"I need three chops all day, and one duck breast. How long?" I shout down the line. It's Saturday night and the kitchen is buzzing.

"Six minutes Chef!" comes the reply in unison. The sound of knives working quickly, meat searing, and sauces simmering gets my adrenaline pumping. The pressure of the line is invigorating, and I love the fact that it's mine. My menu, my staff, my kitchen...not my restaurant, but it's my food and that's all matters. The guests come here because of the dishes I put out, and the owners love that we're booked solid until April when it's not even December.

"Eight top of VIPs," Mark, the front of house manager calls from the other side of the pass. I quickly grab the menu ticket and scan the order. There's a lot of food for eight people, but that's pretty typical of a VIP table. They probably know most of it will be comped. "Everyone loves the chops, Lou."

"Yeah," I laugh, "that's all we're selling. What about pushing the snapper?"

"Hey, if they want to order a fifty seven dollar entree, I'm not going to try persuade them to consider a thirty dollar plate of fish."

"Thirty six dollars," I correct him, but he has a point. I put the finishing seasoning on four plates and send them out of the kitchen.

"Vee eye peeeeeeeees!" Victor, an enthusiastic line cook starts a bizarre erotic dance with exaggerated pelvic thrusts. "These ladies gonna be beggin' to meet me when they taste my food," he brags.

"Your food?" I ask.

"It's eight men Vic," Mark tells him with a smirk.

"All yours Lou," he waves away his imaginary dream girl and returns his focus to the stove. It's a rare moment when the guys acknowledge that I'm a warm-blooded woman. Kitchens are notorious boys clubs, and women have to work twice as hard to get noticed, and even harder to be taken seriously. My parents were less than thrilled when I dropped out of college to go to culinary school, but that's not unique to me. Every chef I've worked for had the same reaction from their parents.

Dinner service is hectic, hot, and above all, completely exhausting. All the mains have gone out, most of the desserts, but there's a cluster of tables that just keep ordering food. It's frustrating for a staff that's dehydrated and looking for a reprieve. "What going on out there?" I hiss at a server when she brings in another dessert ticket.

"The eight top are Penguins," she explains and it all makes sense. When the athletes come in they wine and dine, taking their time with the food, but it's the tables surrounding them that refuse to clear out. Eight hockey players makes for dinner and a show for the other guests and I know we're in for a long night.

"I hate VIPs," I grumble.

"Usually means good tips," the waitress says brightly.

"Usually means they stiff on the bill though," I don't even try to disguise my annoyance.

"Trust me Lou, it pays to comp that table in the long run," somehow Mark manages to hear every word.

It's a long night, but thankfully Mark takes pity on us and informs the patrons the kitchen is closing, giving us a flood of easily-managed dessert tickets and the opportunity to start breaking down the other stations.

"Chef?" Mark is calling me Chef, something is definitely up.

"Yes?" I eye him suspiciously.

"Up for a meet and greet?" he's practically begging, or as close to begging as Mark gets.

"Ugh, it's been such a long night," I groan, careful not to whine. Whining doesn't go over well in the kitchen. Groaning is complaining though, so it's completely acceptable.

"Come on," he waves me toward the door and I reluctantly follow. Just before we walk out he hands me a tissue and I wipe my face, undo the loose braid and run my hands through my hair, change into a fresh chef's coat and present myself to Mark for a quick once-over.

"Hot," he teases and I can't help but burst out laughing. We walk through the nearly empty dining room and make our way over to the long table in the back. I know exactly what I'm walking into. Eight drunken pro-athletes who would have been just as happy with Big Macs. Meeting patrons used to make me nervous, but not so much anymore. I'm so fried from the long night I can't even muster the energy to get nervous anyway. Hello! Talk about gorgeous! I glance around the table and to my surprise the eight pains in my ass have turned out to be eight crazy good-looking guys. "Gentlemen, Chef Eloise."

"Hello," I nod and smile brightly.

"Best steak I've ever had," one guy shouts across the table.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," I reply in the friendliest tone I can manage.

