When he'd first stepped into this office and truly took in his surroundings, holding nothing more than a box containing his laptop, two framed diplomas, and a specially engraved wooden spoon that he held so dear, it'd been a half-lit disaster of a room. He'd been informed by the leasing agent that the previous tenant had a bit of a mutiny by the hands of their employees, having tips swiped from their individual lockboxes and pocketed by their manager. Apparently they'd become so enraged they'd busted down the office door and completely trashed his workspace looking for their stolen funds; dents on the wall from a toppled filing cabinet stood out prominently. Ripped carpet, three broken ceiling tiles, and a busted doorknob had greeted Kyle when he'd first been led through the establishment. But it didn't matter at that point, the realtor could have walked Kyle into an active meth den and he still would've found a way to make the decision work.
Within a mere ten minutes, he'd fallen in love, completely head over heels for the staggered half-brick masonry crawling up the then-white walls. He'd become enamored with the Tuscan-style pillars lining the ceiling, the shuttered arch-top windows spilling sunlight and the life of the city onto barren Santos mahogany flooring. Padded booths were in desperate need of repair, years of wear and tear against the vinyl coating had begun erupting foam stuffing like little Mount Etnas scattered about. Not that Kyle minded, he had a far classier plan for them anyway than the odd hue of blue that the previous owner had dubbed their mainstay color. The dining floor had swept him off his feet with dreams of what it could be.
But the kitchen, oh the kitchen is where he found himself carried away, where he knew the realtor would have to drag him out to tear him from the marvel he found waiting for him. Seated behind a stone and charcoal granite bar laid a sight to behold: 600 square feet of pure stainless steel appliances and Brunswick brick lining the walls, eight four-burner stovetops separated by floating trays just begging to be set aflame, become a spectacle for eager patrons to watch their chefs work. Matching granite workstations were scattered about, the perfect breadth for individuals to craft and not be neck and neck with one another. A massive double-shelved brick oven overtook the left half of the room, soot piled around the inner sides from years of use, Kyle brimming with how it could look once he took the time to get it properly prepared for its next go-round.
It was a steal, the damage of the office lowering the price just enough for Kyle to worm in his business loan budget and do the necessary redecorating so desperately needed. Only $4200 a month for a prime Loop location, just within scope of the river, close enough for nighttime lighting to shimmer off the water and reflect back into his wide, open windows. He was guaranteed a natural gorgeous view for customers each night, something that money just couldn't buy all on its own, and all the more reason for Kyle to spend the customary waiting period after putting in his offer staring at his phone in trepidation. After all, as his mother had told him time and again after he'd called her with the news, he couldn't get his hopes too high. A first time owner was a lot of risk for a company, and nine out of ten independent businesses failed within the first year, most of them restaurants. He was fresh out of college at twenty-two. He was young, not a Chicago native, someone that people may feel was suited better for working at an Olive Garden for the time being. The notion had disgusted him, being tied down to corporate chains that focused more on their profits than on the quality of their food, opting to say that microwaved was good enough. He'd rather die.
He'd been kept in agonizing anticipation for nearly five days, hope beginning to wither and his roommate coming home and finding him slumped on their couch staring at the ceiling in despair, watching him down bottle after bottle of Brachetto as the third day had passed into the evening hours. Kyle would bitterly laugh how his maestro cuoco would be berating him for drinking northern wine, all the while dramatically begging if he lost this building for Stan to drown him in the lake. Stan could do nothing but awkwardly pat his head and tell him to ignore his mother and keep hoping, cringing at the drunken Italian curses that would spill out of Kyle's mouth fast enough to wind them both.
