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This restaurant is hideously 90's and the exec is even older and there's truffle oil french fries and chocolate lava cake on the menu but the thing is, Ava really really needs a job, and nowhere else is hiring. Or nowhere else is hiring her.
She smiles brightly and sits up straight. She's so happy to be here. She's so excited about this opportunity. She just loves Chez Vance. Or, she's always meant to come, but just never got around to it, and she hears it's great -
"Please, spare me," Chef Vance says, staring at her witheringly.
"Sorry," Ava says.
"I'm not interested in your apology."
Ava, all out of appropriate responses, gives her two thumbs up.
"So why'd you leave..." Vance puts a pair of reading glasses on and squints. "Boxcar Kitchen?" She pronounces it so as to make it clear that she's never heard of it.
"Difference of opinion," Ava hedges.
It's possible this woman put the glasses on just to dramatically scoot them down her nose and stare over them at Ava. "Uh huh," she says.
"Why'd your last sous leave?"
"Difference of opinion."
"I heard he punched you."
"Never trust the rumor mill." Vance flips back and forth through the resume, not quite reading it.
"So he didn't?"
"I didn't say that. Why'd you leave?"
"I talked to a customer and it turned into a whole thing. Like, in the face, or...?"
"His right hook is weak but I had to do my makeup over from scratch. What'd you say?"
Ava looks at her appraisingly. She's never understood women who wear a full beat during service but there's a precision to Vance's face that she can respect. "He thought his steak was cooked wrong. I said it wasn't, because it wasn't. He called me an idiot, I elaborated on my argument, the next morning Chef told me not to bother coming in."
"Fired for one mistake?"
"Yeah," she says. Definitely just the one.
"So what do you like to cook. Fish tacos?"
"Mm, that feels homophobic." Her right hook is probably better than the last guy's.
"You're from California, it's a reasonable guess. Are you?"
"Californian? No, I mean I live there now but I'm actually -"
"Are you gay," Vance clarifies. Presumably wondering which micro- (or macro) aggressions would be the most successful.
"I don't think you can ask me that, legally. But I'm bi. If you want to, you know, tailor your slurs for maximum impact."
"Don't fuck the hostesses," Vance says, shuffling Ava's resume into a folder and holding out her hand for a shake. "Come on. I need a sous chef and you need a job."
Ava shakes her hand firmly, rationalizing that she can just quit, right, if it sucks too badly. What's the worst that could possibly happen?
Chef's rolling her eyes at the tinny sounds of Ginuwine's "Pony" coming from the 6th pan on the prep table.
"Just because you can't appreciate fine art doesn't mean you need to spread those bad vibes," Ava says. "My saddle's waiting, come and jump on it." Swiftly, and for no particular reason (it's not like she doesn't know how to cut potatoes), she's sliced a reasonably deep gash into her thumb.
"Motherfucker," she says evenly, and wraps a towel around her thumb. "I think that's a bad one. Ugh. Ugh! I hate injuring myself. I mean, not that anyone likes being injured, obviously, but I always feel so stupid, like what, I don't know how to - "
"Let me see." Chef grabs Ava's hand and unwinds the towel. "Oh, it's not that bad, stop crying."
"I'm not crying," Ava says, tears springing to her eyes. Those are anger tears and they don't count.
"First time?"
"No. Obviously. I'm just really bad at this." She lets herself be led to the sink, cursing professionally and bravely as Chef rinses her hand off. "I have like. Passing-out disorder? It's a thing."
"Uh huh." Chef wraps a fresh rag around Ava's thumb and yanks her hand over her head. "Keep it there." She leaves.
"Thanks, bye-bye," Ava calls. She sits and feels sorry for herself and is steeling herself, vaguely, to call an Uber to the nearest minute clinic when Chef returns, phone in one hand and a quart container of orange soda in the other, which she gives Ava with zero direct acknowledgement.
"No," she says, into the phone, dragging Ava over to the medicine cabinet. "No - you said that yesterday, and it was bullshit then. I don't care why. It's not my problem. You have it or you don't."
Ava clutches the soda and stares at the ceiling as Chef sprays, tapes, and wraps her stupid fucking thumb into its stupid baby cocoon.
"You fuck me again with this, I'm switching to Sysco. Okay? Okay." She pulls the phone away from her ear, looking offended. "He hung up without saying goodbye."
"Can't imagine why," Ava says. "Do I need stitches?"
"You're fine," Chef says, probably not just trying to avoid paying out workman's comp.
"Oh, fuck, there's blood all over you."
"You were bleeding," Chef says, staring at her like maybe she's gone stupid from shock and losing the blood in question.