"No really," he continues, and I can't help but giggle at his inebriated gushing. "We ate at that place, what's that place called?" he scans the table for help, but none comes. "You know, that fancy place in New York," he continues, "Costas...Coasters..."

"Costata," I chime in.

"Yeah, you know it?" he's adorably drunk and so excited I can't help but play along.

"I do."

"Yours is better," he moves to stand, but his teammate puts a hand on his shoulder and guides him back to his seat.

"Sorry about him," his friend rolls his eyes and I wave it off quickly.

"Looks like he was over-served," I tease, but catch myself before I go any further. Making fun of guests for being drunk is a surefire way to lose customers. The joke lands well though, and his buddy flashes me a brilliant smile and the table laughs along.

"Don't worry, he's driving," the drunken diner wraps his arm around his friend and I can tell the attention is embarrassing him a little bit. He's so hot though, he should be used to being stared at. I shake away the inappropriate thought and return my attention to the rest of the table.

"Trade you season tickets for your rub recipe?" another guy offers cheekily. I give him a lopsided grin and shake my head.

"I've passed up more than that," I tell him, and it sounds like a joke, but it's actually the truth.

"You should bottle that stuff," the handsome designated driver says seriously.

"Maybe I will," I shrug. "Thanks for coming in guys, I'm glad you enjoyed your meal."

"Of course we're happy to cover the tab," Mark chimes in and I start to sneak away. I think I've almost gotten away with it when I hear the dreaded callback. "Lou!" Ugh. I turn back and Mark waves me over to the table. "Our guest would like a photo with the Chef," he says warmly, and I can tell he's enjoying putting me through this torture.

"Absolutely," I reply through gritted teeth. Of course. It's the young lush, and he's fumbling with his phone. He hands it off to his handsome teammate and I feel my cheeks redden with embarrassment. I move to stand next to my biggest fan, and he quickly wraps his arms around me resting his chin on my shoulder.

"Hey man, probably not a good idea," and I'm relieved his friend has the presence of mind to consider that I might not want to be groped. I straighten my posture and slap on a phony smile, and it's over in seconds. "Sorry about him," he whispers as he moves past me to hand the phone back.

"No problem," I assure him.

"I don't think he's used to drinking this much," he laughs.

"Thank you Lou," Mark says evenly, effectively giving me permission to leave.

"Why do they call you Lou?" comes the slurred question a little too loudly and much to close for my liking.

"Short for Eloise," his teammate explains and I turn to him in disbelief. "That's right, isn't it?"

"Yeah," I'm stunned that he paid close enough attention, it's loud in here, he's babysitting a drunk, and still he managed to catch my name.

"That's cute," and I feel a familiar pair of arms wrap around my shoulders.

"Okay then," I slink out of the offending embrace and double time it back to the kitchen. If I'm not mistaken I can hear someone scolding him as I dash through the dining room. The kitchen is quiet, and I can tell everyone is exhausted from the long night. "Okay guys, let's clean up and get out of here."

My apartment feels too big for me, and I blame it on the fact that I haven't finished unpacking. I've lived here for over a year, so chances are I can live without whatever is in the stack of boxes, but unpacking completely would mean that I've moved in, and I still haven't decided if Pittsburgh is the place for me. It seems too easy, making a name for myself in Pittsburgh when everyone knows New York is the true test.

I wander into the kitchen and start pulling ingredients out of the fridge. Butter on bread, bread in the pan, add two slices of smoked cheddar and melt. Just as the cheese starts to ooze down the side, top with tomato, avocado and a slice of buttered bread. Pat twice, then flip. That's how you make the perfect late-night, early-morning sandwich. I cut it in half, grab a glass of ice water and start working my way through my DVR. Some people would die if anyone read their diary, but not me. My dirty secrets are all recorded on my precious lifeline to the outside world. Dr. Phil, Judge Judy, reruns of Gilmore Girls. It's my little box of guilty pleasures and right now there's nowhere I'd rather be than parked in front of my television.

