HARRY STYLES
"Needs salt," I shake my head and toss the spoon in the kitchen sink "A pinch will do."
"Yes, Chef."
As the two hours of sleep I had last night start to wear on me, I very quickly rub my eyelids with the back of my hands and widen them when I see purple spots for a moment. I check the new tickets coming in from the dining room and call out for one steak, one bass, and one salmon in a hoarse voice in need of water. I don't think I've had water today and it's...8:00 p.m.
"Chef?" Anthony brings the same sauce back to me to taste.
I nod once, tossing the second spoon and grabbing a new one to drizzle over the salmon waiting in the window. "Hands."
The designated server for that table takes the plate out of the kitchen and into the dining room. I look up through the glass to see the packed and dim restaurant, mostly focusing on the expressions on our guest's faces. A lot of them are smiling and taking photos of their meals or filming their table side orders being made in front of them. They look happy and that's important.
"Chef?" Cara places pasta with truffle shavings down for me to inspect.
I nod. "Hands."
The pasta is taken away and placed in front of a woman with her blonde hair up in a French twist and the woman in front of her with long and sleek black hair. They both take pictures of their meals, some with and some without flash, and then they sit in silence for at least two minutes before they resume life.
"Chef?"
I look away from the restaurant scene to focus on the one in front of me. I'm exhausted, but I don't have to touch the steak to know that it's overcooked. "No. Again."
Elijah remains standing in front of me. "I've already made it twice. You didn't even check."
Apart from the sound of dishes clanking, spatulas scraping, fire burning, blenders whirring, and mixers mixing, the kitchen is quiet. It's quieter now than it was before Elijah spoke back to me and I'm trying to decide if I should let it go or throw a tantrum. Unfortunately for him, I'm running off two and a half hours of sleep. Tantrum it is.
"I don't give a fuck," I turn away from him to add a sprig of rosemary to another dish. "Make it again."
"But–"
I take the dish and throw it like a frisbee into the sink, eliciting an ear-splitting crashing sound. A few of my chefs glance over, but they don't dare say anything. Instead, they keep working. "Make the dish again or get the fuck out."
Elijah takes one long look back at the sink, then focuses back on me. Keeping eye contact with me, he unties his apron and drapes it over my shoulder. "Good luck."
My molars shift against each other as I rip his apron off my jacket and throw it not in the hamper, but in the trash can where his pitiful, shitty, tough, leathery steak belongs. "Fucking idiot."
His response comes in the sound of the back door to the kitchen slamming, and the only guilt I feel results in seeing Zayn clean up the mess in the sink. He doesn't say anything about it, but he works quickly and efficiently to do away with the porcelain shards and wasted food. Without asking or needing to be told, he makes the dish himself.
With a vanishing smile, Jeff pops into the kitchen and I'm already rolling my eyes. "Did Elijah just leave?"
"I don't wanna fucking hear it," I quickly rub my burning eyes and check a sorbet dessert to be sent out, nodding to give the OK.
