This piece comes from my early years in the restaurant business—as a female chef, owner, and employer—when I was still learning what the work actually demanded.

There are many layers to that space. This is just one small glimpse into how I survived, and how I succeeded.

What follows isn’t polished or perfect. It’s a slice of the truth I learned along the way.
Reader be aware—perfection does not live here. Progress does.

“I’ve got you set up for dinner. I need to leave now to go to the fire station for training. See you tomorrow.”

Cool. I closed my phone, finished my makeup, and headed toward the garage to drive to the restaurant.

It took me way too long to find a parking spot. After circling the alley a few times, I snagged one and tucked my car into it quickly. I walked toward the restaurant. I was cutting it way too close, and I started to feel it in my chest. I have a night alone ahead of me—just myself and a server, a summer night. Maybe we wouldn’t get busy? Kurt had set me up, so I should have some time before anything happened.

Hustling through the door, I said hello to the server and ran down the stairs. I dropped my bag in the sink by the front counter, my coat on top of it, and glanced into the kitchen. Mentally, I began my inner transition from girl, mom, woman—to boss, chef, restaurant owner.

Four steps toward the stove and I was standing in front of a landfill of dirty dishes. At least a four-foot-high tower of third pans, pots, and utensils. Not just in one, but all three compartments of the only dish sink we had.

“What the fuck….”

I saw the server behind me nodding her head. “Yep. He said he texted you and told you he had to leave.”

Standing there, dumbfounded, the tightness in my chest spread—dense pressure moving into my jaw, up the back of my neck, and behind my ears.

“Fuck you, you fucking asshole,” I said to no one, and to everyone.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Apron on, Deanna. Check your line.

“We are open,” the server told me, and walked back to the front.

I headed toward the walk-in. Protein, check. Pasta, check. I grabbed two bunches of parsley and the fresh basil. Chiffonade basil, chop parsley—my familiar rhythm. The softness of the herbs in my hands, their fragrance released with every cut. I focused on the motion.

What is wrong with me? How did this happen again? It’s intuitive to me—is it only me? Does he just not care? Fuck. I am so, so tired.

I did the dishes, did the work. The night went on. I went home.

I know this story.

The next morning, I got up early to go to work. It wasn’t my shift, but it was my restaurant.

I walked through the front door and it was dark inside—just the noise of the walk-in compressor. The familiar surroundings of the past seven years greeted me. I walked to the back and flipped on the lights, opened the door and unlocked it, letting it slam shut while I walked away.

Around the corner, I turned on the front line. I reached into the deli case and pulled out all the chilled red wines to warm for dinner. I turned the corner and the dish pit was clean, just like I had left it. The mop was resting in the floor sink, and last night’s kitchen towels were spread over the cutting boards, soaked with bleach. Everything was ready for me to start the day.

I breathed in the kitchen smells and the quiet that would soon be gone. I loved this part.

I knew this kid wasn’t going to work here for long. He had just started training to become a fireman. His attention was elsewhere. I also knew I didn’t have to be hit by that tidal wave of unpreparedness again.

He walked in about ten minutes after me. We hadn’t talked.

He glanced at me and half-smiled as he walked past. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Oh yeah? What’s up?” He stopped and turned toward me, crossing his arms.

“You left me all your dishes last night.”

“I texted you and told you I needed to leave early. I had you set up.”

“You didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. I couldn’t get it all done. I told you I needed to leave early.”

“You left me all your dishes.”

“But—”

I just could not hear the rest.

“I am not your fucking bitch.”

He looked at me then—a little puzzled, maybe surprised—then the little half-assed grin.

I don’t remember what was said after that, but he got pretty agitated. I asked him for my key back. He jerked it off his key ring and set it down on the deli case. He grabbed his coat and walked away.

Standing at the top of the stairs he turned back toward the kitchen. I stood my ground. He looked like an angry little boy, jumping up and down, yelling something about me being a horrible bitch.

I yelled back at him, “Get the fuck out of my restaurant.”

He stopped shouting. He turned around to leave, then looked back at me like he had one more thing to say. I stared at him. He walked out.

I had really expected he would apologize about the dishes.

I walked up to the front door, turned the lock, and went back down the stairs into the kitchen.

I heard someone open the back door and saw my neighbor poke his head into the kitchen.

“Are you okay?”

I laughed. “Yes. I had a disagreement with my employee, and he didn’t seem to like me much.”

“Okay. Good. I was a little worried.”

“I’m good. The front door is locked. Thank you for checking on me. I don’t think anything else will happen.”

He went on his way. I went back to the stove, where I’d started the soup for the day.

I’ve started a new space called Instinct Kitchen for the restaurant stories — the ones that don’t fit neatly anywhere else.
I will be sharing bits and pieces of my journey as a female chef and restaurant owner there. If you’d like to read more, please click the link here to Instinct Kitchen and subscribe.

Now, let’s get to work.

Deanna