and white hats. On the steel surface before them was the product of countless hours of work—the various layers and decorations that would become a wedding cake. Trays of meticulously handmade sugar flowers had been laid out in preparation for the final assembly.
“Puce!” Chavez repeatedly smashed the fragile creations, flattening them to pancakes. “I ask for lavender and these idiots insult me with puce. ”
The chef failed to notice that Kyle, summoned by the catering manager, had arrived through the secondary service entrance.
For once, Kyle had been grateful for the interruption. He’d had trouble concentrating on his work. Two nights in a row now—almost a habit. Dealing with a temperamental chef was a welcome distraction from the idea that he might possibly not be as disciplined as he’d always believed.
“Chef Chavez,” he said.
Down went the man’s fist. Bam. Bam. Bam. Trays rattled as they knocked together. One, filled with arched stems of sugar orchids, tipped over the edge of the counter and crashed to the floor. Everyone but Chavez flinched. The man was as oblivious as a toddler in a tantrum.
Kyle raised his voice. “Chavez.”
“Who…” The chef swung around, jowls swaying. Seeing Kyle, he snorted and scooped up one of the iced layers of cakes.
The wedding coordinator covered her eyes.
Kyle had hoped to save the situation; now he saw there was only one way to go. Quick, clean and direct.
“Chef Chavez,” he said, “you’re fired.”
“Fired? Rodrigo Chavez?” the chef sputtered. The cake in his fingers teetered wildly. “I am winner of the Soledad Ecole gold medal two years running. You can’t even think of firing me.”
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