The Billionaire’s Bun In Her Oven - Ellie Rowe Page 0,2
bad prognosis.
As far as this guy is concerned, I might as well be.
“This food,” I say quietly, trusting the mics to pick up my every word, “is crap. Do you know that?”
“I tried very hard…” the chef mumbles.
“That’s heartbreaking to hear,” I say with absolutely no sense of heartbreak in my voice. My audience wants to see me enjoy tearing this man down. So, I do, and try to enjoy it. “Did you even use real crab to stuff this?” I ask.
“Yes –”
“Because it doesn’t taste like it. It tastes like it’s stuffed with shit.”
I do some math in my head because the network only allots me a few curse words an episode. I think I’m under the threshold. “It’s like the crab threw up,” I continue, “and then you stuffed what it threw up back into the crab, cooked it, and served that to me.”
“No –”
“This crab’s mother would be ashamed to know this is what her child died for.”
“I’m sorry –”
“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to the crab.”
The chef hesitates, unsure if I mean it. Actually, I’m not sure I mean it, either. Sometimes I just get carried away. But, over the chef’s shoulder, I see Kenny waving his hand in a ‘keep going’ gesture.
OK, then. “Go on,” I tell the chef. “Say it. Say ‘sorry’ to the crab.”
The chef leans forward and says to the plate, “I’m sorry.”
I turn my ear to the plate, pretending to listen to the food. I look up at the chef. “It doesn’t forgive you. And I don’t blame it.”
The poor guy’s face goes paler than his restaurant’s cheap white napkins.
Leaning back, I say, “There is one bright spot to this place, however.”
I hold out an arm and the stage manager leads an elderly woman over to our table. She’s about eighty, is wearing a simple black dress, with glasses hanging from her neck in a cheap, beaded chain. “Who is this lovely young lady you’ve got as a hostess?”
“Ooh,” the elderly woman says, “I’m Gladys.”
“Gladys!” I announce as I stand, towering a full foot-and-a-half over her, “you’re amazing. From the moment I walked through the door, you were my favorite part of this experience.” She blushes. I turn her a little to make sure the cameras get a good angle of her.
I kiss the top of her head, then point at the chef. “You, give her a raise. And start buying some fresh crab, or I will burn this place to the ground.”
Before Kenny even yells cut, I’m in the limo, and off to the next stop.
Chase, my number two guy, sits across from me in the back as we make our way through Manhattan. Chase looks like he grew up on a farm. He’s stocky, just a little doughy, with dimples and sandy blond hair. No matter how long he’s lived in New York, in my head, he’s ‘Country Mouse.’
“Was it really that bad?” he asks, still absorbed in his phone. Probably letting the next venue know I’m on the way.
“Worse,” I mutter, and stare out the window.
The awful dish has put me in mind of a stuffed crab I used to make at one of my old restaurants. I feel an emptiness in my stomach that’s not hunger.
I miss cooking. I miss walking the floor and talking to patrons. I miss seeing them eat my food and derive so much pleasure from it. A chef is one of the few artists in the world that gets to see his audience immediately enjoy his creations. It’s a grand and instant sort of gratification.
Reaming out talentless cooks on TV is less addictive. The TV money, however, is very addictive. To the tune of almost 1.1 billion dollars, but who’s counting? Still, it’s always more enjoyable letting a chef know how much I enjoyed their food than it is to disappoint them. Even the worst cook still has to sweat through the heat of the kitchen.
Man, I used to love that heat.
Oh, well, I sigh. My belly rumbles in response. I guess I am hungry.
This next place better be great.
Three
Cynthia
“Alright, everyone, I’ve got three more orders of the fish, two more for the tuna tartar. Let’s move!” The chefs all answer in the affirmative, and I pat Paulie in the back. So far, things are going extremely well. We’re like a well-oiled machine here, and everyone loves the food.
I step out for a second to check on the front of house. My hosts are doing well, and, miracle of miracles, not a