Cast Aside Chef: I Swap to the Competition

"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.