Midlife Do Over

Prologue

Pippa ~ 2 Months Ago

“Thank you for visiting Graze today. I hope you had a wonderful meal.” I flashed my most dazzling smile at the clearly less than impressed couple, waiting patiently for them to speak.

The couple stared at each other with a worried expression before the woman turned to me. “The asparagus was delicious, buttery and perfectly firm. The mashed potatoes were a little bland, and the steak was just okay. But we didn’t want to complain.”

That would be a first for the crowd Graze drew on a daily basis. “Feedback is always welcome,” I assured them with a friendly grin.

“That’s not a goddamn julienne! Open your eyes or get the hell out of my kitchen.”

I kept my smile tight while the couple listened in clear horror as Chef Rodrick unleashed yet another tirade on a kitchen employee. “He has high standards.” It was the best I could do to attempt a defense of the chef’s unacceptable behavior, but the couple’s eyes went wide, and they hurried out of the restaurant. Probably never to return.

Oh well.

Chef Rodrick had been on a tirade all shift, verbally abusing the kitchen staff, barking angrily at the waitstaff as if they were the reason his food was coming out of the kitchen in substandard quality. He had the temperamental and egotistical parts of being a professional chef down to a science. It was just too bad that his food fell flat if everything didn’t go perfectly, which it never ever did in a professional kitchen. He’d been hired at Graze almost a year ago, and frankly, I didn’t know how he still had a job except for he could be charming when reporters were around and he was easy on the eyes.

Too bad he’s not easy on the ears.

I was the front of house manager for Graze, had been for the past three years, but it was only the past twelve months that had been a hellish nightmare. But Rodrick was a star, allegedly anyway, which meant the rest of us had to grin and pretend as if the kitchen wasn’t run by a complete psychopath.

“Excuse me, miss?”

I let out a sigh at the one title no woman over the age of forty wanted to hear. Miss. It just felt like a commentary on my sadly single-in-the-city status. Chicago was a city of almost nine million people, and I couldn’t find one solid, single man to date. But that wasn’t the customer’s fault, so I turned with a mostly professional grin and headed to table three, located near the front windows with a view of Michigan Avenue. “What can I do for you folks today?” I glanced around the table and did a double take at the man with the silver goatee who I was pretty sure was the famed restaurant critic Paul Renault. He could make or break a restaurant with a few taps of his keyboard.

“How was the leg of lamb?”

The woman with a short black bob and a pinched expression answered for the table. “Not good, sweetie.”

I gave my obligatory frown and nodded. “I’m so sorry to hear that, what can I do to make your dining experience better?”

“We’d like a new lamb, cooked properly this time. Please.”

“Absolutely, I’ll let the chef know. Would you like a complimentary glass of champagne while you wait?”

“Absolutely,” the man I was pretty sure was Paul Renault replied with a relieved groan.

With a polite nod, I turned away from the table and headed towards the kitchen. Before I pushed through the swinging doors, I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, reaching for a calm I didn’t feel knowing that an interaction with Rodrick was imminent.

You got this. Even if you don’t, it’s your job.

My little pep talk did nothing to stop my racing heart, so I did what I always did when times got tough, I stood a little taller, pushed my shoulders back before I balanced the platter of lamb in my hands, and forged ahead. The kitchen was a beautiful sort of chaos, the way all pro kitchens were. It was that song and dance that had drew me to the world of fine dining, this craziness that produced the most delicious, beautiful, artistic edible creations known to man. I loved it.

Usually.

“Get the hell out of my kitchen! Now!” Chef Rodrick’s roared words didn’t intimidate me in the least, but the rest of the kitchen fell mute.

This will be a lot easier since he shouted at me first, I told myself as I fixed a bland expression on my face, the platter resting on my palms. Being nice to Rodrick never paid off anyway.

“Gladly. As soon as I let you know that this leg of lamb is dry.”

If possible, the kitchen fell even quieter as the chef whirled around, his whites still pristine after hours of working, and sucked in a breath.