Last Flight to L.A.

chapter three: late night soup

Chef Romano grabbed a white apron from a pile hanging up on a single hook and tossed it blindly at Kelsey, who fumbled to catch it.

The kitchen was quiet, almost ghostly, as Kelsey gazed around at the gleaming pots hanging from tall racks, wide grills and stoves lining the white walls, and spotless stainless steel counters running like a maze through the facility.

"Are you listening, girl?"

Kelsey snapped back to attention. "Yes, ma'am!"

"Then get to work."

Chef Romano gestured to a small fold-out table in the very corner next to the sinks. On it was a pile of cloth napkins and silverware.

"You want me to roll up utensils?" Kelsey asked.

"That's what I said. And after that, you'll set the tables. After lunch, you'll wash the dishes, clean off the tables in the dining area, and come back in here after everyone's gone to make sure this kitchen is as spotless as it is right now."

Fear etched itself onto Kelsey's face as she registered what the chef was saying. "I won't be cooking?"

Chef Romano snorted. "Cooking? Here? Ha! Listen, this is an internship—not Hollywood Cooking School. So you'll be helping out here."

Kelsey's heart sunk to the floor and she was left speechless.

"The only time you will be allowed to use the kitchen is after-hours."

"When's that?' Kelsey whispered.

"Past nine o'clock. We have to keep the facility open because they do work in one of the rooms on the top floor," Chef Romano informed, "We won't tolerate any foul play here. If you ever step out of line, you'll be fired before you can—"

"Tie your apron strings," Kelsey murmured.

Chef Romano glared. "Now get to work."

Kelsey nodded and put her purse under the little plastic table. She hung the apron over her head and brought the strings around to tie it.

Her stomach twisted inside her and she felt like either crying or being sick.

She'd come all the way from Kansas to wash dishes. She'd gone to culinary school to clean tables.

She sat down and began rolling up utensils with trembling fingers. Maybe she'd be able to move up one day. Maybe she would show them that she could cook.

But the image of Chef Romano's stern face kept flashing in her mind and she knew it would be a very, very long time before she could use those beautiful, glistening whisks and gigantic industrial mixers.

She hadn't realized she'd been staring at the kitchen until a stream of white-clad chefs began to stream in. Their faces were stern, their appearance as tidy as the floors in a Swiffer commercial.

They all looked so professional. So amazing.

"Those forks aren't going to wrap themselves!" Chef Romano called across the kitchen, then turned to address the chefs. "We're doing shrimp scampi for lunch. Now I don't want any more complaints about lumps in the sauce, you hear me?"

Kelsey continued in her task, and soon there was a perfect pyramid of wrapped utensils covering her table.

The scent of shrimp and garlic and parmesan was almost too much for Kelsey, and then they asked her to serve it.

Five other waiters came out of nowhere, like rats from the walls, and before Kelsey knew it she was holding up at giant tray of shrimp scampi with an arm that had clearly not worked out enough.