I love butter. Imagine being the person who created God’s greatest gift to mankind. I could kiss them for their discovery. With bread? Perfection. Melted onto a baked potato? Heaven sent. Or my personal favorite, baked into my famous chocolate chip cookies.
Now, you might be thinking it’s a chocolate chip cookie, they’re all the same. Wrong. Dead wrong. I might be known throughout the country for my ability to fix a Michelin star-seeking restaurant’s underperforming dessert program, but I wish one of these fancy restaurants would say “fuck it” and let me bake them a goddamn chocolate chip cookie for their menu.
They’d sell out. Every night.
But even if they’d let me fancy up a classic like that, that recipe is mine. I’ll lend out my creativity and my tips and techniques. Hell, I’ll even create an entire fresh and inspiring dessert menu for a restaurant that has a yearlong waitlist for a table. But the classic recipes, the ones I’ve honed for the last fifteen years, the ones that make your body melt into a sigh as soon as the sugar touches your tongue, reminding you of home, those are mine.
No one is asking for those recipes anyway. They aren’t what I’m known for.
But I’m fairly certain that the only thing I’m going to be known for is the mental breakdown I’m about to have in the middle of this Miami kitchen, simply because for the past three weeks, I haven’t been able to create a single new dessert.
“Montgomery,” one of the line cooks calls out. He, for some reason, doesn’t feel the need to call me by my title, so I haven’t concerned myself with learning his name. “Are you coming out with us after our shift tonight?”
I don’t honor him with eye contact as I clean up my workstation and pray that the soufflé in the oven makes it through without sinking. “I’m going to assume you forgot my title is Chef,” I say over my shoulder.
“Sweetie. You just bake cakes. I’m not calling you Chef.”
As if a record scratched, the entire kitchen goes silent, every prep cook freezing with their tools in hand.
It’s been a while since I’ve been disrespected in my profession. I’m young, and at twenty-five, it’s not easy to stand in a kitchen of adults, typically men, and tell them what they’re doing wrong. But over the last couple of years, I’ve earned a reputation, one that demands respect.
Three weeks ago, I won the James Beard Award, the highest honor in my industry, and since being named Outstanding Pastry Chef of the Year, my consultation services have been booked solid. I’m now sitting at a three- year-long list of kitchens I’ll be spending a season at, including this Miami stint, fixing their dessert programs and giving them a shot at earning themselves a Michelin star.
So yes, I’ve earned the title of Chef.
“You coming, Montgomery?” he starts again. “I’ll buy you a beer or something with an umbrella you’ll probably like. Something sweet and pink.”
How this guy isn’t picking up on the fact his co-workers are silently begging him to shut up is beyond me.
“I know something else sweet and pink that I wouldn’t mind a taste of.”
He’s only trying to get a rise out of me, to get the one woman working in the kitchen to snap, but he’s not worth my time. And luckily for him, my timer beeps, pulling my attention back to my work.
Opening the oven door, I’m greeted by blazing heat and yet another sunken soufflé.
The James Beard Award is only a piece of paper, but somehow, the weight of it has crushed me. I should be grateful and humbled that I won an award most chefs strive for their entire lives, but the only thing I’ve felt since winning is a crippling pressure that’s caused my mind to go blank, rendering me unable to create anything new.
I haven’t told anyone I’m struggling. I’m too embarrassed to admit it. All eyes are on me more than ever before and I’m flailing. But there will be no hiding in two months’ time when I’m featured on the cover of Food & Wine magazine’s fall edition, and I’m sure the only thing the article will have to say is how sad the critics are to see yet another new talent unable to live up to their potential.
I can’t do this anymore. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I can’t handle the pressure right now. It’s just a bit of burnout, a creative rut. Like writer’s block for a pastry chef. It’ll pass, but it sure as hell isn’t going to pass while I’m working in someone else’s kitchen with the expectation to teach others my craft.
With my back to the staff so they can’t see my newest fuck-up, I plop the soufflé ramekin on the counter, and as soon as I do, a hand lands on my waist, every hair on my neck standing up in alarm.
“You’ve got two more months here, Montgomery, and I know a good way to pass the time. A way to get the staff here to like you.” The line cook’s hot breath brushes the back of my neck.
“Get your hand off me,” I say coolly.
His fingertips dig into my waist, and they feel like my breaking point. I need to get away from this man and this kitchen. I need to get away from every kitchen.
“You’ve got to be lonely, traveling around the country the way you do. I bet you find a friend to keep you warm in that little van of yours in every city you visit.”
His palm slides down my lower back, heading towards my ass. I snatch his wrist, turning my body and kneeing him in the balls, hard and without a second of hesitation.
Instantly, he keels over in pain, a pathetic whimper escaping him. “I told you to get your fucking hand off me.”
The staff is silent, letting their co-worker’s cries echo off the stainless- steel appliances as he remains folded in half. Part of me wants to make some comment regarding how little his dick felt against my knee, but his actions made it obvious that he’s overcompensating already.
“Oh, come on,” I say, unbuttoning my chef’s coat. “Get off the ground.
You look pathetic.”
“Curtis.” Jared, the head chef, turns the corner in shock, staring down at his line cook. “You’re fired. Get the fuck up and get out of my kitchen.”
Curtis, as I’ve come to learn his name, keeps holding his balls and rolling around on the ground.
“Chef Montgomery.” Chef Jared turns to me. “I am so sorry for his behavior. That is completely unacceptable. I promise you, that’s not the kind of culture I’m cultivating here.”
“I think I’m done here.”
For a multitude of reasons, I’m done. The line cook who will never be hired in a high-end restaurant again was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back, but I know in my bones I won’t be any help to Chef Jared’s menu this summer.
