Chapter 3 Episode 3

Come 4 A.M., I am showered, dressed, and staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to memorize the exact shade of green in my irises. Turns out they have little flecks of hazel in them. Who knew? By the time 5 A.M. rolls around, I’m standing outside Grain & Gather, the bougie bakery three blocks from the office that charges twelve dollars for a croissant. That’s a crime, but the real felony is that it’s worth every penny. The owner, Fletcher, is just flipping the sign to Open. “Eliana!” His face lights up when he sees me. “You’re early, even for you.” “That’s how you get the worm, right?” I grin for a second before my sick, depraved brain starts thinking of other “worms” it would like to get and I have to shake my head to dispel the unwelcome horny thoughts. “Anyway, I couldn’t sleep.” I take a deep inhale, soaking up the aromas of fresh bread and butter and a cinnamon-y sweetness that makes my stomach growl. Just like that, I’m grinning again. “Okay, that smells insanely delicious. I need… three of everything.” He laughs. “You sure about that? That’s a lot of carbs for a little lady.” “First of all, how dare you disrespect my ability to inhale sugar? Secondly, it’s not for me. Well, not all for me. I’m feeding the test kitchen crew.” Fletcher’s eyebrows go up. The test kitchen at Hale Hospitality is legendary—fifteen of the most talented chefs in Chicago, plus a small army of sous chefs, stagiaires, dishwashers, prep staff, and more, all working around the clock to develop bold new concepts for Bastian’s ever-expanding culinary empire. They’re the best of the best. They are also, currently, miserable. Bastian has been in rare form all week, rejecting dish after dish, sending entire menus back to the drawing board with scathing comments. He’s taken to just scrawling NGE across the top in huge, red letters. That stands for Not Good Enough. It’s honestly kind of impressive how concisely he manages to be a giant asshole. “That’s kind of you,” Fletcher says with a whistle as he reaches for boxes to start loading me up with kilograms of sugary goodness. “What’s the occasion?” I watch him work, his hands quick and practiced as he selects pastries. Chicago dawn catches the glaze on a row of kouign-amann. The dusty cocoa on fresh bomboloni. The perfect spiral of a morning bun. It’s borderline pornographic for a sweet treat addict like me. “Well, the boss is grinding everyone into useless little nubs since we’re getting close to the Project Olympus launch. He’s a sadist, I think. I just do what I can to lighten the load for my fellow sufferers.” That is partly true—with the completion of Project Olympus finally on the near horizon, Bastian has been more monstrous than usual. The other part is something that was percolating in my head as I tossed and turned in the wee hours of the night. I have ninety days left—well, ninety minus one—and that’s just not a lot of time. I want to taste everything, see everything, experience everything while I still can. And if I can do that while also bringing a small taste of joy to a group of stressed-out chefs? Well, that’s killing two birds with one scone. Two hundred dollars later, I struggle through the revolving doors of the Hale building, juggling a trio of pastry boxes and a tray of coffees. The security guard, Kyle (not incompetent-spreadsheet Kyle, different Kyle), jumps up to help. “I’ve got it,” I say, then immediately prove myself wrong by nearly dropping the coffee tray. “Okay, maybe just the coffee.” He takes the tray with a grin. “Test kitchen?” “Only reason anyone brings this much sugar before 6 A.M. Plus, Chef Rubio texted me that Mr. Hale made three people cry yesterday.” “Pastry chef had a delayed reaction. Didn’t hit until she got to her car.” We ride the elevator to the fifteenth floor, where the test kitchen occupies half the level. It is Bastian’s pet project, a state-of-the-art facility that looks more like a spaceship than a kitchen. He makes sure that the crew keeps it spic-and-span, too—we’re talking “toothbrushes scrubbing the grout” levels of cleanliness—so it’s a glistening, unblemished ocean of white and stainless steel as far as the eye can see. Legend has it that the health inspector fell to his knees and wept tears of joy when he first came to approve the place’s opening. The doors haven’t even fully opened when Chef Rubio appears. Under normal circumstances, she’s an espresso in human form: Puerto Rican, loud as hell, with an irrepressible smile and hips that constantly swing to salsa music that no one else can hear. My first thought today, though, is that she looks beyond