Take Me To Your Heart

A Disaster In the Making

I'm in one of those moods where I feel the need to be reckless. In a destructive, purely emotional, sure to regret it later kind of way.

I park in my designated spot and try to take a deep breath before I enter my restaurant. As much as I want to tear my boss apart, I know I need to at least attempt to handle this professionally. But, if John expects me to go along with his directives forever, he is sorely mistaken.

La Foule was one of the most popular restaurants in Chicago, known for an impeccable fine dining experience, ornate dining hall, and delicious, if unimaginative food. Critics had lambasted us several times for remaining solidly inside the lines of convention, but our patrons seemed to appreciate our adherence to expectation. It did not escape my sense of irony that the restaurant was literally named, "the crowd" in French. No part of this institution was interested in making a splash.

Indian-American, female chefs were not common place in these kinds of establishments so I felt too conscious of my great luck to be vocal about my bitterness. Still, I couldn't help but seethe at every review of my food that claimed I was uninventive. I was approaching the end of my patience, but without a clear path forward, I had no choice but to stay where I was. A place many chefs would kill for.

For years now, I haven't protested as my authority as head chef has been further and further diminished. It baffles me why they bother pretending like I have control over my own menu. Management's only goal is to serve the same bland, unimaginative, overpriced food to entitled patrons who just want to be pampered.

I can feel my creativity die with every well done steak I'm forced to let out the door.

My phone pings with a text from Nate, my sister's boyfriend, as I walk into the kitchen. I quickly skim through the barrage of information, seeing that he's updating me with more details for tomorrow's surprise engagement. I resolve to reply later, shaking my head, slightly amused. He doesn't actually need my help right now. The boy is just full of nervous energy.

Yasmin wanders into the kitchen to check in with me before the restaurant opens. She's dressed in her hostess uniform with her black hair pulled back in a severe bun. But her accessories betray her personality: huge, clunky earrings and a bright red lip. "I see he's still refusing to let you do your job." she quips, knowing how tired I am of having every decision of mine challenged.

"Just another reminder that I need to get out of here." I sigh, washing my hands.

"One day," she says, leaning against the counter, crossing her arms around the clipboard she is holding. "You will have your own fancy restaurant and I'll be rich enough to afford eating there." She giggles, enamored with her fantasy. I roll my eyes as she continues her daydreaming.

"Ibo and I will be married and my parents will finally leave me alone" – that's the most ludicrous part of this scenario – "and I'll be a rich, boss lady programmer, and you will take the city by storm with your food. We'll vacation in our winter home in the Caribbean and I'll be able to get my nails done every week."

I have to interrupt her or she will go on forever. She likes to act as if she is in a sitcom, but I don't have time to play along at the moment.

"Did you have something to discuss with me or should I get started while you prattle on?" I ask, raising my eyebrow good-humouredly.

Yasmin scoffs, pretending to be offended. Despite her slightly ditsy demeanor, Yasmin is the best house manager I've ever worked with. It's unfortunate she's desperate to get out of the restaurant business – I would have loved for her to follow me when I do start my own place.

"Fine. We can work." She says dramatically, as if I am asking for the world. "Specials tonight?"

I fill her in on tonight's menu until she has everything she needs to tell her servers. She seems surprised to hear that John approved the special I'm planning on serving, a Goan fish curry that always reminds me of my grandfather's coconut farm. I don't bother telling her that he didn't. Her job should be safe, at least.