Three: Harlow

THREE

HARLOW

I f I were ever forced to listen to one sound for the rest of my life, the cacophony of a commercial kitchen would be my first choice.

Hands down.

From the soft flames hissing under the ranges, to the spoons clanging against pots and pans, and to sous chefs shouting orders, all those sounds combined for a perfect melody.

I just wished I didn’t have to hear it at my current job: Le Sacre Coeur.

Everyone who was ‘anyone’ considered this to be the top French restaurant in this city. It was the crème de la crème for serving mouthwatering experiences night after night, and schooling classes of culinary artists who went on to run five star kitchens.

Or so everyone thought.

For the past eighteen months, the only thing this place did for me was crush my soul.

Tying on my apron, I approached my station and looked over incoming lunch orders.

Today is the perfect day to bake your best work, Harlow. Focus on that.

“Alright, pastry team!” I shouted at my line. “Tiramisu hold the cream for table seven, chocolate torte with raspberries for table nineteen, and truffle lemon tarts for the Owens’ anniversary, stat!”

Drizzling caramel over the lemon tarts, I placed them on the “go out” rack and moved to the next dessert request.

“Chef Harlow!” Someone called. “Chef Harlowww!”

“Yeah?” I tasted the cream for my croquembouche. “I’m busy.”

“Approach the galley for a review.”

“One second, I need to add more sugar to this.”

“ Now, goddamnit !” Chef Ramos, the celebrity chef who ran our kitchen like a dictator, yelled louder. His voice forced a hushed silence to fall over the room.

Dropping my spoon, I walked toward him—taking my spot under his “championship banners.”

#1 in Manhattan Cuisine, Best Chef in America, Most Delectable Dessert of the Year

My heart ached at the sight of that last one; he won that because of my coconut eclair submission.

“Yes, Chef?” I asked.

“What the hell is this?” He held up a slice of caramel cheesecake.

“It’s caramel cheesecake, Chef.”

“But it’s not my version of caramel cheesecake, is it?”

“Um…” I looked around at my colleagues, confused.

“Come here, Chef Gray.” He pointed to a junior cook. “Taste this for us, please.”

The cook took a bite and nodded.

“What do you think?”

“It’s good, Chef.” His voice trembled. “Very, very good.”

“It’s shit!” Chef Ramos slammed the plate onto the floor, shattering it to pieces. “Pure, filthy shit!”

I swallowed as he stomped on the shards again and again.

“My recipe doesn’t call for a single cinnamon or apple addition, but they are abundantly present here. Why is that, Chef Harlow?”

“Because—”

“ Speak up !”

“It’s for Mrs. Ledru, the wife of the Tiffany’s CEO, sir.” I could barely hear my own voice. “I overheard her say that your caramel sauce was a bit bitter during her last visit.”

“So, you decided to make your own?” He clenched his jaw. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“She appreciates the additions.” I felt everyone staring at me. “They make her feel like she gets personal attention from you.”

“Answer the question that I asked, Chef Harlow.”

“Yes.” I nodded. “I made my own caramel sauce.”

The alarm on the range sounded, signaling that someone’s cream was seconds away from burning, but no one made a move.

No one dared to even blink.

“So, you think you’re better than me?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“That must be the case, because you’re taking interviews at other kitchens behind my back,” he said. “Are you no longer happy making my world-renowned recipes and learning from the best?”

“Sir, that’s not why I’m doing that.”

“This is a Michelin star kitchen,” he interrupted. “This is as high as it gets, and instead of being grateful that I took a chance on you and your limited drop-out school talent, you want to betray me by working elsewhere?”

“I’m only interviewing for part-time side jobs,” I said. “I need more money, and all the kitchens I applied to bake different things from yours.”

“Enough.” He held up his hand. “Do yourself a favor from here on out and tell them you’re in search of something full time .”

“What?”

“Get the hell out of my kitchen, and don’t ever come back.”

“Chef, please.” I shook my head. “Don’t do this to me.”

“You have an interview today, correct?” He shrugged. “If I were you, I would thank me for giving you the time to get there early.”

“If you give me a second chance, I swear I’ll never do it again.”

“I need two orders of tiramisu for table twelve!” He yelled over my words. “ My caramel sauce—made exactly as I wrote it—with the flan for the Harris family at table eleven!”

The kitchen roared back to life without me, without a single colleague shooting me look of sympathy.

I knew it wasn’t personal; they couldn’t afford to lose their jobs either.

Refusing to let my emotions show, I took off my apron and headed to the employee room. I pulled my purse from the locker and gently lifted the sweets carrier I’d brought along for my interview.

Double checking my batch of cupcakes, I slipped out of the exit and into the soft summer drizzle.

As I walked to the subway station, I pretended like the wetness falling from my eyes weren’t tears; they were misguided raindrops.