My phone alarm rings and I realize that I've fallen asleep on the sofa again. Why do you even have a bedroom? It's not like it gets any use, let alone any action. I grab my phone and check the time. 7:12 am. Early, especially after a late night, but it's Sunday and it's a well-kept secret that the best farmers' market around opens in forty eight minutes.

The market is quiet, most vendors still setting up their stands before the mid-morning crowd arrives. I move through the maze of produce, grabbing a few seasonal items that catch my eye. I don't have a list, or a plan, giving me complete freedom to wander around and explore. This particular market sets up in a church parking lot of all places. The neighborhood is full of wealthy families, and being a foodie is currently very chic, meaning if the product is good, the farmer can get a good price for it. I'm surprised no one else has caught on to this, but as of yet, I think I'm the only transplant who drives from the city to check out a suburban market.

"That's a nice cut," I tell the butcher as he sets out a French cut rack of lamb.

"And it can be yours!" he laughs and starts wrapping it up before we even talk price.

"How much?" the words are taken right out of my mouth and I turn to see who's trying to steal this away from me. "Hello Lou."

"Hey," I give the handsome man from last night a puzzled look.

"I thought that was you," he smiles. "I was grabbing a coffee," he points at the shop across the street.

"I didn't catch your name," I try to disguise my surprise.

"Sid."

"You don't know who Sidney Crosby is?" the butcher looks at me incredulously.

"Uh..." I'm taken by surprise and I can feel my cheeks heating up, "I do now!" Sid laughs and I join him.

"Here, for you," the butcher has wrapped and tied the lamb and is practically forcing it into Sid's arms.

"Oh no, I was just kidding," he starts, but the man insists.

"My son will never believe that you came to buy my meat today!" and something about how he says my meat is so suggestive that I can't help but laugh. Sidney is embarrassed. I can tell he doesn't want to take it, but he's out of options.

"Thank you," I tell the butcher and guide Sid away.

"Thanks," Sid calls back as we make our escape. "Uh, do you want this?" he asks me when we're out of earshot.

"Yes!" I snatch it out of his hands and drop it into my half-full grocery bag. "Thank you."

"I feel bad, maybe I should go back and pay for it," he says sheepishly.

"Are you kidding? Didn't you see how excited he was to give you his meat?" I overemphasize the last bit and we both laugh.

"And now I've given it to you," he reminds me, but I can tell he immediately regrets the dirty joke.

"It's okay, I work in a kitchen," I reassure him. Sidney pauses, as if he's about to say something, but changed his mind. "What?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.

"Nothing," he says simply.

"You were about to say something," I venture.

"You don't remember me, do you?" he says shyly.

"Of course I do, you were in the restaurant last night," I laugh, but his shy expression doesn't change.

"No, from before," he presses.

"We've met before?" I can't hide the confusion on my face, and he nods. "Where?"

"Here, near the honey stand. It was maybe three months ago," he says evenly.

"Really?" It's quite possible, but I can't imagine forgetting him. He's very memorable.

"Yep, you were carrying a few bags of peaches when one split open and I helped you pick them up," he's embarrassed but he doesn't stop. "You made a joke about not telling the customers and I asked where you worked."

"I remember that..." stupid stupid stupid Lou! Look up once in a while!

"You seemed to be in a hurry," he shrugs.

"I was probably just embarrassed," I admit. There's an awkward pause and I try to come up with something clever to say. "Why didn't you come into the restaurant?" Because he's not obsessed with you! Sometimes I need to just take a minute and think about what I'm about to say before the words fly out of my mouth. I start fantasizing about melting into the sidewalk and disappearing completely when his reply brings me back to the present.

"It was booked solid," he confesses and my heart soars.

"But you could have..." I motion to the butcher and then look at him expectantly.

"I guess I didn't think you'd be impressed with someone who just name-dropped their way into getting a table," he tells me nervously.

"Oh," it's all I can say. It's rare that I'm at a loss for words, but this is one of those times.

"So Lou, short for Eloise, can I buy you a coffee?" he puts himself out there, and if I weren't completely taken with his good looks his charm would have won me over just as easily.

"Sure..." I take a deep breath. "I'd like that, Sid, short for Sidney."