DREA (GxG)

Amelia/Molly Special

This is like a side story into Mia and Molly's relationship, just to give you guys a better look at where and how it all began since I don't think I'll post an entire book about them. There might be a few more of these in the future. Maybe. Anyway, this is from Mia's P.O.V <3 

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January 11th, 2021

It is after nine. I told Molly I'd be done at seven to pick Max up, but then after the critic left, everything went to shit. Orders were haphazardly piling up, and customers were getting frustrated with the long wait times. They grumbled that their food had become cold and unappetising.

I am pissed off.

"If I'm not reading orders to you off a fucking screen, you can't get them right and get them out on time?" They look at me in utter silence, their faces gaunt and drained, yet I remain apathetic. "Who served crab to table 5 when they specifically ordered duck breast?" Silence. "Somebody better give me a fucking answer—"

"That was me, chef," George speaks up. "It won't happen again."

"That little girl is allergic to shellfish. Are you trying to fucking kill somebody?"

"No chef." He answers but there's a slight twist of a smile on his lips, as if the gravity of the situation is lost on him. But it isn't lost on me. If John hadn't caught that while he took it out I would've been looking at a lawsuit. To make it worse, I had a critic here at that time. My entire career could have been ruined.

I turn my eyes away from George. "Who was getting the orders out late?" silence. "Kelsie," she stiffens. "You were on pastry?"

"Yes, chef. Pastry and plating."

"What happened? Why were orders late?"

"Cook time was slow, chef."

I turn my eyes to the rest of the kitchen. "So, it's not Kelsie's fault because Kelsie can't plate what she doesn't get. Who the fuck is on meat today?"

With a collective step back, the group reveals a blonde man, his body trembling with fear. He cautiously takes a step forward. "That would be me, chef."

"And me chef." Two other young men step forward. Then George steps up to join them.

I give them a cold, hard look. "Who served table 2 steak?"

"Me, chef."

"George," George again. "You served my customers undercooked steak." Silence. "Why?"

"That's incorrect chef. It was perfectly cooked—"

"How long do we cook a medium New York strip steak for?" I ask him.

"Uhm, 3-4 minutes on both sides or to 135°, chef."

I want to stab him! But, I control the urge and ask. "How long did you let it rest?"

"Rest?"

"Yes, rest. How long?"

"5 minutes chef."

My fingers twitch and I have to look away before I grab a knife. I look at the rest of my chefs. "Do you all agree with him?"

"No chef!"

"You don't? How long do we cook a Medium New York strip steak for?"

"5-7 minutes chef, or to 140°!"

"How long do we let it rest?"

"10 minutes, chef." Even my juniors know better.

I look back at George. "You've been serving undercooked steak to my customers."