But, his saving grace had come at 2:18 on a clouded Friday afternoon, Kyle hearing through his buzzed haze the beautiful words "You've been approved, Mr. Broflovski" and nearly tripping over their coffee table as he leapt to his feet in pure joy. The following Monday, he'd dragged Stan with him to gather paints and get his keys, for the two of them to start building Kyle's dream before he'd have to resort to contractors down the line. Booths were re-stained to compliment the flooring, refurbished with wine-shaded fabric cushions to match the plethora of padded dining chairs ordered, delivered, and stacked against the far wall for days on end while they toiled. Walls were repainted to a deep, rich basil; lights were suited with dimmer bulbs to combat the blaring set-up from the previous owners who apparently had no perception of what constituted as dining worthy of this location. Kyle couldn't help a small, secret thrill out of taking the building from a pizzeria, knowing that at least now patrons could come here to get themselves some real food.
Stan would come in and out as work allowed him, but Kyle found himself practically living in his new home away from home, one night Stan coming in to find him draped over a prep station he'd been cleaning, snoozing away. Kyle finally understood the phrase of blood, sweat, and tears, finding himself on a constant edge as his grand opening loomed within the approaching distance, still a pinpoint on the horizon but steadily dripping towards him like thick oil. It was a thrill and a terror all at once as he had worked with contractors to design and secure his wine racks, as he began the hiring process, finding himself having to learn how to talk like the boss to people thirty years older than him just needing a waiting job, taking measurements and ordering uniforms and starting to bring in hundreds of bottles of wine and begin stocking up on his dried ingredients.
He'd found himself becoming terrified as the opening was a mere week away, holding a jar of olives as he waited one morning to greet and train his kitchen staff, seeing the pure fear evident in his eyes. He'd rushed to his computer and shot off a hasty email, rambling to his teacher in Taormina awkwardly about how he didn't know why his instinct was to message him, but he was scared he'd fuck everything up and find himself working at the local Bravo!. After spending six hours working with his staff and bidding them a good night until he'd see them the next day for more orientation, he'd opened his email to, surprisingly enough, find a reply with only one line: "Ricordare, senza burro, bambino cuoco!"
It'd been the push he'd needed, finding himself near tears and grinning stupidly for twenty minutes at a simple reminder to not use butter. After all, butter was for northerners. He was trained properly, knowing that such fats were reserved for making pastries only. But if his maestro cuoco felt he only needed that as a tip, then there was more faith in him from a man over five thousand miles away than from his own parents on the East Coast.
It was a nightmare and a dream rolled into a tumultuous ball of yarn, fraying and littering the ground with fibers as it went, but it was worth it for the end product. And never was that more evident than while sitting in his office, barely able to hear the bustling of his chefs as he doted on his paperwork and contacted his vendors, smelling spices and oils seeping in under his door from the kitchen just outside his barrier. Ambient calmness enhanced by the echo of happenings just feet away from him beyond the wall, his work all culminating into sitting by himself in his office.
Four years had gone by of business staying steady, word-of-mouth much more powerful than he ever thought it could be. When he had reached his start, he never thought he'd have to add 'Reservation Only' to his advertisements and the paint on his front door. But only a year into the business, he'd had to make that call. His leasing agent had ended up dropping by the day he'd been contracting an artist to make the notation on the door, getting himself a nice congratulatory handshake and awkwardly laughing as the woman rambled on about how angry she was that her agent had signed him in the first place, now more than glad they'd taken the risk. Of course, Kyle had thought bitterly, because she could easily raise his rent with profits doing so well without risk of having to start over with another business.
But, Kyle minded little in the end. As far as he could see, he was stable, he was happy, and his dreams were right where he wanted them to be. Life was just, for once, good.
Well, aside from the number staring back at him from his computer screen. Vivid green eyes narrowed as he scanned over the total of a shipment making way towards their store. "What the fuck," he bit. "Why are they shorting me on fucking polenta?!" He sighed irritably, tapping his finger against his desk and gnawing on his tongue. He had a few options. He could take it off the menu once they ran out, just keep it on standby until a new shipment came in. There was always the option of calling the company and losing his shit at them, but… he eyed the invoice address and let out a frustrated breath. They were one of his best vendors, he couldn't risk pissing them off and lose some of his favoritism he'd managed to snag over the last few years. He leaned his head back and groaned before snatching his pen and a pad of sticky notes from beside his monitor, sighing once more as he made a quick note to stop at a grocery store and scavenge around for a few bags of his cornmeal.
