Page 1 of Slap Shot
ONE
MADELINE
The best partof my job is being in charge of entitled men who think they’re better than me because they have a dick.
The rest of it—the hustle and bustle, the creative outlet for the recipes that come to me in the middle of the night, the breakneck pace—is nice, too.
But having the power of an executive chef?
That’s something I’ve workedhardfor.
After constantly being overlooked for positions I wanted because the job went to a man less qualified than me, I landed the executive chef role at CARVD, a Michelin star steakhouse in the heart of Las Vegas.
That was three three years ago, and I’ve never loved cooking more.
The kitchen is where I belong.
It’s me and food, and it’s the longest, healthiest,happiestrelationship I’ve ever had.
“Hey, Andre.” I smile at my favorite line cook and set my notebook and pen on the prep station. “How are we looking for tonight?”
“What do you think?” Andre raises a brow as he sharpens the knife he’s holding. He lifts his chin to the stacked containers, theones I can see from here labeledHeritage carrotsandConfit garlic, and I nod. It’s going to be a long day.Yeah, stupid question. We’re always busy. He turns the handle and carefully inspects the blade before putting it back in the block against the wall. “Jared wants to see you in his office before we get started.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
“Nope. Vague as always.” He shrugs and moves to a paring knife. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
I head for my kitchen manager’s office, nervous. It’s rare he asks to see anyone before our night starts. His management style has always been hands-off, and knowing he’s here hours before we open the doors to a waitlist a mile long concerns me.
I knock on his door and rock back on my heels. I make a list of the half-dozen things I need to accomplish while I wait for him to answer. I have to track down the fresh spinach we got in yesterday. Take our new runners through proper dish placement and presentation. Assist with prep, which also means checking to make sure we have enough heavy cream for a large batch of peppercorn sauce. Steaks are our signature dish, and if I can avoid eighty-sixing yet another item off our menu tonight, I damn well will.
There’s too much to do, and a quick glance at my watch tells me time is slipping away.
CARVD is one of the hottest spots in the city. Our diners are high-profile athletes, celebrities, and millionaires in town to watch UFC fights and F1 races.
I put everything I have into an innovative menu that changes weekly and draws a crowd. I spend hours experimenting with flavors and technique. I pride myself on learning and evolving as a chef, which is why I’m hesitant to find out why my boss wants to speak to me.
As a meticulous planner and overachiever, being told I’ve done something wrong will be enough to send me spiraling before service.
“Come in,” Jared finally yells, and I throw the door open with a smile.
“Hey, Jared. Good to see you.” I stretch my smile wide, hoping it doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “Andre mentioned you wanted to chat before I got everyone together to go over tonight’s menu?” I ask.
He motions to the chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”
I perch on the edge of one and discreetly check the time again. I don’t want the team to think I’m leaving it to them to pick up my slack. “What’s up?”
“I have some news.”
“Is it good news or bad news?”
He drums his fingers on his desk, and my nerves amp up. “I hate drawing things out, so I’m going to cut to the chase. The restaurant is being sold. The new owners are bringing in a lineup of chefs and runners.”
Hell.
That is definitelynotgood news.
