“New cook?” I asked, turning and scanning the kitchen. There actually was an extra body in the kitchen, but I couldn’t see anything more than the plain gray shirt, most likely belonging to a guy. The bad part about working in a kitchen this small was that you had to stuff and cram and hang as much as possible, so you lost a lot of visibility. “I didn’t know you were even looking.”
“Yeah, well, Darla’s been on me for awhile now to get off the night shift. She’s tired of working opposite schedules and no way in hell she’s going to work until two in the morning with me. So…”
“New cook. Got it.” Quite frankly, I was surprised the business could afford it. My attention turned again to the new guy, but he hadn’t moved from that particular spot, hidden well in the corner cooking something on the grill. “So are you training him tonight?”
For some reason, Paul found that amusing and chuckled before saying, “Nah. He’s good to go. He’s been here since noon familiarizing himself with the menu.”
Because our menu was so complicated.
“He’s got a basic idea of what to do for closing, so just follow him and make sure it all gets done properly.”
“Did you do a background check on him?” I tried to ask it casually, but the thought of working with a guy all by myself concerned me a little. Especially if the guy was a drifter that could up and disappear like it was nothing.
“I did. He checks out, and his previous employer said nothing but good things about him. Trust me, I wouldn’t leave you alone with anyone I didn’t feel comfortable with.” Feeling a little less anxious, I nodded my head. Paul finally found what he was digging for, a set of keys that he dropped into his jacket pocket. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
I stepped back and allowed him to pass, then followed behind as he made his way to the corner of the small kitchen. “Nick,” Paul called. Then he pointed backwards over his shoulder using his thumb, stating, “This is your waitress, Megan.”
Paul had to step sideways just so Nick and I could actually see each other. I was sure the rest of him was nice to look at, but what demanded my attention were the bright green eyes that peeked out beneath the rim of his black baseball cap. My boring brown pair felt downright muddy next to the beauty of his. “Hi,” I said, smiling, keeping my lips squeezed tight.
“Hey,” he replied, cocking his head upward once.
Then silence ensued. Somewhat uncomfortable silence.
Luckily, Paul spoke out. “Well, you two should be just fine.” Turning to Nick, he added, “If you can’t find anything, just ask Megan. She’s been here long enough to know where everything is.”
“Yes, sir,” Nick answered, surprising me with his formality. I had serious doubts Paul had ever been called Sir his entire life.
Then Paul squeezed past me, unavoidably rubbing his arm against my shoulder in the tight space. Nick and I just sort of stared awkwardly with half smiles until I said, “Well, I’ll just be over there if you need me.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I made my way to the opposite corner to roll enough silverware into paper napkins to get me through the night. Then I helped Darla and Tish by refilling drinks and busing tables so I could begin picking up the new customers in Darla’s section. She was ecstatic to be leaving the restaurant with Paul at the same time for once, and rushed out of here without really saying goodbye or finishing up her last two checks. I couldn’t be mad at her though. Not when she was flashing the happiest expression I’d ever seen on her face.
Tish and Juan, our day cook, left at six, leaving Nick and me to contend with all the tables for the rest of the night. If he had put out any of the dinners yet, I hadn’t noticed, so I was curious to see if I’d have to send anything back.
When I picked up his first official order, I was stunned into silence, looking down on the most beautiful display I think one could make with chicken fried chicken, mashed potatoes and pot fried corn. The potatoes were perfect, creamy with zero lumps, drizzled with gravy in a spiraled circle on top and sprinkled with minced herbs. The corn nibblets had some type of garnish that included finely chopped red and green bell peppers and a little shredded cheese. And the chicken? Perfectly browned.
“Something wrong?” he asked, clearly trying to suppress a smile.
“Um…” I muttered. “Not at all. Looks good.”
I delivered it to Earl, the beefy, grungy man that worked under cars all day, and he looked at me like I was crazy. He tried to see who the new cook was, probably to call him high-falootin, but Nick was out of view. Didn’t matter though, because when I came back five minutes later, he couldn’t stop raving about the food and ordered another side of the mashed potatoes.
And that was just the beginning. The most popular item ordered at the diner was the hamburger. Nick had reformed the thin beef patties so they were thick and juicy, with additional herbs and seasoning that you could actually see and taste when you bit into it. Pickles and onions were cut with a wavy knife, iceberg lettuce was replaced with spinach. And the French fries? Tossed in some kind of Cajun seasoning to give it some actual flavor.
Even the Salisbury steak, fried catfish and BBQ sandwich looked like masterpieces. And with each plate I had to pull from the food line, another rave review came from the customer, and Nick’s smile got smugger and smugger. When all the dinners had been delivered and the remaining customers began trickling out the door, I had to ask.
Leaning over the stainless steel pass-through to the kitchen, I asked, “Nick, what are you doing here?”
He was just off to the side, wiping down the counters for spilled food. “I thought that was obvious. I’m cooking,” he explained matter-of-factly.
“I mean, why aren’t you cooking in a restaurant?”
He adjusted his baseball cap, sweeping his fingers back through his hair, and I got a glimpse of the wavy one-inch locks underneath, shaded a soft, woodsy sort of brown. It went really well with the honey beige shade of his skin and emerald green eyes. “Last time I checked, this was a restaurant,” he jested.
I narrowed my eyes. “Oh… So you’re one of those guys.”
Amused, he released a weak chuckle. “What guys?” he asked carefully.
“Difficult.”
His head slightly bobbed side to side a few times, his eyes admitting the truth behind my observation. “My last girlfriend concurs.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I mumbled with closed lips in a teasing manner.
Now that the diner had cleared, I returned to my tables to begin busing. It was almost nine, and rationally speaking, I only expected about five more locals for the rest of the night. Any other customers would most likely just be traveling through.
