “I’m trying to help her find a new job, anyways. She texted she’ll come by on Saturday, so… I guess… heads up?”
“You probably can’t take the day off. Sorry.”
“I didn’t say I needed to.” Sydney pours the stock through a sieve. “I’ll talk to her during family and break time and all that.”
/
Carmy can’t really help himself.
He’s bad with boundaries, sometimes, in which he keeps everyone else away- keeps walls around himself, refuses to talk- and yet, he has to know stuff about everyone else.
He doesn’t know if it’s competitive or if it has to do with preemptively figuring out people.
Still. He’s curious. Sydney never ever talks about her personal life with them, and it’s probably because Carmy keeps things on a fairly professional level.
He types away on his phone in his office. Googles “ pamela food column nyt ” and up comes a link.
Pamela Palmer. Former food columnist and journalist for the New York Times.
Carmy reads the first few paragraphs of your review of a Japanese bar, expecting flowery language about the cute setting of the restaurant and the refreshing nature of the gimmicks, as all food reviewers typically write. All the ones who are hacks, anyways.
“Fucking Christ.” Carmy starts laughing, actually tearing up at what you’ve written.
★☆☆☆☆
Hachimitsu - has Asian fetishization gone too far?
I review restaurants by understanding their food first. It’s the first thing they have to offer, and should rightfully be the main reason customers want to eat there.
Clearly that was a mistake in this establishment, as the not-Japanese-but-still-Asian waitress greeted me with a quiet, supposedly accurate submissive tone, wearing a skin tight kimono, which still strikes me as a horribly uncomfortable, skimpy outfit for a waitress to wear on her feet. It took quite some time for even a menu to enter my hands, as the entertainment (read: borderline strippers in geisha outfits) danced around my table. It was as if they didn’t want me to eat yet, but instead be dazzled by the so-called “experience.”
This is a dessert-focused restaurant. I expected fresh mochi, different types of wagashi, anything showcasing actual Japanese culture. Instead, I saw Americanized treats- like cakes, with sakura and matcha flavours, and bubble tea, which, dear reader, is a Taiwanese drink. And to my extreme disbelief- there was not one honey themed dessert on the menu, despite the restaurant being named after it.
Every single thing I tried was stale. The cakes, dry, tasting more of sugar when Japanese sweets are typically more neutral to taste. The mochi and other wagashi, chewy, but not in any satisfying way. There was no discernable flavour and it was stiff, difficult to bite down on, and did not come apart cleanly.
If I could sum up this place with one sentence: All style, no substance, and even the style is to no one’s actual taste.
Carmy is fully dying in his office chair, laughing much harder than he has in a long, long time. The rapid pace of your words- each one loaded with a purposeful meaning- felt like a stab to him, like he could feel every bit of anger you must’ve felt from sitting in a schlocky, gimmicky restaurant that felt like a disgrace to Japanese culture. He can practically hear your voice.
He usually thinks reviewers are hacks. There’s a whole lot of political, fake garbage in the food industry Carmy isn’t interested in getting into anymore.
But he realizes there's something kind of unique in your words. You’re not holding back your punches, you’re speaking truly from your mind. This isn’t a PR review- even though it should be, since it’s in a major newspaper and all, and he pulls up Hachimitsu on his phone and sees loads of paid for reviews. There’s no fakery.
And God, you were funny about it too.
Carmy makes a mental note to meet you on Saturday.