I cleared my throat. “The other night, the software over-booked a reservation for thirty CFOs, and I didn’t catch it. There was no place to put them.” When the suits realized we weren’t prepared to seat them in our private alcove, they began abusing the staff and they never really stopped. “And while I scrambled to solve the problem, the rest of the seating and dining schedule went haywire. Orders were lost and meals were delivered out of synch…”

I started sweating just remembering this disaster. Chef Jacques had nearly had a coronary. His screaming could be heard all the way out to the beaten copper bar, where bartenders in elegant vests had poured free drinks to soothe irritated customers.

Jacques did not know my name and was therefore unable to scream it. But that was no blessing, since it takes longer to screech: “Zee fucking wench who makes zee reservations.”

That would be me.

“Go on,” Burton prompted.

“I was mortified that I’d caused trouble in the kitchen.” I folded my damp hands in my lap and looked him in the eye. “My roommate is a pastry chef.” A slovenly one, I could add. I rented a room in his apartment because it was all I could afford. “I wanted to make amends, so I took a big pan of brownies he’d baked, and I brought them to work with me last night. It was a peace offering.” I’d deposited my chocolaty gift in the middle of the kitchen. The staff fell on them like seagulls. “Then I’d gone out to the front of the house to spend the evening working on reservations.”

That wasn’t exactly true, but Burton didn’t need to know that. In between tasks I always headed back to the kitchen. Some women might have trouble staying away from designer shoes or hot actors. My weakness was a star chef in action. I’d rather watch Jacques whisk a balsamic reduction than watch Channing Tatum strip for the camera. So I had a front row seat on the evening’s unfolding disasters. When I’d snuck back to watch, I’d found Chef screaming at the grill cook.

“Zat is not how we treat zeh fish!” he had yelled at Enrique. “You must respect zeh filet!”

I’d cringed as Chef Jacques smacked Enrique on the back of the head. Jacques was an asshole on his best day, but last night he seemed to be wound even tighter than usual.

On the other hand, Enrique had been acting awfully sluggish. Normally a hard worker, last night he’d seemed off his game. If Enrique didn’t treat the fish like the governor of Massachusetts, I’d known it wouldn’t bode well for him.

Now, if there were any justice in the world, I would’ve been the one wielding the fish spatula. I would have respected the hell out of that filet, if they’d only given me a chance. I knew I could cook circles around many of the people in that kitchen.

But no. It had been back to the reservations system for me.