to stop racing and prayed again to the kitchen gods. Please, make me the youngest female chef de cuisine at a Michelin three-star restaurant in New York. Let me become a part of culinary history.
“Put the call through.” O’Shea’s eyes widened and he held up a finger. “Guys, simmer down. Not a word. I’m putting the call on speaker.” He clicked the line open. “Dan O’Shea here.”
“Good afternoon, Dan. First, as you know, this is a courtesy call before next year’s New York red guide is released, which is tomorrow—”
O’Shea’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “Yes, yes, an exciting time.”
“I’m happy to inform you that two of your restaurants, Cendrillon Las Vegas and Cendrillon London, have received rising stars, and Cendrillon Los Angeles has received its second étoile.”
O’Shea nodded his big head and shot us the thumbs-up. “And Cendrillon NY?”
“Dan, I’m afraid I have some not-so-wonderful news to deliver.”
Eyes darted back and forth. O’Shea grunted. “Yes?”
“Consistency is very important to us here at Michelin, and I’m afraid Cendrillon NY did not receive its third star,” said Gabrielle. “With that said, I’m devastated to tell you that Cendrillon is not only not gaining a star, I’m afraid it’s losing one.”
Time stopped for a moment. We couldn’t contain our surprised and disappointed groans. There was nothing worse for a chef than losing a star. It burned the ego, damaged reputations, and destroyed identities.
“I’m sorry, Dan. I wish I was the bearer of better news,” said Gabrielle.
“Thank you for your candor,” said O’Shea. He cleared his throat. “I guess I have some things to sort out.”
“At the very least, congratulations on your other achievements.”
“Thank you, Gabrielle.”
O’Shea did not hang up the phone. He ripped it right out of the wall and smashed it to the ground. He sank to the floor and cradled his head in his hands, sobbing.
I gulped.
When you see someone strong and powerful shatter, it’s haunting; you see the ghost of a man with his dreams dying. You want him to get up, to put disaster behind him, but he’s crumbling right before your eyes. A deep sadness slowed down my heart. I found myself wanting to say something. But what words would be appropriate? It’s like when you hear somebody has died and all you can come up with is “My thoughts and prayers are with you” or some other contrived shit like that. It’s not that you don’t care; you just don’t know what to say. Most of the brigade rubbed their eyes with disbelief . . . or looked down at their clogs.
Eric and Alex exchanged a glance, and then nodded. Alex walked up to O’Shea. “Chef,” he said. “We’re a team here.” He paused, wiping the sweat off his brow. “And I’ve been wondering if everyone here has been playing on it.”
“What are you talking about, Alex?” asked O’Shea, his voice weak.
“I don’t have proof, but I think Sophie has had it out for you, for all of us. She’s got a chip on her shoulder.”
My jaw unhinged. My heart raced. My words came out as a barely audible wheeze. “He’s crazy, Chef. I don’t have it out for anybody—”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” said Eric. “I think she spices her dishes after I taste, adding in additional ingredients. Last week a guest, one of our regulars, requested to see me and told me they loved how much cinnamon was added into the potimarron velouté.” He paused. “And we—Alex and me—believe it’s happened more than once. It would explain the inconsistency.”
“Eric, you told me to spice,” I said, every muscle in my body tense. It took great effort to raise my hand to point a shaky finger with accusation. “You—”
“She’s always talking about her grand-mère Odette’s soups, how much better they are than yours. Bland. That’s what she said. Your recipes are bland,” said Eric, and then the skinny bastard shrugged. His twisted grin, the one he was trying to hold back, gave him away. His betrayal hit me. He’d set me up. My legs were about to go from under me.
“Chef,” I said, bracing myself. “Please, give me a chance to explain. Eric—”
O’Shea smashed his fist on the prep table and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “—would never stoop so low. He didn’t have people pulling strings for him after he graduated from a fancy cooking school. He knows what hard work is because he didn’t pay to play,” said O’Shea. He shook his head as if to clear it and then,