A knock erupted at his door and he glanced at it, "Yeah?" he called, continuing to scribe. It opened and a brunette popped her head through the space, looking at him guiltily. He looked at her again and raised his brow, "What, Heidi?"
"If you're not too busy, can you come help us out here?" she winced. "We have a bit of a back-up going on."
He blinked before tossing down his stuff and ripping his green bistro apron off the back of his chair. "Stop sounding guilty when you need help," he lectured, tying the strands back and wrapping them around front of his slender waistline, securing it tightly in front of him. "I'm not here to just stare at papers."
"I know, I know," she smiled tiredly, watching him snag his head wrap from his apron pocket, laughing silently as he struggled to flatten ample carmine curls under the fabric. He tucked up what strands he could, wondering for the nth time why he hadn't just gotten a toque yet as he followed his sous chef out into the hustle and bustle of his kitchen.
He grumbled, finally managing to tie it at the back of his skull and stepping towards the dish sink to wash off his hands. He rolled up the heavy sleeves of his jacket and gave her another quick look, "Whatcha need?"
"Just some prep," she elaborated, "Butters is having trouble catching up to the salad orders for a large party."
"On it," he nodded, getting a grateful smile before she turned and hurried back towards the stoves to keep up her own work. Snagging a clean towel from the top shelf and drying his palms, Kyle glanced over to see his blonde pantry chef struggling at the large vegetable prep island to keep up, rolling his eyes a bit as he hung the towel and briskly made his way to the overwhelmed man. He stepped up beside him, reaching down and snaring one of the held chef's knives from the side panel of the table. "What're we doing?" he asked.
Butters blinked up at him from chopping carrot slices and gestured to the array of bowls on his countertop. "Lotsa people want salad," he smiled meekly. "I-I'm tryin', I just can't-"
"Don't say you can't, that'll only slow you down," he cut him off. "Everything washed?" Butters nodded, Kyle reaching past him and snagging three heads of romaine. "Just keep moving and everything's fine," he said calmly, digging his knife halfway down into the first batch of lettuce and slicing it lengthwise. He quickly repeated the motion time and again, keeping the greens turning and making his marks a mere inch apart. Butters stole looks at his process as he kept julienning his carrot slices, watching Kyle swiftly turn the lettuce back front and clamp his free hand down atop the core. A gleam hit Butters' eye from the dangling overhead light as the blade slashed through the top of the leaves at an angle, a quick shift moving to the opposite side and repeating the motion to leave Kyle with a pointed figure to bring his knife through in a third sweep. "Keep chopping, Butters," Kyle said without losing concentration, repeating the three-step process time and again until he hit the hard white substance of the core, tossing it into a wastebasket on a shelf under the station.
"I'm sorry," Butters murmured shyly.
"Don't be," he gave a small laugh. "You think I never fall behind in this shit? You have twelve salads, Man, that takes time." He rapidly moved to his next head of lettuce, finding his rhythm and letting his knife take the quick-blazing trail of its own. It was as natural as breathing to him, able to so effortlessly let his blade become a part of his hand.
Moving on to his third piece, he stole a glance at the man trying to keep pace with him, shaking his head lightly. He could just read the maestro's words again, "without butter". It probably wasn't supposed to be meant to apply to people, but Kyle couldn't help but wonder if he should've shown him the door as soon as that nickname caught on a few months back when he'd first walked into his kitchen. He couldn't exactly fire someone for their goddamn name, and, to be fair, he couldn't have known that's the route it would take. But superstition apparently ran deep in him, something he didn't really know until he'd been presented with this particular predicament. 'Just don't let him be what ruins the taste of this place,' he prayed as he finished the third head, tossing the core into the trash and moving to distribute his pile of leaves into the ivory salad plates.
