Cast Aside Chef: I Swap to the Competition

For five years, Julia Foster keeps me hidden in the kitchen because she is ashamed to have me represent Lockhart's Kitchen, so I take my cooking to her biggest rival. Whenever customers rave about the food, she sends William Hayes out to take the credit. Yet, whenever something goes wrong, she blames me without a second thought. William is the restaurant's public face, so he can't afford to make a single mistake. The truth is, he can't even tell coriander from cumin. When the food festival comes around, Julia sends me home on indefinite leave because she doesn't want me stealing William's spotlight. After finding out that she's planning to take the Lockhart's Kitchen trademark away from me and give it to William, I head straight to her biggest rival, Sullivan's Kitchen. Chapter 1 "Sean, table three says the fish tastes muddy. They sent it back." William Hayes set the plate down on the counter loudly enough for the customers out front to hear. "I've already apologized to them three times. My face hurts from smiling." I set my spatula down and glanced at the fish. The sauce was wrong. It had nothing to do with the fish tasting muddy. I was about to say something when Julia Foster came downstairs. "What happened?" I heard the sharp click of her heels against the tile before she even reached the kitchen. William sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Table three complained. Sean isn't doing too well today." He patted my shoulder and gave me an apologetic smile. "It's okay. I've already taken care of it." Julia ignored him and turned her attention to me. Then, she turned back to William. "Thanks for taking care of it. Sean, stay off the line tonight. You can check on tomorrow's deliveries in the walk-in instead." "But the fish—" "William, send table three a plate of our signature Snow-Capped Shrimp. Tell them it's from the chef," she said, cutting me off. Her tone left no room for discussion. William nodded and headed back to the kitchen. As he passed me, I didn't sense any smugness in his eyes. There was only sympathy. I took a bite of the rejected fish. Muddy taste, huh? What a lie. The fish had a strong cumin flavor. Before sending the dish out, William had been talking to one of the junior cooks and had grabbed the wrong bowl of seasoning. He couldn't even tell ground coriander from cumin. I chewed, swallowed, and headed for the walk-in cooler. Julia stopped me at the end of the hallway. She lowered her voice. "Sean, if this happens again, just play along." "Play along?" "Table three is a food editor from the newspaper." "But the fish—" "I know." With that, she left. She knew William made the mistake, yet she still put the blame on me. William was the face of the restaurant, so he couldn't be allowed to make mistakes. The newspaper would still praise him for turning a returned dish into a five-star success. The walk-in door was heavy. The cold was brutal. I stood in front of the rack of ribs, watching my breath fog in the air. Once I was done, I left the cooler for the kitchen. William was trying to make our signature shrimp dish. His movements were stiff, and his wrist shook every time he flipped the pan. Julia stood beside him. She handed him seasonings and plates and even reached over to steady the handle of his pan. I watched them from the pass. I'd cooked thousands of dishes over the past five years. Whenever customers praised the food, William took credit for it. When suppliers came to discuss partnerships, he sat at the head of the table. When TV crews came to interview us, he stood in front of the cameras and claimed he'd dug through old cookbooks to recreate my grandfather's recipes. My name had never appeared anywhere. Not on the menu, not on review sites, and not once in anything Julia said. After we closed, I stopped Julia outside the storage room. She was holding tomorrow's delivery orders. "Five years, Julia. Every dish I've made has his name on it. Every recipe I've developed is credited to him. He even claimed to have recreated the dishes my grandfather passed down to me by digging through old cookbooks. What about me, Julia? Where's my name? Have you ever mentioned me before?" She went quiet for a moment before calmly meeting my gaze. "You know this isn't just about cooking. William connects people. He's good on camera, and he can pronounce all the dishes properly. The restaurant needs someone people can recognize." "And what about me?" "If you really want to be in the spotlight, I'll make you a sous chef." I'd spent five years running the kitchen, yet she was offering me a sous chef position. I silently stared at her. She took my silence as acceptance. Chapter 2 Julia's touched the back of my hand. Her tone softened. "Sean, I know you're upset. Once the brand is on solid footing, we can make whatever changes you want. Just bear with me for now, okay? I need you to check on tomorrow's preparations