Sixteen stops later, I emerged on West 23 Street and walked into The Hearst Employment Agency.

There was no receptionist or signage, so I pulled out my phone and double checked the listing to make sure I was in the right place.

*Manhattan Executive Seeking Chef for Daughter’s Weekend-Long Sweet Sixteen Party*

Must have experience in a Michelin star kitchen.

Must be comfortable working in a fast-paced environment

Bring one dozen of your best German chocolate cupcakes (unicorn style, please) for consideration.

Arrive at address below twenty minutes before your appt time.

I took the elevator and followed a pink and blue balloon trail to a ballroom with a table and two chairs.

A brunette danced near the windows, pushing a baby stroller back and forth. She reached inside and pulled out a teddy bear, kissing and babbling to it like it was a real child.

“Um, excuse me?” I cleared my throat. “Hello?”

“Hey there!” She kicked the stroller away, and it crashed into the wall. “Are you here for employment placement?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have an appointment. Harlow Hawthorne.”

“Wow, you’re early.” She motioned for me to follow her to the desk.“I’m Mrs. Locklear. Come on, have a seat.”

I obliged and sat still as she flipped through papers and hummed to herself.

“How comfortable are you with children, Miss Hawthorne?”

“Extremely comfortable,” I said. “I’ve baked plenty of custom cakes and sweets for kids’ parties. Just last week, I crafted some Paw Patrol inspired cookies and cupcakes.”

“ Paw Patrol ?”

“It’s a kids TV show,” I said. “The one with the dogs who protect their town with fun and crazy adventures.”

“Interesting.” She flipped a page. “Are you familiar with gluten, nut, and other common food allergies?”

“Of course. I always ask about those before baking.”

“Are you CPR certified?”

“Yes.”

“What about pediatric first aid?”

“I took a few classes in that a while ago, but?—”

“Perfect!” She interrupted. “Can you tell me how you would handle a hungry, crying child?”

“Uh, I would feed it. ”

“Good answer. Very good answer.” She nodded. “You’d be surprised how many people say, ‘Let the child cry until he’s not hungry anymore.”

Where is she going with this?

“What about a child who was experiencing anxiety about a parent being away?” she asked. “How would you handle that?”

“Assure them it’s temporary by saying, ‘I’m sure your mommy or daddy will come back to this party soon.’” I glanced at my phone, ensuring I hadn’t misread the age of this party as ‘six’ instead of ‘sixteen.’

“Awww, that’s sweet!” Mrs. Locklear scribbled on a notepad. “Now, let’s talk about your experience with sleep schedules and potty training.”

“Huh?”

“How did you handle setting these at your last nanny position?”

“My last what ?” I shook my head. “Excuse me for being confused here, but what do sleep schedules and potty training have to do with this job listing?”

“Everything. Didn’t you read it?”

“I thought I did.” I set my cupcakes on the desk. “I also brought these for consideration.”

“Now, you’re confusing me .” She flipped a page in her clipboard. “Your name is Harlow Hawthorne, right?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

“You’re seeking full time salaried employment, correct?”

“Well, uh, the listing that brought me here actually said part time.”

“Is that a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to wanting a full-time job?”

“It’s a yes.”

“Thank you.” She pointed to a yellow highlighted section. “So, you’re not here for ‘Manhattan CEO seeking private, live-in nanny for two young children, must be available to me at all times—off days to be discussed? Salary of three hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars a year that includes health benefits and all travel expenses?”

“No, that’s not the right one. I’m here for the—” I stopped talking. “What’s that salary again?”

“Three hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars. Plus benefits.”

“For being a nanny?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “A live-in nanny.”

My mind was blown.

As a teenager, I spent most of my summers babysitting the neighbors’ children for easy money. I baked a pizza, turned on a movie, and the kids practically watched themselves.

How hard could this ‘nanny’ thing possibly be?

“Okay, wait.” I was excited now. “By ‘live-in,’ does that mean the family pays for me to move closer, or I stay in their house? What would happen to the rent on my current apartment?”

“Save those questions when you get to part two of the interview.” She tore off a sheet of paper and handed it to me. “Here’s the address. You need to be there by three thirty sharp. The client in question is only using us for screening and HR purposes, to make sure the people we send over aren’t psychopaths.”

“Does this client have a name?”

“He’ll give it to you when you get there.”

“Okay…” I stood and picked up my cupcakes. “Do you think the client will want these or should I leave them here for the other listing just in case?”

She gave me a blank stare.

“What about my outfit?” I asked, looking down at my bright pink dress and khaki apron. “Do you think I should change into something else more appropriate before going there?”

“Miss Hawthorne?” She motioned for me to step closer.

“Yes?”

“Head to the interview now, before I call the client and tell him that you’ve asked more questions about your cupcakes than his children.”

I left without another word.