"Wouldn't it be easier t' just buy sliced carrots?" Butters questioned. Kyle paused and shot him a look, his employee cringing a bit and looking back down at his work.
"Easier, yes," he agreed. "Correct? No. We don't half-ass shit, Butters, you know that." He turned back and hurriedly continued piling the plates, eying them for equal distribution.
They both glanced up at a waiter hurrying up towards their table and shaking his head, "Scratch four of these. They want the caprese instead."
"Got it. Thanks, Jason," Kyle nodded, pushing four of the plates off and to the side of the counter, turning on his heel and heading towards his vegetable pantry to rip open, eyes scanning until landing on a shelf of bright red beaming at him. He snagged one of the shallow plastic bowls kept piled on the counter beside the cabinet, pulling down ten tomatoes from their hold and handling them with care as he placed them into his container. He grabbed an oil dispenser, turning and toeing the wooden pantry shut behind him. Biting the side of his tongue, he rushed over towards the vegetable sink, grasping tomatoes two at a time to rinse under chilled water, fingers delicately scrubbing any residue his sharp eye managed to catch, setting them on a resting towel atop the steel surface. Shutting off the water as his last was dubbed up to his standards, he snagged another towel, very gently patting the fruits dry and dropping them back into his bowl with his oil set angled up within the container. He turned on his heel making way beside him to the massive double-doored refrigerator.
A chilled blast slammed into him to combat the heat of the multitude of burners and his brick oven firing away on either side of the room, Kyle scavenging until finding a container of mozzarella and a baggie of basil. He plopped the bag down into his bowl and picked up his materials, moving to head back to his station.
"Comin' behind," he called at a waiter rummaging in the pantry for extra oil for a table, slipping behind them with a smooth pivot of his heavy, non-slick shoe. He stepped back beside Butters, making quick work to wipe down his knife with a hanging towel and rid it of its romaine residue, reaching and grabbing four plates from the chilled hold under the countertop. Gently, he placed them apart on the countertop, gripping the handle of his sharpening steel beneath him and pulling it out of place. Butters watched a bit as he carefully and swiftly handled his knife, the blade scraping over the rod with a shling time and again. Kyle set the tool aside and wiped off his knife yet again, gripping a tomato and slicing through in thick slices crisp and clean as sunlight cutting through a countryside.
"Kyle!"
"Yeah?" he called back, not looking up as he continued to work his way through the next rounds of fruit. His eye flickered to his pastry chef hurrying towards him with a spoon in her hand. "What's up, Annie?"
"I used that new uh, new whipping cream we got for the pizzellas?" she looked at him in a bit of a panic.
He nodded, moving to set his sliced tomatoes neatly around his plates, "Okay, and?"
"I just noticed that it's sweetened, and I already added my extra sugar," she cringed. "Taste this." Kyle glanced at a dollop of pink, fluffed cream settled onto a spoon, her hand held underneath of it. He moved forward and took the taste from the metal, face twisting a bit at the immediate influx of sugar splashing over his palate. Annie's shoulders sunk a bit, wishing that it was just her that'd tasted such a difference in the taste of his recipe.
Kyle swallowed down the almost sickening strawberry confection, smacking his lips. "Lemon," he said firmly. "Get a lemon, squeeze half of it in there. If that's still not enough, add the other half until you get it closer to how it should be."
She nodded briskly, turning on her heel and heading back to her station, tossing his tasting spoon into the dish sink as she passed and he went back to his capreses. He finished rounding off each plate with the bright fruit beaming off of the neutral plate tones, snagging his oil and drizzling it rapidly over each in a zig-zagged line. Free hand blindly reaching beside him, he grabbed his basil bag and tore it open, eyes fluttering as he dragged it in front of him and found himself assaulted with the heavenly, sweet aroma splashing over him at once.
