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“Well, don’t ask me,” says the voice, small and with just a hint of squeak. “One minute I’m looking over the res chart, next minute you’re stepping on my tail.”
Samira scrubs her face. Nothing feels real. The cold air of the walk-in fridge is hitting the sweaty back of her neck, and she can feel the muscles of her shoulders tightening with every passing second. “They just seated the inspector,” she hisses, and begins to pace, just three steps back and forth in the small space. She narrowly misses the massive bag of onions hanging precariously off the shelf at knee-level and has to pivot. “And I’m in here talking to a rat!”
Abbot scoffs, a little rat cough, and he plants his paws firmly on his furry hips. “I’m still your chef,” he reminds her.
“Sorry,” Samira mutters.
There’s a sound outside the door, a scratching noise like someone’s resting something heavy against the wall so they can reach for the handle. Panicked, Samira scoops Abbot up and, without thinking through the consequences, quickly hides him beneath her toque.
*
Samira knows she must look wide-eyed and insane, but no one notices, because she’s been here a year and she’s pretty sure they’ve all been calling her Slow-Mo for so long that they’ve forgotten her real name, much less looked at her long enough to know her baseline facial expressions. Or maybe it’s the customer at table 12 that the floor staff is certain is an Inspector for the Michelin Guide that’s distracting even their keenly observant sommelier.
“Seriously?” Samira hears Mel mutter. “This is when Abbot decides to skip town?”
“Tried to get Robby in,” Whitaker says mournfully. “but I think he’s blocked my number.”
All eyes turn to Samira. She stares back. “What?”
“Time to show us what you got, Slow Mo,” Walsh says cheerfully from the door, adjusting her apron. “25th amendment. As sous-chef, you’re now acting chef de cuisine till Abbot gets his geriatric ass back on the line.”
Samira freezes, and feels Abbot do the same in his nest of her curls, but then Shen strolls in with the first order of the night, and she automatically moves to her new position at the pass.
“Order in, two top!”
The kitchen snaps into action, a flurry of sizzles and clatters of pans on stoves. Despite the brain-melting nerves, Samira has worked alongside Abbot for long enough that instinct takes over, and it doesn't take long for her to enter a flow state.
It helps, of course, that Abbot crawls to a position right above her ear and starts to talk her through it.
“Deep breath, you’ll be fine. Garde manger are walking the apps in three, give it a minute before firing the hot line—“
The first orders she expedites come out shaky and uncertain, but the plating isn’t a problem. She’s studied the menu backwards and forwards. She could do this in her sleep. Slowly, the nerves start to seep out of her as the rhythm of a service in full-swing kicks in, the rhythm it is now her job to set. Under the hiss of meat being seared and the clanging of pans, Abbot’s voice is a constant in her ear.
“…now slice against the grain and plate up against the dauphinoise, slow and steady, good, you want a clean contrast—“
“Hot line five out,” Joy drawls from the grill, and Samira arranges the plates for the order under the heat lamps as a chorus of “Oui”’s fill the kitchen.
“—check that short rib, we might want to give it a pass under the salamander, you’ll want to call table 4 soon, they scarfed those apps down fast—“
“Where’s my Espagnole?” Samira calls over her shoulder, and Mel appears instantly, saucepan in hand.
“Here, chef,” Mel says breathlessly.
“Not the chef,” Samira mutters to herself, a little uncomfortable.
Abbot’s voice is warm in her ear. “You are tonight,” he tells her. “Take the win, Chef Mohan.”
Samira smiles to herself, and adds a little flourish to the plate before handing it off to the floor.
*
“Great work,” Shen winks at her as he passes. “I think the Inspector had a great time.”
Ellis, trailing behind him with a tray of empty plates, rolls her eyes. “She gave him her number,” she says to Samira in a faux-whisper. “I don’t think that woman was Inspecting anything but his ass.”
Samira groans and stretches, looking around the clean, empty kitchen. Service went so well that even Walsh, famously grumpy, had given her a thumbs up. She’d earned a round of cheerful applause from her fellow cooks. Honestly, Samira is proud of herself. She’d done her best, and the service had gone well with only a few hiccups.
“You good up there?” she whispers, adjusting her toque. No one’s around to see, so she carefully lets him clamber onto her hand and then crouches behind the cooling grill, bringing him up to eye-level.
Abbot’s bright rat eyes blink up at her. “You were incredible,” he tells her solemnly.
“I know,” Samira says, and then laughs, incredulous. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
He just gives her a look. “We both know that isn’t true,” he says, whiskers twitching. His teeth stick out a little. Samira would never tell him, but he’s kept most of his features, and he’s the handsomest rat she’s ever seen.
“Well,” she starts, but he holds up a paw imperiously, and after a short back-and-forth of furious whispering Samira finally takes the compliment.
*
They hit a snag when Samira stops by his apartment to drop him off, and they arrive simultaneously at the realisation that—unless by some miracle he transforms out of his rat form in the next sixty seconds—he is helpless and shouldn’t be alone.
“I have a cat bed,” Samira muses.
“Do you have a cat?” Abbot asks, panicked.
Samira smiles wistfully. “Not yet, but soon. I saw a beautiful boy at the shelter, I’m picking him up next week.”
“You have a name yet?”
“Lil Wayne,” Samira replies immediately, and earns a ratbelly laugh.
“Well, if Lil Wayne doesn’t mind me camping in his spot tonight, I’d appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Samira says, walking back to the car, Abbot perched comfortably on her shoulder. The late night air is crisp and stings her cheeks, so she doesn’t blame him for resting up against the warmth of her neck, even if it is a strange feeling. “My apartment is a mess.”
“Don’t worry.” The smile is woven through his voice, growing more Abbot than rat by the second. “I can live with a little mess.”