Not that I could tell him that. My blog was an anonymous insider’s view of the city’s food scene. Confessing I was a food writer would put me on the other side of a professional divide. A critic, not a cook. No longer one of Us, but one of Them.

“Look, I know it’s not the same,” I said. “But my sister’s in North Carolina dealing with everything herself, and she’s got kids, twins, two and a half years old. And there are a ton of people invited for Thanksgiving dinner. I guess I thought . . .” That he would take my part against his sous, his second? I must have been out of my mind. “I thought if I went home, I could at least help cook.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

“You gave Frank the weekend off when his sons came to visit,” I said. “And Constanza . . . When her sitter quit, you let her bring Tina into work for almost a week.”

“Where in North Carolina?”

“Um. Bunyan.” Which nobody in New York had ever heard of. “It’s on the Cape Fear River. Near Fort Bragg? My dad was stationed there.”

“Yes, I know. I also have family there,” Chef said.

“Your dad, right?” I felt a prickle of hope. We were both military brats. Would that make a difference? Would he let me go?

“My sons. Bryan and Alec.”

“Oh.” His bio hadn’t mentioned children.

“They live with their mother. She’s a support officer with the 82nd Airborne.”

Or an ex-wife, either.

“It’s not easy for families,” I ventured. “Military life, I mean.”

“Neither is restaurant life,” Chef said.

Right. “You must live to cook,” he’d said. No wonder he was divorced.

A shadow appeared in the doorway. Ray, with the reservation book.

“Thanks.” Chef took the book and flipped it open, scanning the day’s entries.

I stood there, ignored. Dismissed?

“The Times is coming at nine,” he said to Ray. “Move the ten-top to table twelve. VIPs in Jackie’s station.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“And call Aaron, see if he wants to work Thanksgiving. March, here, is out.”

“Out?” Ray repeated.

I held my breath. Out?

“On vacation,” Chef clarified. “Aaron can cover her shifts.”

Ray’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “Yes, Chef.”

“Thank you,” I said after Ray left the office.

“You’ll be back for Saturday service.”

“Yes, Chef. I can be back by Friday, if you need me.” If I had to be.

Chef regarded me, a rueful twist to his mouth. “Ray won’t be easy on you when you get back.”

“That’s okay. It’s worth it,” I said.

“Scheduling the staff is his responsibility. I will not intervene again. There would be . . .”

Gossip. Resentment. Charges of favoritism.

“Consequences,” he said.

Good word.

He was my boss. He was eight, maybe ten years older than me. The restaurant was a rude, crude, testosterone-fueled hierarchy. If Chef showed me any special treatment, everybody in the kitchen would talk. Hell, they were probably talking right now, wondering what I was doing in here with him.