task at hand. Satisfied that the meals were ready, she quickly cleaned the edge of the plates with a paper towel soaked with white vinegar, then set them on the custom-built warming shelves for servers to come pick up.
“Rachel,” Charlotte called to her sous-chef, “fire those plantain burgers. They’re up next.”
“Yes, Chef, on three,” the older woman immediately replied, informing Charlotte that the Kobe beef burger, set between two slices of fried plantain, would be ready for her to plate with her made-from-scratch avocado ranch dressing in three minutes’ time.
Wiping her hands on a towel, Charlotte turned to Faith, smiling as the manager typed out a message so fast on her ever-present phone that her thumbs blurred.
“What’d you need?” Charlotte asked.
“You, your effervescent personality and beautiful face.”
“Do you want me to clue you in on how pimp-ish that sounds, or are we just going to ignore it?” Charlotte drawled, quirking an eyebrow.
“Ignore it.”
Charlotte snickered, then grinned. As she had been headhunted from the California restaurant where she’d been working, so had Faith, from her native San Antonio, to run Sheen.
Faith had created a name for herself as a Jon Taffer in heels. Not that Sheen had been failing and needed rescuing when Faith had been brought on several weeks ago and prior to Charlotte’s hiring, but the owners had wanted to make sure their venture hit the ground running from the beginning.
“Okay, give. I have nearly a full restaurant of hungry customers to feed,” Charlotte said, crossing her arms. “What’s up?”
“What’s up is I just heard from a source who shall remain nameless that the food critic from the New York Voice magazine will be dropping by Sheen next Tuesday.”
Astonishment vibrated through Charlotte, and she rocked back on her nonskid sugar skulls clogs. “What?” she whispered excitedly. “You’re kidding me!”
The New York Voice. Holy... The alternative e-zine had only been around for the last five years, but it had immediately become popular not just within New York, but nationally and internationally, too. With its hard-hitting investigative journalism stories on societal issues, along with its focus on the cultural community of art, music, literature and food, it had already won the National Press Foundation Award as well as the George Polk Award. For Sheen to receive a positive review in their food column would be amazing publicity not only for the restaurant, but also for Charlotte’s career.
“Nope, all true. Which means we need to be at our very best next Tuesday. I’ll handle the front of the house and make sure it’s super clean, all the servers are on point. And you’re responsible for the back. I don’t think I need to explain what a rave review could do for us.”
“You don’t.” Charlotte shook her head, grinning. “And believe me, we will be better than perfect.”
“I know it,” Faith said, and for several moments they stood there, grinning at each other like two giddy fools. “We got this,” she whispered.
“Oh, we so got this,” Charlotte whispered back, the excitement still humming inside her joined by a steely resolve.
Yes, a glowing write-up and recommendation would mean great things for Sheen, but it went deeper than that. This restaurant was managed by a black woman. The kitchen was run by a black woman. The staff were women of various ethnicities—but they were all women. When the owner had come up with the concept, maybe it’d been a gimmick to differentiate Sheen from the other new restaurants popping up. But both Charlotte and Faith had vowed that they wouldn’t let it remain some publicity ploy. Their restaurant would be one of the most successful establishments known for its sublime service and outstanding food. And so far, they were succeeding at this aim.
“Chef, your presence has been requested at one of the tables. They asked to meet you,” Carlie, one of their servers, interrupted.
“Thanks, Carlie.” Charlotte nodded at the younger woman. “I’d better get out there,” she said to Faith, trying to conceal a grimace.
But apparently, she hadn’t been quick or stealthy enough. A smirk curled the other woman’s mouth.
“Part of the job, Charlotte,” she reminded her.
“I know, I know,” Charlotte muttered, unsnapping her baggy white executive chef coat and shrugging out of it, revealing the large T-shirt underneath. She strode over to the hooks near the door that led out of the glass-enclosed kitchen and removed her more formal and fitted turquoise chef coat with three-quarter-length sleeves, black piping and fabric-covered buttons. “It’s not that I don’t like going tableside,” she grumbled, slipping into