Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 60131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Based on the analysis listed above, the probability of paternity is 99.99%
~
Three Months Later
THREE
HARLOW
If I were ever forced to listen to one sound for the rest of my life, the cacophony of a commercial kitchen would be my first choice.
Hands down.
From the soft flames hissing under the ranges, to the spoons clanging against pots and pans, and to sous chefs shouting orders, all those sounds combined for a perfect melody.
I just wished I didn’t have to hear it at my current job: Le Sacre Coeur.
Everyone who was ‘anyone’ considered this to be the top French restaurant in this city. It was the crème de la crème for serving mouthwatering experiences night after night, and schooling classes of culinary artists who went on to run five star kitchens.
Or so everyone thought.
For the past eighteen months, the only thing this place did for me was crush my soul.
Tying on my apron, I approached my station and looked over incoming lunch orders.
Today is the perfect day to bake your best work, Harlow. Focus on that.
“Alright, pastry team!” I shouted at my line. “Tiramisu hold the cream for table seven, chocolate torte with raspberries for table nineteen, and truffle lemon tarts for the Owens’ anniversary, stat!”
Drizzling caramel over the lemon tarts, I placed them on the “go out” rack and moved to the next dessert request.
“Chef Harlow!” Someone called. “Chef Harlowww!”
“Yeah?” I tasted the cream for my croquembouche. “I’m busy.”
“Approach the galley for a review.”
“One second, I need to add more sugar to this.”
“Now, goddamnit!” Chef Ramos, the celebrity chef who ran our kitchen like a dictator, yelled louder. His voice forced a hushed silence to fall over the room.
Dropping my spoon, I walked toward him—taking my spot under his “championship banners.”
#1 in Manhattan Cuisine, Best Chef in America, Most Delectable Dessert of the Year
My heart ached at the sight of that last one; he won that because of my coconut eclair submission.
“Yes, Chef?” I asked.
“What the hell is this?” He held up a slice of caramel cheesecake.
“It’s caramel cheesecake, Chef.”
“But it’s not my version of caramel cheesecake, is it?”
“Um…” I looked around at my colleagues, confused.
“Come here, Chef Gray.” He pointed to a junior cook. “Taste this for us, please.”
The cook took a bite and nodded.
“What do you think?”
“It’s good, Chef.” His voice trembled. “Very, very good.”
“It’s shit!” Chef Ramos slammed the plate onto the floor, shattering it to pieces. “Pure, filthy shit!”
I swallowed as he stomped on the shards again and again.
“My recipe doesn’t call for a single cinnamon or apple addition, but they are abundantly present here. Why is that, Chef Harlow?”
“Because—”
“Speak up!”
“It’s for Mrs. Ledru, the wife of the Tiffany’s CEO, sir.” I could barely hear my own voice. “I overheard her say that your caramel sauce was a bit bitter during her last visit.”
“So, you decided to make your own?” He clenched his jaw. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
“She appreciates the additions.” I felt everyone staring at me. “They make her feel like she gets personal attention from you.”
“Answer the question that I asked, Chef Harlow.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “I made my own caramel sauce.”
The alarm on the range sounded, signaling that someone’s cream was seconds away from burning, but no one made a move.
No one dared to even blink.
“So, you think you’re better than me?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“That must be the case, because you’re taking interviews at other kitchens behind my back,” he said. “Are you no longer happy making my world-renowned recipes and learning from the best?”
“Sir, that’s not why I’m doing that.”
“This is a Michelin star kitchen,” he interrupted. “This is as high as it gets, and instead of being grateful that I took a chance on you and your limited drop-out school talent, you want to betray me by working elsewhere?”
“I’m only interviewing for part-time side jobs,” I said. “I need more money, and all the kitchens I applied to bake different things from yours.”
“Enough.” He held up his hand. “Do yourself a favor from here on out and tell them you’re in search of something full time.”
“What?”
“Get the hell out of my kitchen, and don’t ever come back.”
“Chef, please.” I shook my head. “Don’t do this to me.”
“You have an interview today, correct?” He shrugged. “If I were you, I would thank me for giving you the time to get there early.”
“If you give me a second chance, I swear I’ll never do it again.”
“I need two orders of tiramisu for table twelve!” He yelled over my words. “My caramel sauce—made exactly as I wrote it—with the flan for the Harris family at table eleven!”
The kitchen roared back to life without me, without a single colleague shooting me look of sympathy.
I knew it wasn’t personal; they couldn’t afford to lose their jobs either.
Refusing to let my emotions show, I took off my apron and headed to the employee room. I pulled my purse from the locker and gently lifted the sweets carrier I’d brought along for my interview.