All at once he went on autopilot as he moved it to chop for his salads, remembering the painstaking activity of growing his own in Taormina, the five weeks it'd taken for the purest green he'd ever laid eyes on to finally bloom for use. He'd been beyond proud of that little plant growing on his maestro's windowsill in his office, using the two handfuls he'd managed to grow to make his first batch of pesto from scratch. It'd been one of the few things that he knew he couldn't bring from there to here, knowing that the Midwestern weather wouldn't permit him to grow his own herbs without having to shell out the money for a heated greenhouse. The closest he could get was nearly daily trips to the farmer's market to snag their freshest selections that the owner put back just for him for his patronage. He smiled fondly, imagining the dining floor of his restaurant expanded outwards by just a few feet, placing in large windowsills where he could grow an array of basil and parsley and oregano, let the customers waft in the same celestial scent as he did daily so many years ago.
Humming to himself contentedly at the memory, he grasped his container of mozzarella, tearing it open to the creamy log and plopping it onto a clean section of his cutting board as he pushed the basil aside with the back of his knife, hurriedly wiping off the green residue.
He glanced up at Butters hurrying to finish the salads, nodding approvingly. "You doin' all right?"
"Yeah, thanks," he nodded with a smile, sprinkling shredded parmigiana over the salads before turning to head towards the stoves and get into one of the ovens set aside for him.
Kyle shook his head amusedly, moving and slicing piece after piece of his cheese. 'At least he tries,' he thought tiredly. Better than his last chef he'd had to let go, a pompous Englishman who loved to go on and on about his grade point average of all things. From business school. Kyle had had to step away from a simmering marsala after a near fight broke out between him and the grill chef, Kyle gently coaxing his griller back to his station before demanding for the other to follow him into the office. Kyle had never fired anyone before, but spending ten minutes talking to Gregory more than convinced him that he didn't need that kind of attitude circling his building and making his chefs uncomfortable. Besides, Stan had wanted Kyle to fire him for months after Gregory decided to hit on his girlfriend when they'd stopped by to see him and one of his waitresses. He'd tried to make it civil, telling him that he didn't go around bragging about his own grades from both of his majors, so he shouldn't either. The very second after Gregory shrugged so dismissively and asked him if numbers really mattered when all he did was learn to cut vegetables, Kyle took his chef's jacket and cap and sent him packing. It worked on all levels; he made his employees happy, made Stan happy, and he got a worker in that was willing to learn, which was really all he could ask for in any of his cooks.
Kyle laid his mozzarella in carefully designed patterns around the tomatoes, giving each plate a nice dose of basil and eying the presentation, nodding to himself as he reached down to snag his salt and pepper mills to sprinkle over his creations. Butters came hurrying back up with oven mitts, carrying his tray of house-baked croutons, a plastic spatula sliding under batches at a time to distribute among the leafy dishes. "Gosh, I hope they're not sore it took a lil' while," he commented while he worked.
He waved him off, "Nah. They're in a big party, they know it'll take a little longer. Besides, that keeps 'em distracted. It's when you get the couples and you run behind that you gotta worry." Butters let out a small breath of relief at the reassurance, finishing doling out his bread. Kyle bent down towards the mini-fridge resting under the counter and tore it open. "What dressings?"
"All house."
"Thank god," he murmured, knowing it'd be a nightmare to work out otherwise with an order change. He snagged his dispenser of oil vinaigrette and stood back in place, reaching over and beginning to douse the salads. It was a recipe it'd taken him months to perfect, Stan telling him if he didn't make him stop being a guinea pig for fucking salad he was going utterly carnivorous and leaving him on his own to figure out the right combination of seasonings. Stan just would never understand how important the right blend of spices was, how much give and take he could afford to work with. Bakers never did. They were far too precise and by-the-book; definitely not Kyle's style unless it was related to paperwork.
He and Butters glanced up at Jason hurrying back to them as Kyle finished coating the dishes, looking at them expectantly. "We good?"
