Chapter 3 - What She Put on the Plate
He didn't sit back down. He stayed standing beside the table with his hand flat near the plate, not touching it, and he looked at me like he expected an answer that made sense.
"Talk," he said.
My throat was dry. The dining room was too quiet. I could feel every table watching us, and Marco from the bar was still half out from behind it like he didn't know if he should move.
"It was short in the kitchen tonight," I said. "We had two call-outs. Luis didn't come in and Danny left after family meal. It was just Chef Ray and Tomas on the line by eight."
I kept my hands in front of my apron because I didn't want him to see them shake. I told him I wasn't on the line. I was working the floor. Tables twelve through eighteen. I'd run the dish up twice already that night and both times I'd wiped the rim in the pass because it had smeared.
"Then why did you touch it?" he said.
"Because Ray got slammed." I swallowed. "A party of ten sent back three steaks at the same time and the printer wouldn't stop. He had four pans going. He told me to plate the fish course if I wanted my tables to ever get fed."
The man glanced down at the dish again. The white porcelain plate was still there on the white tablecloth, the fork and knife where they'd been set. He didn't pick up the fork. He just studied it.
I told him exactly what I'd done because I needed him to know I hadn't messed with anything. I'd taken a clean plate from the heat shelf with a side towel so I wouldn't leave prints. I'd checked the rim for chips. I'd laid the fish down with the skin side up the way Ray had showed us that week. I spooned the sauce around it, not over it. I wiped one drop off the edge with my thumb.
"And the green on top?" he said.
"The garnish," I said. "It's chopped parsley and lemon zest. I keep it in a little steel cup on my station because it wilts if it sits under the lamps. I pinched it on with my fingers. Just a little. Then I set the plate on the tray and carried it out myself."
I remembered the walk out. The plate was warm through the tray. The dining room smelled like butter and wine and the chandeliers threw light across the wood panels. I'd set it down in front of him from the right like I'd been trained, said enjoy your meal, and stepped back.
"That's all?" he said.
"That's all," I said. "I didn't add anything. I didn't take anything off. I plated what Ray cooked and put the garnish on."
Before he could answer, Tomas came out of the kitchen door fast, wiping his hands on a towel. His whites were stained at the chest.
"Sir, if there's a problem with the plate, that was me," Tomas said. "I was on garnish. She just ran food. She doesn't know —"
"Stop," the man said without looking up.
Tomas stopped in the middle of the aisle.
The man finally lifted his eyes from the dish. "Did you put this garnish on this plate for this table?"
Tomas hesitated. "I — we all —"
"Yes or no."
"No," Tomas said quietly.
"Then go back to your station."
Tomas looked at me once, then turned and walked back through the kitchen door. The door swung shut behind him.
The man looked at me again. His voice was lower now, but it carried.
"So no one else touched this plate after you plated it."
May you like
"No, sir," I said. "I carried it straight out. I set it right there."
He nodded once, still staring at the dish like it was something he didn't want to disturb. He didn't take another bite.
