“Crab cakes are here, chef.” Jameela, my new sous-chef, slides the plate to me and I wipe a cloth around the edge of the hot dish, squeezing chipotle-mango puree in an arc around the side. Table 8’s prime rib has already been sitting under a lamp for half a minute.

“Here. Take these to 8. I’ll figure this out.”

I need to be on the range. Jameela is a fantastic replacement for Chad, skilled and capable with zero harassment, but she’s only been here a week. It’s unfair of me to ask her to run this kitchen without its leader, but today is Toby’s first day and there was no one to train him. Amy is slammed at the hostess stand with Maggie. Which is good. We’re not busy, per se, but we’re busier. Busier than we have been. Busier is good. Busier means money. Except busier is only going to last for so long if we can’t get our food out to the right tables. I scan the seating chart for the third time tonight because thrice Toby has brought food back. Once I was willing to chalk it up to first day jitters, but now I feel like I’m being punked.

“What the...” I scrunch my eyes closed and try again, glancing between the chart and tables in the dining room. Real patrons and two-dimensional tables and food swim behind my closed eyes but when I open them again, I finally see the issue.

I rip the seating chart off the counter and hold it up in front of my kitchen staff. “Who did this?” I hiss.

I am not a yeller. I hate head chefs who can’t keep their cool in the kitchen. Dinner service is tough enough without an emotionally stunted anger management dropout stomping around, spraying spittle everywhere.

The open concept kitchen keeps everyone’s behavior in check. Kitchens in general can be loud and aggressive places. We don’t need our guests to witness back of the house dirty laundry. But this is my kitchen, goddamnit. And no one messes with my kitchen’s ability to produce good food on time.

“Who did what, chef?” Carly asks. The whole team is looking at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.

I take a deep breath, the kind Natalie would tell me to take before I’m about to lift something that weighs more than me. “Jameela. Can you please make another mushroom risotto on the fly?”

“Yes, chef.” Bless all sous-chefs not named Chad.

“Thank you, Jameela.” I turn back to Carly. “Who’s been messing with our seating chart?”

Carly looks at the floor. Three prep chefs avoid my eyes.

“Someone answer me,” I say slowly.

“Amy,” Carly says quietly. “Amy said she told you this morning that she was adding three new two-tops.”

My scalp prickles, hot with embarrassment.

“And she asked you to make sure the chart reflected the change.” The poor girl winces. I would too if I had to correct my fool of a boss.