tonight. William can't handle it all by himself." With that, she walked away. The sound of her heels faded down the hallway. At the far end, I heard her lower her voice as she spoke to William, but I couldn't hear what she said. We'd been married for seven years. For the first two years, she introduced me to suppliers as "the successor to Lockhart's Kitchen". In the third year, William came along. She saw him on a cooking show and decided to hire him as the restaurant's celebrity chef. From that day on, she never called me the successor again. A celebrity chef was worth more to the brand. Someone who could charm an audience and pronounce every dish properly could put a three-digit price tag on a plate far more easily than a man who had spent 30 years behind a stove and never learned how to smile for the camera. That afternoon, a distinguished-looking man walked into the restaurant. Julia thought of the rumors she'd heard going around lately and quickly realized that he was an inspector from one of the country's most prestigious restaurant guides. The inspector took a seat at Table 16 and ordered our signature Snow-Capped Shrimp. Julia immediately sent word to the kitchen. William's hand shook. The dish depended entirely on the egg whites. When whipped into a cloud, they coated the shrimp so that every bite felt light and airy. The egg whites were notoriously delicate. Even the smallest trace of yolk could ruin them. If that happened, no amount of whisking would make them rise. The shrimp were just as unforgiving. Leave them in the oil for a few seconds too long and they turn tough. If they were in the oil for just a few seconds too short, they'd stay raw. William stood at the open kitchen with his head down. He cracked his first egg, and a piece of shell fell into the bowl. He cracked another egg. The yolk broke and ran into the whites. The third one separated cleanly. He picked up a whisk and started to beat the egg whites. A minute passed. Then three. Then ten. The egg whites were still a thin, pale liquid. Not a single bubble had formed. He knew he wasn't going to whip them. His technique was wrong, and the eggs weren't fresh enough. The dish had failed at the very first step. Julia's face went pale. She looked at me and mouthed something. I didn't need to hear her. She was telling me to save him. I stepped into the open kitchen and took the whisk from his hand. I cracked the fresh eggs, carefully separated the whites, and added a drop of vinegar. After three minutes of whisking, the egg whites stood in stiff peaks. I cooked the shrimp in hot oil, turned them once, waited two seconds, and took them out. I set the finished plate on the pass. Julia looked at the dish, then at me. Then, she turned to William. "Serve it." William picked up the plate and headed for the dining area. He stopped in the hallway and exchanged a few words with one of the junior cooks. The dish sat in his hands for almost a minute. Once he reached Table 16, he gave the inspector a polite smile. "Lockhart's Kitchen's Snow-Capped Shrimp." The inspector picked up a shrimp, took a bite, and then opened his notebook and wrote something down. William returned to the kitchen and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He turned to me. "Sean, did you overbeat the egg whites? He took one bite and put his fork down." I set my spatula down. "The egg whites were fine. The shrimp were overcooked. You spent a whole minute talking in the hallway. That kept the shrimp cooking on the plate. The residual heat turned them rubbery." His face flushed. Julia stepped between us. She wasn't protecting him. She was shutting me down. "Couldn't you have said that to him in private? The inspector is still out there, yet you just called him out in front of the whole kitchen. How is he supposed to face the cameras after that?" She wasn't looking at William, though. She was looking at me. There was panic and anger in her eyes. It looked like I had just ruined her plans. "I made that dish for him." "I know you did!" she snapped, keeping her voice low. "But he was the one who served it. He's the head chef. If you point that out in front of everyone, you're hurting not just him but also Lockhart's Kitchen. Don't you get it?" I stared at her silently. She stopped looking at me. Instead, she walked over to William. When William lowered his head, Julia lifted her hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Her thumb lingered on his brow for a moment before she cupped his face with both hands. "It's okay. The inspector was nodding. The dish passed." She smiled. She had never given me that kind of smile once in five years. Her hands slid down from his face. One of her hands followed his arm before she gave his wrist a gentle squeeze and let go. Then, she turned back to me. The smile was gone. "Sean, get back to the kitchen. Don't come out until the inspector leaves," she ordered. Chapter 3 Three days later, the results came