Before I could even finish clearing the first table, Nick came out with a bucket and began busing the one two tables over. “You don’t have to do that,” I said. “We’re just responsible for our own areas.”
“Yeah, I know. But I try to clean as I cook, so my area’s already done.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
“So…” he dragged out, thick ceramic plates clanging as he stacked them in his container. “Have you always lived around here?”
“Uh, no. I’m from L.A. actually. You?”
“Washington, originally. So how’d you end up here? I can’t imagine you saw a listing for a waitress in a small town and thought that’s just perfect.”
I playfully rolled my eyes for him, grabbing the dishrag I used for wiping tables. “I was on my way to Portland, but I guess I got a little sidetracked.”
“Portland, huh?” He carried his bucket to the counter, where two more place settings were dirty. “What’s in Portland?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Hell if I know. When I hit the bus station and scanned the boards, it was the only place that called to me.” I grabbed my bucket and followed him to the counter.
“You just up and left for the hell of it? By yourself?”
“My parents passed away.” I focused on my cleaning, but I could feel his stare on the side of my face. Before he could inquire, I added, “Car accident,” and left it at that. “I didn’t really have anything left, so I had nothing to lose.”
“I’m sorry.” And as softly as he said that, I believed he meant it. “My dad died a few years back, too.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, parroting his sentiment.
With only a stool separating us, we stood there silently for a moment, just gazing, feeling one another’s pain behind our eyes. Was his loss as detrimental to his life as well? Newcomers in small towns were usually running away from something.
I would know...
The longer I took him in, the more I realized Nick didn’t belong here. He was a good looking guy, really fit, maybe a couple of years older. An amazing cook – probably a chef even. He could easily be working at a nice restaurant in any major city, or even making a lot of money bartending with those looks. So why wasn’t he?
It wasn’t until a pair of headlights from an old, white truck flashed and drew our attention to the front windows that we moved. I sighed, and said, “It’s Joe. He’s probably going to want the burger deluxe medium-well. And you’d be doing me a huge favor getting it out ASAP.”
His posture stiffened. “Is he a problem for you?”
“No,” I said, tossing the last of the dishes into the bucket. With a forced smile, I added, “He’s harmless.” Just relentless…
“Here,” he said, taking my bucket and stacking it atop his, “I’ll take care of this and get his food started.”
As he passed me on the way to the back, I whispered my thanks. I stepped around the counter and pulled a beer from the cooler just as Joe came through the front. I met him at the corner table, where he always sat when it was available.
“Hey, Joe,” I said sweetly, setting his beer on the table. “How are you doing tonight?”
“Fine.” But his eyes were focused on the pass-through. “Who’s that?” he asked curiously.
I didn’t bother turning to look. “Nick. New cook. You want your usual?”
“Yeah, thanks,” he muttered.
Something seemed off about him. Normally, Joe was all smiles and ready to talk my ear off, but tonight he was uncharacteristically aloof, seemingly more interested in what Nick was doing than bother with me. Hallelujah.
Nick had Joe’s food ready within minutes, and Joe too, seemed surprised by the plate before him. Of all days for Joe to be quiet on his own, because Nick’s food was so good they all hushed up long enough to devour it. I gave him a few minutes, all the while cleaning the area behind the counter. I could hear Nick running some dishes through the wash, and when he finished, he came up front to quietly ask me if everything was alright.
“Yeah, fine.” His body blocked my view of Joe, and he was close enough for me smell the fresh rosemary lingering on his hands. “I told you, he’s harmless.”
I wrote up Joe’s total from memory, then walked his ticket over to him and cleared his plate. He sat there, drumming his fingers on the table, eyes staring across the restaurant at nothing.
“Joe? You okay?”
He shifted in his seat a bit, then drank the last of his beer. “So are ya’ finally gonna be ready to date now that pretty boy’s working in the kitchen?”
Pretty boy? Hardly.
“No,” I stated firmly. “I’m not interested in dating right now. Anyone. Especially not someone I have to work with every night.”
“Yeah, right,” he muttered rudely. He pulled a ten from his wallet and I stepped aside as he jerked out of the booth and stormed out the front door. Okay then… Guess I wasn’t getting a tip tonight.
The rest of my shift went by quickly enough, as I spent a lot of my time between customers cleaning the floors and restocking the shelves underneath the counter. With an hour to go, Nick stood beside me as I stacked clean glasses onto the shelves. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?”
Looking up from my spot on the floor, I replied, “I’m not hungry, but thanks.”
“It’s a ten hour shift and you haven’t even taken a break yet.”
“That’s because the moment I stop, I’ll crash.”
He squatted, bringing our heads closer to eye level. “You should still eat something.”
There was something beautiful about his eyes, like translucent sea glass tinted vivid green. And the way they gazed openly at me was a little distracting. Quite honestly, I’m not sure how I formed the words, “I’ll make myself something when I get home.”
“Liar,” he accused calmly.
Surprised that he saw through my fib, I blabbered, “How would you know?”
“Because if you knew how to cook, you’d be back there making yourself something to eat.”
“I told you, I’m not hungry,” I repeated firmly, but my stomach took that very moment to rat me out. Traitor.
His head tilted. He knew I was lying again. “Megan.”
I silently sighed my defeat. “Okay, fine,” I stammered. “I’m hungry. It’s just…Look, don’t tell Paul, but I lost interest in the food here a long time ago.”
He was silent for a moment, and I tried not to smile at the seriousness of his face, because I think that’s what he was going for. Finally, he replied, “Fair enough,” and returned to the back.
Ten minutes later, I was on my knees trying to organize the to-go containers that always seemed to be a mess. I swear they had invisible legs that sprouted and moved about each day just to screw with me.