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Summary
Two-fifteen on a Friday afternoon, and the kitchen was the best thing Robby owned.
Not literally. Literally he owned eleven percent of it, and eleven percent of the exhaust hood, and eleven percent of the mortgage on the exhaust hood, which was a fact he tried to look at no more than once a day. But at two-fifteen the burners were cold and the lights were on half and the only sound in the building was the walk-in cycling on and off like something asleep, and at two-fifteen the kitchen was his in every way that wasn't accounting.
He had his coffee. He had the board. He had, on the pass in front of him, the sheet of paper on which he had written TARTARE—??? four days ago and had not improved upon since.
He turned it face down.
Or:
The one where Robby is a chef in a restaurant, Jack is his sous chef, and the chaotic comedy ensues.