"I mean - sorry? And thanks."
"Don't apologize. It's nothing. Take five and finish the potatoes."
Ava drinks the soda and tries to ignore the throbbing pain and the shame and the - something else. She returns to the prep table to find it cleaned and organized. The trail of blood's been mopped and the next time she sees Chef, she's changed into a crisp new jacket. Ava finishes the potatoes.
There's ten minutes between prep and the start of service. Ava inhales half a sandwich over a trashcan and beelines for the back door. There's two milkcrates in the alley, and the nice one's already taken.
"Hi," she says, squatting down.
"Hey," Chef says. "Welcome. The soup of the day is rat, and the sommelier recommends the bottle of Gatorade filled with piss."
"Mmm. You know, I just ate, but maybe some dessert?" She inhales and inhales again and then sighs sadly. "Dead battery," she says, waving her vape.
"The miracle of technology," Chef says. There's a distinct smugness to the way she lights her Virginia Slim.
"Can I, um," Ava gestures. "Bum one off you?"
Chef hesitates, then taps a cigarette out of the pack. Their fingers brush on the handover. She doesn't offer up the lighter, just holds it, making Ava lean in. Ava isn't saying the moment is charged, but like, there's sort of something happening? She needs to stop crushing on authority figures.
"These things will kill ya," Ava says, sidestepping what she imagines to be erotic tension.
"And that contraption won't?"
"That's for future Ava to find out," she says.
There's a pause, and Chef turns towards her slightly, tensed, like she's about to do something; Ava squashes the flinch.
"You never told me what you like to cook," Chef says.
Ava shrugs. "Anything good. Anything honest. I don't fuck with frou-frou stuff. Keep it simple, you know? Local, farm to table, stuff that respects the ingredients."
Chef snorts. "Everything's farm to table now. Before that, everything was molecular gastronomy. Before that, truffle oil and sun-dried tomatoes. The wheel turns."
"You had truffle fries when I started," Ava reminds her.
"Sometimes you have to give the people what they want. Sometimes you get lazy, you give in. Start taking shortcuts. It's hard to get out of the rut." She ashes into a mysterious puddle, staring off into the middle distance for a while before giving Ava a brief but intense look. Like one or the both of them just said something that mattered.
Garmo looks like a deer in the headlights. Her runners have mysteriously vanished. Chef, brandishing a honing rod, is about to kill Ava.
"You changed the beet salad."
"It's better this way. The world does not need balsamic drizzle, it's 2023." Ava wipes off the rim of a dish that's already been wiped and puts it back in the pass.
"Without asking."
"You would have said no."
"So you just took it upon yourself to change my recipe?" Cartoon steam coming out of her ears, nearly snarling.
"I fixed it," Ava says, trying to keep her voice even. "No one was ordering it. We've sold four so far tonight. You're welcome."
Chef takes the Sharpie out of Ava's coat pocket and puts it in her own. "Take the rest of the night off." She muscles Ava over and straightens the tickets on the rail.
"Wow. Okay. Sure, whatever. Have a good shift." She flips the bird behind Chef's back and skips changing before she leaves, clomping out into the world in her clogs and an apron she stuffs into a public trash can.
"You can't quit," Jimmy says. "I'm so close to convincing Josefina to carry the rosé."
"And that's important." Ava cracks open a Red Bull and chugs it.
"Your poor palate. I work for commission, Ava, if I can get my hooks into your wine program I might actually be able to take a vacation."
Ava burps, crushes the can, alley-oops it into the trash behind the bar, misses. "Roger dodger. Maybe I can sweet-talk her into buying a case of your fancy expensive grape juice."
"I'm pretty sure a wine recommendation from you functions as a warning, but thank you for the thought. And you're not quitting." Half a question.
"Not until I have another gig lined up," she says. "I thought about it, but the last time I was unemployed I lost, like, all of my marbles, so."
Sauté's called out and Ava's hungover and Chef's hiding in the office and they're down two bussers and reservations are sitting at a healthy 130 and it's fine.
Marcus makes a rare kitchen appearance, which means he needs a favor. "I booked a party of 15 for 7 and they all want the porterhouse. Can you do it?"
"Sure, fuck it, why not. All of them, though? "
Marcus shrugs. "Straight men love red meat. That's the biggest meat we have."
"To quote Jenny Holzer."
"Hah. Lock in for me tonight, okay? I don't have enough staff to waste time massaging the egos of people who think they're too important to wait an extra five minutes for their soup."
"Soup on the fly, heard."
