But Chef had always seemed above the usual bed-hopping and partner-swapping that went on between the front and back of house. Despite the notorious sexism I’d blogged about in restaurant kitchens, he treated all the women who worked under him—the runners; the bakers; Constanza, our garde-manger—with the same exacting professionalism he showed the men.

“I understand. Thanks for giving me the time off.” Go, go, my brain urged. My feet didn’t move. “Why did you?”

He settled on the edge of his desk, arms crossed, legs spread. “If I had said no, you must stay, would you have quit?”

“I . . .” My heart beat faster. I should have left when I had the chance. What if I told the truth and he changed his mind? On the other hand, I’d done nothing but lie since he hired me. Maybe I owed him a little honesty. “Yes.”

His eyes crinkled in another near-smile. “And that’s why I’m letting you go. I don’t want to lose a good prep cook.”

I beamed back, relieved. “Yes, Chef. Thank you, Chef.” He picked up one of the menus on his desk. Definitely my cue to leave. And yet, faced with the loss of his attention, I said, “How did you know it’s the Times?”

He looked up, his brow wrinkling.

I tried again. “The nine o’clock reservation? I thought the Times reviewers were anonymous.”

He grunted. “He’s been in before.”

“Oh. Well. Congratulations. I mean . . . The New York Times. That’s a big deal.”

“Fucking critics.” Chef shook his head. “He’ll order the fish. They always do.”

I gaped at him.

“It’s all right,” he said, misunderstanding my reaction. “At least he’s not an idiot hipster food blogger. Just make sure you prep those sardines for the appetizer properly.”

Time to get while the getting was good. “What have you got against bloggers?” I asked.

“Parasites,” he answered promptly. “They feed on the work of others.”

“You don’t write about something unless you love it.”

He looked amused. Like he couldn’t believe I was still standing there arguing with him. “They don’t do it for love. They do it for profit.”

“The restaurants benefit, too, you know. From the publicity.”

“Fine. It’s a transactional relationship.”

“You mean, like prostitution?” I asked dryly.

The amusement spread. “It has its place. But it’s not the real thing, yeah?”

I opened my mouth. This was the perfect opportunity for me to Tell All. To launch into an impassioned defense of the role of food bloggers in guiding the hungry, in creating the buzz that could make a deserving restaurant.

And yet . . .

He thought I had promise. He was letting me go home for Thanksgiving. Did I really want to see myself change in his eyes to an idiot hipster food blogger?

His brow rose at my continued silence.

Right. “I, um. I should get back to work,” I said. “On the, um . . .”

“Sardines.”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, Chef,” I said, and escaped, my face burning.