But what she really means is, What’s wrong with you? She’s looking at me as though I have some sort of terminal illness.
“Not really. Cooking always calms me down. I feel positively peaceful right now.”
I notice the two women exchange a look, but their opinions barely touch me. No one can. I’m marooned on a desert island, emotionally-speaking.
Or at least, I’d like to be.
Probably why I've been ignoring my phone since the moment I set foot on The Medusa. It’s resting on the corner of the spice shelf over the stove. I’m vaguely aware of the display light flashing with new notifications. But I have no interest in checking any of them.
“I’m changing the main course up a bit,” I announce, taking advantage of their shock. “We’re still going to use the fish, but I’m going to pan fry instead of sous vide. We don’t have the time to waste.”
“Whatever you want, chef.”
“One more thing,” I say, unable to avoid it any longer. “Can you repeat your names for me again?”
“Molly,” the brunette says.
“Lisa,” answers the blonde.
Neither woman seems to take offense, thankfully.
I nod. “Lisa, I’m going to need you to watch the onions. Tell me when they turn golden brown. Molly, keep an eye on the sauce while I pinbone the fish.”
I leave them to their tasks and move around the kitchen, checking to make sure all three courses are moving along. I was told dinner needed to be served at eight o’clock and we’re already at half past seven, so I need to keep things moving.
Two of the other staff look up at me with interest—and some wariness mixed in, too—when I step over to their station.
“Can you chop those scallions a little finer, please?” I ask the skinny bald one.
“Yes, chef.”
“Andy, right?” I check.
“Anders.”
“Right, sorry. Anders.”
He points at the other man. “And this is Cory.”
I nod towards the plump, older man. He seems to prefer quiet while cooking. I’m of the same mind.
“Cory,” I say, “I’ve decided to make penne instead of ravioli. But don’t worry, we’re going to use the same dough.”
He nods deferentially and opens his mouth to say something when we hear footsteps on the gleaming mahogany stairs that lead down to the kitchen.
Yulian stoops down and peers through the door. His eyes find me instantly. “Chef Jessa, you’re wanted on the deck.”
I blink in surprise. “Me?”
He nods. “You.”
I want to refuse. There’s too much to do and there’s a lot of money on the line. But I don’t want to disappoint anyone, either. Least of all Anton.
Something tells me he’s not the kind of guy who likes being disappointed.
I move over to the stove and lift the lid on the stock pot. Steam pours out, followed by the delicious, brothy smell of the soup.
I turn down the fire and look at Molly. “Leave it to settle for ten minutes then ladle out two spoons into each soup bowl. Once those onions have caramelized, sprinkle one tablespoon over each of the soups. Got it?”