Taste Me

1.

"You aren't fucking good enough!"

I whip around on the subway train to determine who the hell is talking to me in such a rude manner.

"Excuse me?" I raise my eyebrows at a pair of sullen-looking teenage boys who in turn give me a hazy, disinterested gaze.

"What?" The one with the backward Yankees ball cap says in an aggressive tone.

"Did you just tell me I'm not good enough?" I ask, incensed.

The teen laughs smugly. "Lady, I don't know what your problem is, but I am talking to my friend who just got us killed in our competition."

He gestures to the friend's cell phone which has some sort of violent gun game displaying on its screen.

"Oh...sorry." I cast them both a sheepish and embarrassed grin before turning back around.

It just runs with the territory I guess, to always have the shadow of paranoia crawling along my skin.

I'm Hanna Smith and I'm the most recent graduate of NYU's culinary program. Yes, it's prestigious and I should be extremely proud of this compliment but instead, I just feel fucking inferior.

Food is my life. Let me rephrase, food is my everything. I remember as a little girl watching my mom cook and I always wanted to be front and center by the oven or at the counter with her, whisking up the perfect batter for something delicious.

Everything my mom makes is scrumptious, and I only hope to follow in her footsteps. But for now, I'm having an extremely difficult time even getting my foot in the fucking door.

I mean, I know I'm an excellent cook, and if anyone is willing to give me a shot I can prove my talents.

Right now, I'm on my way to work. Let's just say I'm pretty fucking desperate right now. I live in Brooklyn, which is slightly lower rent than living on the island of Manhattan but it's like comparing apples to...um applesauce.

I had a roommate named Sara, a girl with fuzzy hair that she always wore in a near afro on top of her head. I never saw her in anything other than black or grey leggings and a baggy sweatshirt.

She loved ice cream and Netflix, and she had a job as a telemarketer at a call center. She helped pay half the rent but when her mom unexpectedly died she had to move back home to Delaware to help her father.

So, here I am on my own in the biggest city in the world, trying to not only make a name for myself but live each day praying that I don't eventually become homeless.

That's where the important job comes in.

It's still ridiculously expensive to live in this city or any of its boroughs, but I can't leave. I have big dreams and goals of opening my own five-star restaurant one day.

For right now, I'm working at one, hoping to impress the best in the business because, in my eyes, a job in the industry is better than nothing at all.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that I'm not actually a chef or cook at this restaurant, which happens to be one of the trendiest up and coming spots in all lower Manhattan.

I'm a waitress, trying my damnedest to work my way to the top, at any cost.

The restaurant has a name that lives up to its chic style, 'Blending In.' The executive chef's goal is to mix or 'blend' the hottest and freshest ingredients to make dishes that can identify with every type of pallet.

The executive chef is incredibly intimidating, to say the least. His name is Rocco Bornoli and besides being absolutely gorgeous, and I'm talking flaming, scorching hot, he is also seriously distant, abhorrent, and cold.