They fist-bump and, resplendent in his suit that costs more than Ava makes in a month, Marcus disappears into the front of house.
Reservations at a dealwithable 145 and no one on sauté and she's still waiting on the produce delivery and it's totally fine.
She rounds the corner and finds a server eating a fucking branzino.
"Did you pay for that?" She doesn't yell. Her voice, maybe, is projected a little bit more than usual.
The server starts and holds her hand to her mouth and says "Ummmmm" and giggles and Ava takes the plate and dunks it into the trash.
"You ring it in and you use your discount! You make enough in tips, for fuck's sake. Chef's already up my ass about costs, I can't just give away an entire fucking fish. Who'd you beg for this? You know what, don't tell me, I don't need another problem. Go! Git!" She shoos the server out of the kitchen, blinking as the dim beyond swallows her up.
Counting to ten, Ava flounces into the walk-in and screams, slaps the door, screams again, counts to ten again, straightens her apron, and steps out.
"You know that thing isn't sound-proof, right? And you really ought to be nicer," Chef says, sidling up next to her. "What would HR say?"
"We don't have HR."
"But what would they say, if we did?" She makes a face, like she's just so disappointed in Ava, smirk breaking out at the tail end. She slips on a hat (baseball, Chez Vance branded) and steps behind the line, yanking a dozen or so 9 pans out of the lowboy fridge.
"Sorry. It's just - it's been a day. What are you doing?"
"What, are we out of extra-large gloves? I know that always makes you grumpy. And I'm setting up my station as your new line cook. Chef." Chef makes eye contact, holding it longer than she usually does.
Ava gives her a small, tight smile in thanks, and nods, and starts pulling out plates to polish.
She's about to lock up the kitchen when Chef waylays her, stomping out of the office like she's on a mission.
"What are you gonna eat for dinner tonight?"
In retrospect, Ava should have said "pussy", but she's too tired for jokes and so she says, "Oh, you know, the uze: dino nuggies and a Miller Highlife."
"That's depressing. Let me cook you something."
Ava narrows her eyes, weighing the possibility of it being a trap.
"Humor me," Chef says. "I'm in a mood."
"I could fuck up some eggs right now," Ava decides. "Dealer's choice."
Ava hops up on the counter and watches her. She's got nice hands. Sure, relaxed, the muscles flexing in her forearms as she chops and whisks a handful of chives into the bowl, cracks the eggs, slides the pan deftly over the burner, nudges the egg into shape. She slides the omelet onto a plate, next to a quick side salad, and presents it with a flourish.
"Thanks, Chef."
"Call me Deborah," Chef says. Deborah says. Soft, intimate, some weird kind of something happening in the undercurrent.
"Okay. Um. You're not eating? Deborah?" The name feels unwieldy in her mouth. Not that it's a bad name, per se, it's fine, she's said worse, but like, that's Chef.
"I like to cook, doesn't mean I like to eat." She pulls over a glass rack and flips it on end, perching on it like a shitty wobbly chair.
Ava raises an eyebrow. "That's - normal." She forks off a chunk of egg and shoves it into her mouth. "Oh, snap, this is really fuckin' good," she mumbles, spitting egg onto her lap, which she scoops up with her fingers and eats.
"She's beauty, she's grace. Eat your greens."
"Aye aye, cap'n. Chef. Deb." She grins around the mouthful of egg, wondering if maybe today could be the day a sinkhole conveniently opened up beneath her feet. "You're just gonna sit there and watch me eat?"
"You sat there and watched me cook," Deborah counters.
"Not really the same thing?"
They sit in companionable silence.
"You were right," Deborah says, after a while. "Your salad's better."
"I know."
Deborah glares, but it's lighter than it tends to be. "Garde manger needs work. Well. It all needs work, but that's an easy place to start." She looks at Ava expectantly.
"I have ideas," Ava says.
"I know." Fond, maybe. She works her way upright with a stifled groan and squeezes Ava's upper arm, lingering.
"Critiques," Ava continues. "Complaints."
"Uh huh." Deborah looks like she's going to say something else, but thinks better of it. "11, tomorrow. We ran through a lot of product tonight and I don't trust Damien to do all the prep on his own."
"Oui, Chef." She tries to angle it so it's not a regular 'Chef', it's sort of an ironic Chef+, now that she's been granted first-name privileges. It probably doesn't work. Chef smiles at her anyway, and leaves.
She finishes the egg, missing being watched a little bit, and tucks the plate into the dishwasher. Final pass, double check, everything off that should be off and on that should be on. She pauses in the doorway, giving the kitchen one last look, and turns off the lights.