Underpaid Chef: From Back Kitchen to Boss

My father, Michael Caldwell's, hand began to tremble. "Mitch! Don't you dare agree to this! Your uncle clearly said the profits would be split equally—"

Before he could finish speaking, my cousin, Maxwell Caldwell, knitted his brows and cut him off. "Let's get one thing straight, Uncle Michael. My dad rented this place, bought the equipment, and hired the staff. All that talk about splitting the profits was nothing more than a courtesy! How thick-skinned do you have to be to actually take it seriously?"

My other cousin, Melanie Caldwell, curled her lips and let out a chuckle. "Besides, we haven't even billed you for all the food you two sneak from the kitchen. So, don't push your luck!"

I merely listened. I remembered the year Dad and I invested in the business. Back then, the storefront was still just a dilapidated food stall where the flies outnumbered the customers.

My uncle, Malcolm Caldwell, had shown up at our house with a basket of fruit. With an earnest look on his face, he had taken Dad's hand and said, "I know how good your cooking is, Michael. Come work with me! You can contribute your skills, and once the business takes off, we'll split the profits equally!"

Without a second thought, Dad had nodded and agreed. He had even dragged me—a fresh college graduate who had just received my degree—into the kitchen, where I worked alongside him developing recipes.

At the time, we had been driven; we would stay in the kitchen until 2:00 am just to perfect a single soup base. Our palms had developed thick calluses from working the pans, and our faces had been weathered and wrinkled by the smoke and heat of the kitchen.

After doing all that, we finally made it to the day we got our payout, only for them to claim that splitting the profits equally was just a courtesy. Averaged out, neither Dad nor I was getting even four grand.

The real kicker was that I'd actually seen the books for the last five years. As early as three years ago, the restaurant had already broken even on all initial investments. For them to bring up expenses to us now was truly laughable.

Dad could no longer hold it in. Clutching his chest, he snapped, "What do you mean, sneaking food? We were tasting the dishes! Do you have any idea how much effort Mitch and I put into perfecting those dishes all these years?"

"Effort?" Uncle Malcolm sneered, cutting him off. "What effort did you put in, Michael? All you do is hold a spatula and cook. Do you seriously think we get repeat customers because you're some culinary genius?

"They come back because the ingredients are fresh! If I didn't know the biggest seafood supplier in town and get the absolute freshest catch, there's no way your cooking would turn out that good!"

Dad was so furious that he could barely stand straight.

The seafood supplier he was referring to—Pelagic Seafood—was indeed the biggest wholesaler in the market, but the quality of the goods they delivered was total garbage. If Dad and I hadn't gone to the shop at 4:00 am every single day, rain or shine, to inspect the delivery, almost 40% of the seafood in the kitchen would've been dead on arrival.

Dad opened his mouth to argue, but I stuffed the stack of bills into his hand. "Dad, they're right. Let's go home."

After hearing that, Uncle Malcolm exhaled a cloud of smoke right in my face. "Mitchell here has the right idea; just take the money and be happy. It just so happens that we are heading back to our hometown for the next three days, so the shop will be closed. That gives you plenty of time to figure out how to blow your fortune.

"Once you've had your fun, get your asses back here to work. If you perform well, who knows? Maybe we'll double your bonuses next year."

I nodded and led Dad out of the shop. He wanted us to come back here? Not a chance.

The moment we stepped outside, Dad abruptly raised his hand and slapped himself hard across the face. "This is all my fault, Mitch. If I hadn't dragged you into the kitchen to be a cook, you'd have a decent, respectable job by now, and you wouldn't have to swallow your pride and suffer this kind of humiliation with me!"

I hurriedly stopped him and said coldly, "Don't worry, Dad. I'll definitely make them pay for this!"

With that, I turned around and made a phone call. "Mr. Ramirez, I want that storefront on the corner of East Street. Let's sign the contract in the next few days!"

Mr. Ramirez was caught off guard for a moment. "Wow, you don't mess around! It's yours for 90 grand!"

I'd actually had my eye on that storefront for a while now. Not only was it right in the heart of bustling East Street with a wide, wrap-around corner display, but it was already fully renovated. It was perfect for opening a restaurant. The unit had remained vacant until now only because Mr. Ramirez was in a rush to move abroad and had insisted on selling it, not leasing it.

90 grand. With our culinary skills, I was confident we'd break even within a year.

Dad came back to his senses and grabbed my sleeve. "What do you think you're doing, Mitch? 90 grand… Where are we supposed to get that kind of money? Your uncle only has me on a flat rate of six grand a month…"

Then, he tried to pull me back inside. "Why don't we just listen to your uncle and put in another year, Mitch? I'll go back and apologize to him right now. At the end of the day, he and I are brothers. I'm sure he'll show your old man a little grace."

"Grace?" I yanked him back firmly, hissing under my breath, "Dad! Don't you get it? All these years, if it weren't for us perfecting the dishes and creating the signature sauces, there's no way in hell that restaurant would've hit number one on the Must-Eat List!

"Now that they're making bank, they're turning their backs on us! We—"

But before I could finish speaking, Maxwell walked up behind me with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Why are you two still loitering around here?"

Dad was indignant. He spun around to face him. "Max, I'll ask you one last time, is this all the bonus we're getting?"