Kyle nodded, the waiter turning behind him and snagging two large carrying trays, the both of them beginning to load the sides as closely as they could afford to. "Any runners?" Kyle asked.
He shook his head, "No, Red called off, we're pretty short-staffed out there."
"Right, right," he nodded, leaning his head back away from the food and pulling off his head wrap, shoving it back into his pocket and grabbing one of the loaded trays. "Lead the way," he nodded as his waiter grabbed the other, smiling gratefully before doing just that. He took Kyle on the pathway out of the swinging door between the food and wine bars, leaving the blaring lights of the kitchen into the calm, dimly lit setting of the dining floor. Kyle's eyes scrunched a bit as they tried to adjust on a dime to the utter darkness compared to where he'd emerged from, following along to a set of tables shoved together for the large party. He couldn't help but smirk at Jason, knowing well enough he was thrilled with imagining just what kind of tips he'd be getting from helping such a large crowd.
"These four have the caprese," he noted, gesturing to the four along the end of the table. Kyle plastered on his managerial smile for them, delighted in the relaxed, chipper tone surrounding his establishment. He carefully slid their food in front of them from the side, trying not to get far too into their personal bubbles.
He smiled a little wider at a happy sound coming from one of the patrons, always more than glad to hear just how excited they were for his food. He rarely got to hear such anymore, being confined in his office and kitchen. But he got to hear comments passed on by his wait staff, and that worked plenty well enough for him. He continued around the table, meeting Jason at the middle as they laid down their last plates, straightening back up and Kyle taking the other's tray to return to the kitchen. "This is the head chef I was telling you about," Jason said offhandedly, Kyle raising his brow slightly at him before smiling at the group still.
One of the men leaned forward a bit and looked at him, "You're a lot younger than I would've thought. Way he was talking we pegged you for fifty."
Kyle laughed politely, "Still a while to go before that."
"He said you're the only one that speaks Italian here," a woman beside him propped her chin up on the back of her hand and the table watched him expectantly.
He inwardly sighed, making sure to keep that grin plastered on. Every damn time. "Sì," he nodded.
"Well, say something, Kyle," Jason elbowed him lightly with a smirk, knowing well enough how much Kyle hated people asking him to speak in Italian if he could avoid it. But they'd opened the door, he wasn't about to pass it up.
Kyle gave him a slightly unamused stare before shrugging, "Si otterrà un abbassamento di livello se non si impara l'italiano."
The woman clapped softly with a sound of amusement. "What does that mean?"
He smirked, giving another innocent shrug. "He's getting a demotion if he doesn't learn his own Italian."
The table broke into laughter and Jason pouted, "How can I be demoted? I'm already at the bottom."
Kyle reached up and patted his shoulder lightly. "I'll find a way. Spero che tu sai meglio ora." He turned to the table and smiled again at the guests, "Let me know if you need anything. Buon appetito," he gave a subtle nod before turning on his heel and heading back towards the kitchen, feeling Jason watching after him with studiously narrowed eyes, trying to decipher his last message. Kyle turned the corner, towards the short corridor to the kitchen, lingering in the doorway for a moment and glancing back out onto the dining floor.
He held the trays with extended arms against his torso, eyes gliding over the faux olive leaves and vines crawling along the walls and ceiling pillars, the soft glow of strung discount holiday lights wrapped within them illuminating the room in stacked, subtle shadows. His sight drifted out the uncovered window directly across from him, seeing nighttime settling beautifully over the water, the dancing lights against the waterfront reflecting onto trees and the sidewalk, a warm feeling of complacency burrowing itself snugly in his chest. His smile turned fond, hearing the pleased murmurs surrounding his floor, the clatter of silverware against plates and bowls and the clinking of wine glasses.
It was his. All of it was his.
He let himself relish for just a few more moments before standing back up with a happy sigh, making way towards the other end of his happy spectrum: the pure chaos of his kitchen. Either way, no matter the side, he was more than happy to bask in their separate glows.