exhausted. She’s practically got piping bags under her eyes. “Please tell me those are from Grain & Gather,” she says to me in a hushed rasp when she sees what I’m carrying. I wink. “Would I bring you anything else?” “Mija, I could kiss you. On the mouth. With tongue.” Thankfully, she spares me the early morning tongue bath. Instead, she grabs two boxes, then calls over her shoulder in rapid Spanish. Within seconds, I am surrounded by chefs, all of them clawing for the goodies and groaning wordlessly like a zombie horde. “Oh my God, kouign-amann,” someone moans. “Are these the brown butter croissants? Eliana, you angel.” I ask how things are going, someone starts explaining the difference between lamination techniques in French versus Austrian pastries, and for a few minutes, everything feels normal. Better than normal, actually. There is something beautiful about watching people’s faces light up over simple pleasures. Chef Rubio closes her eyes and sighs when she bites into a morning bun. The newest line cook, barely out of culinary school, holds his croissant aloft like it’s made of gold. “You know what? You’re officially my favorite person,” he says, his mouth still full. His name tag reads Samuel, and he’s got an eager energy that hasn’t been beaten out of him by the industry yet, though his hair is standing straight up like he either just stuck a spatula in an electrical socket or he’s been running his hands through it all night long in frustration. Another one of the chefs guffaws, spraying a mouthful of blueberry muffin everywhere. “You sure it’s not LeBastard?” At the mention of the big boss, everyone groans in unison. One of the French stagiaires mutters the nickname again under his breath with such visceral hatred that it makes me flinch. “LeBastard. Ce fils de pute.” I don’t have to speak French to understand that they’re not exactly singing his praises. Wincing, I make eye contact with Samuel. “It’s been that bad?” “Worse than you could possibly imagine,” he says vehemently. I glance at Rubio, who nods in confirmation. “We’re three weeks out from the investor preview for Project Olympus and he’s rejected every single dish we’ve presented.” Project Olympus—Bastian’s baby, his magnum opus. It’s a skyscraper-sized ode to fine dining. A fourteen-story complex with a dozen restaurant concepts under one roof, each one with the oh-so-humble goal of revolutionizing a world cuisine. Italian, Korean, Chicago’s finest—Bastian has pulled out all the stops to make it a mecca of good eats. That comes with a price tag, of course. Meaning that the investor preview dinner is make-or-break for the project’s funding. I’ve seen the numbers; we’re talking about a potential three-billion-dollar valuation if he can pull it off. The “if” is the part that’s got everyone burning the midnight oil. “Maybe someone needs to get him laid. Make the grouchy motherfucker a little less grouchy, you know?” suggests Tony, one of the sous chefs. To my horror, he turns and starts waggling his eyebrows at me. “Take one for the team, Eliana. You’re pretty enough, and God knows he needs to release some tension.” My face goes nuclear. Last night’s delusional fantasies flood back—warm skin, soapy scent, hands coaxing lower… What if I had? What if we had? “Pfft, please,” I snort, aiming for what I hope and pray comes off as casual, I-would-never dismissiveness. “Bastian Hale doesn’t even see me as human, much less as a woman. I’m basically sentient office furniture to him.” “I don’t know,” Chef Rubio says, giving me a sly look. “You’ve got some legs on you, chica. And you’re single, yeah? I see sparks. And I think that stubborn hijo de puta sees ‘em, too. He looks at you, you know.” “Probably just wondering if he can legally make me work the dish pit,” I say, but my mind is racing and my pulse is racing even faster than that. Tony chuckles. “Spoken like someone who’s been here too long. Remember when you could have hope? Dreams? Basic human dignity?” “Vaguely,” I say, and everyone laughs again, but there’s an edge of truth to it. For six years, I’ve been clawing my way up from receptionist, putting in seventy-hour weeks, skipping vacations, missing birthdays. Just like Mom always said: Keep your head down, stay quiet, don’t make waves. Of course, Mom also said that about her various post-Dad boyfriends’ drinking habits, about the landlord who used to let himself into our apartment, about every disappointment life ever threw at us. Don’t make waves, Eliana. That only makes things worse. Just endure. Well, look where that got me: twenty-seven years old, depressingly single, and about to go blind.