out. We didn't get awarded a star. In fact, we didn't even get a recommendation. That afternoon, three media outlets came to the restaurant. Julia stood in the dining area for interviews. William was with her. From the pass, I could see the cameras as the reporters asked why we hadn't received a star. Julia sighed. Her voice was heavy with disappointment. "The inspector wasn't impressed with the egg whites in the Snow-Capped Shrimp. We happened to have one of our backup chefs handle that part of the dish that day. William was overseeing another signature dish at the time." The camera turned to William. He nodded solemnly. A backup chef. The first time my name appeared in the media was so that I could take the blame for William. I clenched my fists so tightly that the edge of the pass dug into my palms. Another reporter asked if Lockhart's Kitchen would participate in the food festival that weekend. Julia smiled. She glanced at William and reached over to straighten his collar. "Of course. Everyone will get to see what Lockhart's Kitchen is really about." After the interviews ended, the camera crew stayed behind to film a promotional video. William stood in the open kitchen with my grandfather's chef's knife in hand. He worked with the knife while smiling for the camera while Julia watched the footage on the monitor. I walked over and placed my hand over the knife's handle. "This knife belonged to my grandfather." "We'll put it back after we're done filming," she said, pulling my hand away. "William needs something for the camera. We need a consistent image for the brand." "Why would he use my knife just because he needs something for the camera? He's even using my last name for the brand. What about the trademark? Are you planning to call this restaurant 'Hayes' Kitchen' too?" She fell silent. That silence was answer enough. "I'm doing this for the restaurant," she said, her voice hardening. "You haven't been yourself lately. Stay out of the food festival. Take some time off. I'll have one of the junior chefs cover your shifts." I was livid. "You're afraid I'll steal the spotlight from him." "I'm afraid you'll ruin the food festival." She paused, then added, "There's something else. In a few days, I'm transferring the Lockhart's Kitchen trademark to William. I need you to cooperate." I looked up sharply. "My grandfather passed that trademark to me! You can't just give it to William!" Her voice was cold. "William is better for the restaurant's future than you are as the owner of that trademark." Then, as if she had realized how unreasonable she sounded, she softened her tone. "I know you're hurt, Sean. Why don't you come back after the food festival? You can be out front if you want. You can cook while William talks to the cameras. We can have two head chefs. What do you think?" I almost laughed out loud when she suggested having two head chefs. One would cook while the other stood in front of the cameras. How could she call that having two head chefs? Without waiting for a response, she turned and left. Her heels clicked against the tile with every step. … That evening, I went back to the restaurant to collect my things. The lights in the dining area were still on. Julia and William were sitting by the window with a table full of food between them. She kept filling his plate with food and watched him eat. When he got sauce on the corner of his mouth, she wiped it away with her thumb. Her movements were slow and gentle. William looked at her and smiled. I watched the whole thing. Then, I went into the kitchen and pulled a book from the bottom of my locker. My grandfather had written down 132 recipes in it. William had spent five years claiming that he'd studied this book, but he never opened it. I put it in my bag, pushed open the door, and stepped into the winter wind. I couldn't feel the cold. I went to a little diner on the south side of town. The owner, Charlie Lawson, had been serving homemade chicken noodle soup for 30 years, and he knew my grandfather. He brought me a bowl and sat down across from me. "Back when your grandfather was the head chef at Red Flag Hotel, I once waited two hours just to get a table. I've never had a better dish than his Snow-Capped Shrimp." My spoon stopped halfway to my mouth. "I'll make it for you sometime, Mr. Lawson." He laughed, probably thinking I was just being polite. I wasn't. … The next morning, I called a number I'd been given a year ago. Madelyn Sullivan, the owner of Sullivan's Kitchen, was the one who had given it to me. She'd sent someone to ask whether I'd be interested in working in her kitchen. She was looking for someone who could take charge of the line. I'd turned her down. This time, I called her back. She answered almost immediately. "Ms. Sullivan, this is Sean." "I know." "You mentioned a position in your kitchen a year ago. Is it still open?" There was a brief silence on the other end. "Mr. Lockhart, let's meet up to talk."