Chef Sage

Finally!

I feel accomplished. It’s what we chase from kindergarten to college graduation and I can actually taste the feeling. My fingers are tingling and I attribute it to my excitement. Sage Matthews; The Cooking Phenomenon of the Year! I can see the crowd in my head standing and applauding me; some enviously and others in steady admiration. I deserve this!

My first day at the Elites Country Club is busy and the General Manager was impressed to find me idle in the lobby, waiting for the clock to strike ten so I get started. I aim to impress but the audience we’re serving today is unimpressive. A bunch of washed up food critiques with bad taste buds, if you ask me. Nonetheless, I want a good reference letter or review from this place when I open my own kitchen. Reviews go a long way in small markets.

The kitchen is steamy when I walk in, with the fading aroma of eggs and bacon in the air. I throw on the first apron I find and start shouting orders to the scholar chefs in their stations. I love the drive I see in their eyes and it keeps me motivated as we serve the customers on the other side. I want to call my mother but it’s already past noon, which means I’ll be disturbing her IV therapy session. I look at the giant clock hanging over the kitchen door and decide I’ll call her later. I remember the small minced meat that I brought with me for today’s meals and rush to the lobby for my backpack.

I throw the meat in the freezer and my bag on the floor beside the kitchen door, while we all continue prepping the appetizers. I’m mostly reviewing and judging the scholars’ work but I also have to start on the main course before the customers finish their starters. We’re going with beef quesadillas and a garlic sauce to dip, so I’m amused by the thought of them trying to use a fork to pick the quesadilla and dip it without appearing to lack table etiquette. I might annoy some of them and cause frustration with the dish but it’s my first day, there’s a grace period for newbies I’m sure.

I get to a female chef who looks well in her twenties and laser-focused on her pot. I lift her face and refrain from smiling to avoid being accused of flirting on the job. My eyes meet hers and I step closer, bringing my lips to her ear.

“Don’t forget to blink, the food will survive a split second”, I step back and walk away before she has a chance to react. Typical Sage, I smirk at that thought.

I’m now at my station on a platform stationed behind all the other chefs. I have a clearer view of everyone from this angle and they’re all sweating their brains out. I feel like shouting YOU’RE ALL A BUNCH OF AMATEUR WANNABES, but quickly suppress the urge. One could easily have said the same about me back when I worked overnight to create a new recipe that would or would not impress the Spanish chef who supervised me. I consider my sympathetic effort and feel good about myself. I look at the clock again and it’s time to start preparing the main course.

I shout what I want each chef to focus on for this part of the menu and head to the freezer for my minced package. We’re making Shepherd’s Pie so I allocate two chefs to take care of the potatoes, another two to cover the vegetables bit and I’m in charge of the meat. I pull more minced beef out of the freezer to add to what I brought and begin with chopping and frying onions. My pots are spotless and I want to embrace whoever is in charge of clearing the kitchen when we’re gone. This all reminds me of my cooking time at home, with mom. We have the best time, exchanging memories of my childhood until she lies down on the couch near our kitchen while I finish. I miss her and I’m startled by the smell of burning onions on my stove. I pull the pan off the hot plate and reprimand myself internally. A few of the chefs pass a glance my way but are sure not to make eye contact with me.

The rest of the staff has completed their tasks for the pie and I’m delaying them. I’m obsessing over the readiness of the mince yet it probably has been ready for the past ten minutes. One of the chefs alerts me of the time.

“We’re ten minutes behind schedule now, chef. Smells ready!”

I smile at that and signal them to bring the rest of the ingredients while someone sets the oven temperature and timer. The General Manager runs into the kitchen and startles the chef I bothered earlier.

“What’s taking so long?! The French critic says his appetite is depleting by the second. And you know how nasty critics can be in their reviews!” The man is frustrated. I walk toward him and place my less greasy arm around his shoulders.

“What’s the impatient Frenchman wearing, so I serve him myself. Nothing that a warm plate and a smooth apology can’t fix”, I emphasize.

“He’s got the greenest jacket I’ve ever seen. You won’t miss him”, the manager exclaims and storms back out.

Suddenly, I can’t wait to hear his thoughts after this dish. Nothing thrills me more than an individual who behaves like me, but can never be me.

The Pie is done, and it smells divine. I want to take some home but that’ll eat at my time in the kitchen at home so I let the chefs take the leftovers once we’ve dished for all the customers. I take the dish in the china plate and walk toward the door to serve our green jacket guy. He raises his eyebrow when he notices me walking toward him and I nearly trip. I didn’t realize my heart was racing. Excitement again. Or fear. I can appreciate either and slide the plate over to him. It just stills before touching the jacket he’s wearing. My boss was right, it’s very green. I smile awkwardly and feel a drop of sweat moving to my waistline.

“Please accept our sincerest apologies for the slight delay, we had a bit of an accident in the kitchen but it’ll be worth it after you try this. A secret recipe we’re officially launching next week so you’re among the first to have it”, I stroke his ego.

He tries to look unimpressed and nods slightly. I wipe my palms along my apron and wait for him to take a bite.

He does.

I see his face light up with delight and my shoulders drop as I orchestrate a smile.

“Delicious! I was afraid my palate would fall asleep after waiting. I’ll obviously mention that but this is good. Your kitchen will live another day. You mind telling me what you added here that’s out of the ordinary?”

His question sends a shock wave along my spine and I hold in a sudden cough. A minute passes and I gain courage with each breath I’ve taken, so I look straight into his eyes and answer him.

“The last of my father’s minced forearm.”

I walk away.