Chapter 1
At this thought, my shoulder blades tensed up. My stomach tightened and my throat constricted. I had liked working in this restaurant so far. Yes, I was only the kitchen assistant, but I had learned a lot in the first few months. Since I didn't have any training as a chef, I had been more than happy about the opportunity this job offered me. I had loved cooking ever since I was a little girl standing on a stool in my grandmother's kitchen, stirring various pots that always smelled temptingly delicious. One day I wanted to have my own restaurant. But I wasn't sure if I even had enough talent for that. As a chef, I would constantly have to invent new dishes. After all, guests wanted variety and not always eat the same things. "And why did I slam my hand on the counter?" Gene was no longer shouting. His voice had sunk to a quiet hiss that sent chills down my spine. What should I say now? I avoided Gene's gaze and fixed my eyes on my toes. "Because you can't get anything right, damn it! You're too slow! You can't do anything!" Gene's words echoed in my head. You're too slow! You can't do anything! I swallowed. Was Gene right? "Your desserts might look good, but guests leave them half-eaten more often than anything else. Don't imagine for a second that you have talent!" Don't imagine for a second that you have talent! I probably didn't. Gene was surely right. I could probably cook better than the average American. But that didn't mean much. To run a restaurant where REALLY good food was served, to create outstanding dishes, you had to be able to cook more than just above average. You had to cook exceptionally. Provide guests with an unforgettable feast for the palate. And I... I was good. But I probably wasn't exceptional. My eyes filled with tears at this realization. I would never open a restaurant. I would probably work under bosses like Gene my whole life. Who harassed me, belittled me, and made me do the dirty work. To them, I was nothing. A nobody. An easily replaceable temp. "Get out of here!" Gene roughly shoved me aside. I stumbled and barely managed to prevent slipping on the tiled floor. Falling to my knees in front of Gene would have been the last thing I needed. "I'll take over. You won't put your dirty fingers in these desserts anymore. It's bad enough that we can't serve the guests anything other than the slop you've come up with!" Gene took my place and began to repair the damage done. With difficulty, I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. How could someone be as mean as Gene? Why was he doing this to me? I hadn't done anything to him and always did my best. But he seemed to be one of those people who only feel big when they can make others feel small. "I don't have dirty fingers!" Indignantly, I rejected Gene's accusation. Like everyone in the restaurant, I strictly observed hygiene, wore gloves, and washed my hands often and thoroughly. After all, I was working with the food that the guests would later consume. "Oh really? Then I'll make sure your fingers get dirty!" Gene laughed mockingly and turned to me. "Take out the trash." I stared past Gene at the countertop. What had he done with the two plates for table 5? They looked worse than before! "Now get out of here already! Get out of my sight." Again, I swallowed. How I would have loved to do that. How I wished I could simply go home and never see Gene again. But I couldn't do that. Neither one nor the other. A quick glance at the large clock above the swinging doors leading from the kitchen into the restaurant's interior showed me that I still had 90 minutes of work before I could finally clock out today. So I couldn't just go home. And even if I could: I had the same shift tomorrow. So I would have to come back and listen to Gene's nagging again, trying to ignore his harassment as best I could. I couldn't afford to simply stay away. I had arrived in New York a year ago without much money. A suitcase with clothes and a bag with personal belongings, that was all I had brought from my parents' house. And the dream of making it here in New York. To open my own restaurant. "The trash is over there." Gene pointed with an outstretched finger to the left rear corner of the large kitchen. Taking out the trash. Everyone hated this job. But at least it would get me away from Gene. Hastily, I weaved my way past my busy colleagues who were working through the orders from individual tables at a rapid pace. Our restaurant with its adjoining hotel was among the most popular in New York. The location near Central Park was incomparable. Additionally, several travel and gourmet magazines had published favorable reviews about us and our food, which had brought us an additional stream of visitors. And plenty of work. As a result, none of my colleagues had paid attention to the argument between Gene and me. In the kitchens of New York restaurants, indeed restaurants all over the world, the tone was often rough. Insults and shouting were the order of the day. No one got upset about it anymore. Was I perhaps just too sensitive for this work? By now, I had reached the trash cans at the back of the kitchen. Sighing, I opened the lid of the first bin and pulled out the bag with the mixture of fish remains, vegetable peels, uneaten daily specials, and fruit pits. A warm stench hit me. I felt my stomach beginning to revolt and swallowed hastily.
