try and turn this place into some foodie wet dream, then I can’t have you here,” I stressed, peeling his fingers off me. “This is farm-to-table, Lance, and like I said, if you want to go cook somewhere and be the next hottest thing, I get it. You’re way too good a chef for this place, I know that, but until you sack up and go, you don’t get to treat this place like some piece of shit you stepped in.”
The muscles in his jaw were clenched tight.
I crossed my arms, still holding his stare. “There are people working here who aren’t ever leaving,” I reminded him. “You have people who will retire from this job, and they count on us to put a roof over their kids’ heads, use their medical benefits to take those same kids to the doctor, and will put them through college.”
He was still glaring at me, but I saw his shoulders drop and heard his slow exhale of breath as he took a step back.
“These people count on you to make this amazing food they deliver to the tables in a timely manner that then, in turn, earns them tips. Lots of fuckin’ tips. You know as well as I do, a restaurant with great cuisine can be totally killed by bad service.”
He gave me a quick nod.
“And no amount of amazing service will offset crappy food.”
“Of course,” he conceded.
“You need both. We usually have both, which is why the goddamn wait to get in here on Friday and Saturday night is two hours long.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he groaned, raking his hands through his hair before settling them on his hips. “Fuck.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “You should go work in Sac, or move to San Francisco,” I suggested sincerely, being honest with him, wanting him to hear it in my voice. “Or, if you wanna get the hell outta California, go to Seattle, or New York, or Dallas; go to Miami. Hell, move to Paris or London if you want. You’re not even thirty, for crissakes; you have your whole life ahead of you to plant your flag and build a dream.”
He snorted. “Nice speech, Jere.”
“You know what I mean. You can go, Lance. You don’t hafta stay.”
“No, I know.”
“Don’t be scared. Jump.”
“You know, this is funny, coming from a twenty-four-year-old kid.”
I scoffed, tipping my head and grinning at him. “I’m an old soul, Lance. Don’t you remember? Connie said so.”
“Oh dear God,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes.
“Ooooh”—I widened my eyes for good measure—“I’m telling your psychic Reiki master girlfriend you think she’s full of shit.”
“Look, I’ll figure out my life here soon, but until then…I’ll get the damn food outta the kitchen as fast as I can.”
“I wonder if Connie already knows you doubt her, deep down in her subconscious,” I whispered, then suddenly gasped, staring openmouthed at him.
“Fuck you,” he groused at me, turning back toward the stove.
“Jenny,” I called over to her, “Lance is swearing in your kitchen.”
“You dick,” he muttered under his breath.
“Lance!” she shrieked at him.
His groan was loud as he trudged toward her, his feet suddenly heavy, every step like his sneakers were made of lead.
“What the hell kind of sauce is this supposed to be?” she barked, and I saw him visibly deflate as he neared his grandmother.
Walking back out through the swinging doors, I was grabbed by Mackenzie, who gave me a quick squeeze before she jogged out onto the floor, beaming.
It was easy to fix. I just needed to train up some people currently on staff, and the owners needed to invest in some qualified personnel by hiring in some new blood. Cheyenne and I were not enough, Kent—no, Brent—was still in training, and judging from the assorted text messages on my phone, had already shown a strong aversion to multitasking when the bar was lined with pretty women.
To my mind, what we needed to make the restaurant grow was to bring on one manager who took care of the front of house specifically, one for the bar area, and another to recruit and schedule the acts who performed after ten. Trying to have one person do it all, per shift, with only seasoned team members to assist, was not working. The owners were nice people and had paid both me and Cheyenne for years to work insane, sometimes round-the-clock, hours, overtime paid in cash, which they had trusted us to simply give them a total for. And while we had