Page 4 of Falling for the Grumpiest Protector

This is one of my favorite parts of the night. Not the reviews. Not the reservations. Not the articles calling Julian and me two of New York's chefs to watch, which was flattering the first three times and considerably less interesting by the seventh. This. The aftermath. The people.

Hannah drops into a chair at the staff table and stretches one leg in front of her. "I think my left foot is permanently shorter than my right."

"That's because you buy shoes designed by people who hate women," I tell her.

She looks down at the flats she insists are comfortable despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. "They're cute."

"They're instruments of torture."

"They're Italian."

"That doesn't make them innocent."

She points toward my feet. "Easy for you to say. You're wearing chef shoes."

I look down at my black nonslip clogs. "Because I enjoy having functional toes."

Julian drops into the chair across from me with a bottle of sparkling water. "She's very attached to all ten."

"They've served me well."

Around us, the remaining staff settles in with whatever food survived service. Nobody is required to stay. Most nights, half of them do anyway. Someone puts bread on the table. Someone else brings out leftover roasted potatoes. Luis appears with a bowl of pear tart that didn't make the cut for presentation but tastes exactly the same. Hannah steals a piece before he sits down.

"Tomorrow," Julian says, opening the notebook he insists on using instead of a tablet, "we need to talk about the private party menu."

"No truffle risotto."

"I didn't say truffle risotto."

"You were thinking it."

"I was not."

"You get a look."

"What look?"

"The expensive mushroom look."

Luis laughs into his drink. Julian points his pen at him.

"You're fired."

"You said that yesterday."

"And yet you keep coming back."

"I like Chef Madison better."

"Everyone does," I say.

Julian looks around the table. "Show of hands." Nobody moves. I smile. "Fear is an effective management tool."

"That's why they like you."

We spend another twenty minutes talking through tomorrow's service. Two large parties. One allergy note that needs to be triple-checked. A produce delivery coming early. A new lamb preparation Julian wants to test before Monday. Then the conversation drifts. Hannah tells us about the man at table nine who spent half the evening pretending he knew the difference between Bordeaux vintages while holding the wine list upside down. Luis insists he saw a famous actor in the bar. Nobody believes him.

I lean back in my chair and let the noise wash over me. This is my life. It is loud and exhausting and ridiculous. It smells like garlic even after I shower. My feet hurt more nights than they don't. I haven't eaten dinner before ten p.m. on a Friday in more years than I can remember. And I love it. Every impossible, demanding, beautiful inch of it.