And I sure as shit don’t need others to learn that I’m struggling. This industry is cut-throat, and the moment critics learn a high-end chef, let alone a James Beard recipient, is drowning, they’ll start to circle like vultures, blasting my name in every one of their food blogs, and I don’t need that attention right now.
Chef Jared cowers slightly, which is strange. The man is revered in the food world and is twice my age. “I completely understand. I’ll make sure you’re paid out for the entire contract, including the next two months.”
“No. No need to do that.” I shake his hand. “I’m just going to go.”
Curtis is still on the floor, so I offer him a simple middle finger as I make my exit because yes, I’m an awarded pastry chef who sometimes still acts like a child.
As if my inability to do my job wasn’t suffocating enough, the moment I’m outside, the late June humidity chokes me. I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to spend my summer working in a South Florida kitchen.
Quickly hopping into my van parked in the employee lot, I crank the AC to full blast. I love this van. It’s completely renovated inside and out with a fresh coat of deep green paint on the exterior and my own little kitchen on the inside.
I live in it while I travel the country for work, hair down and without a care in the world. Then when I get to my destinations, I turn on work-mode and spend the following months with my tattoos covered, being referred to as “Chef” for ten hours of my day.
It’s the weird juxtaposition that I call my life.
And if we’re being honest, it’s not exactly what I saw myself doing. I had once dreamt of running my own bakery, making all my famous cookies, bars, and cakes that I had baked for my dad while growing up. But I was lucky enough to be plucked fresh out of school to train under one of the best pastry chefs in Paris, followed by another internship in New York City.
My career took off from there.
Now, it’s bite-sized tarts, mousses most people can’t pronounce, and sorbets that we all like to pretend are more fulfilling than ice cream. And
though there are parts of the high-end world that feel pretentious and ridiculous, I’m grateful this is where life has taken me.
My career is impressive. I know this. I’ve worked endless hours to be impressive, to reach these borderline unattainable goals. But now that I’ve achieved most of them, I’m floating without direction, looking for the next checkmark to chase.
And that’s exactly what my chaotic mind has reminded me over the past three weeks. I either maintain success or quickly take my spin through the ever-revolving door that names the newest and hottest chef in the industry.
With my mind reeling, I merge onto the highway headed towards my dad’s hotel just as my agent calls.
I answer on the Bluetooth. “Hi, Violet.”
“What the hell did that little prick do that made you, of all people, quit a job early? Chef Jared called me to apologize and tried to forward three months’ pay for you.”
“Don’t accept that check,” I tell her. “Yes, his employee is a raging douche, but the truth is, I wouldn’t have been any help to him this summer anyway.”
She pauses on the line. “Miller, what’s going on?”
Violet has been my agent for the past three years, and though I don’t have many friends due to my hectic lifestyle, I’d consider her one of them. She manages my schedule and lines up my interviews. Anyone who wants to write about me in their food blog or have me consult on their menu must go through her first.
And though there are very few people I can be honest with about what I’m dealing with, she’s one of them.
“Vi, you might kill me, but I think I’m going to take the rest of the summer off.”
If the Miami highway wasn’t so fucking loud, you’d be able to hear a pin drop.
“Why?” Her tone is frantic. “You have the biggest job of your career in the fall. You have the cover booked for Food & Wine magazine. Please don’t tell me you’re backing out of that.”
“No. God no. I’m still doing it and I’ll be in Los Angeles by the time my next job starts, I just . . .” Shit, how do I tell her that her highest-paid client is losing it? “Violet, I haven’t been able to create a new dessert in three weeks.”
“You mean you haven’t had the time?” she assumes. “Because if you’re needing more time to perfect the recipes for the article, I could understand that.”
“No. I mean I haven’t made something that didn’t fall apart in the process or burn to shit in the oven. It’d be comical how bad I am at my job if I weren’t on the brink of a mental breakdown because of it.”
She laughs. “You’re fucking with me, right?”
“Violet, a five-year-old with an Easy Bake Oven could make a better dessert than me right now.”
The line goes silent once again. “Violet, you still there?”
“I’m processing.”
Taking the exit for my dad’s hotel, I wait for her to speak.
“Okay,” she says, calming herself. “Okay, this is fine. Everything’s fine. You’re going to take the next two months to breathe, gather yourself, and get out to Luna’s by September first.”
Luna’s is Chef Maven’s restaurant that I’ll be consulting at in the fall. Maven did a seminar while I was in culinary school, and I’ve been dying for my chance to work with her, but she left the industry shortly after we met. She became a mother, then came back into the food world by opening a restaurant named after her daughter and asked me to come help with her dessert menu. The interview for Food & Wine magazine will be taking place in her kitchen in Los Angeles, and I couldn’t be more excited for the opportunity.
At least, I was excited until everything turned to shit.
“You’ll be at Luna’s by September first, right, Miller?” Violet asks when I don’t respond.
“I’ll be there.”
“Okay,” she exhales. “I can sell this. You’re celebrating your new award by spending the summer with family and you’re looking forward to being back in the kitchen in September. God, the blogs and critics are going to be up my ass about this, wondering where the hell you are. Are you sure your dad isn’t sick? I could spin that.”
“Jesus, Violet,” I laugh in disbelief. “He’s perfectly fine, thank God.” “Good. That man is too beautiful to be dying so young.” Finally Violet
laughs through the receiver. “Gross. I gotta go.”
“Tell Daddy Montgomery I said hello.” “Yeah, I won’t be doing that. Bye, Vi.”
The Windy City Warriors, Chicago’s professional baseball team, have been in town for a couple of days. My dad has been the field manager, which is essentially the head coach, for the past five years. Before that, he worked with their minor league team after being snatched up from our local college back in Colorado.
Emmett Montgomery rose through the baseball ranks quickly. As he deserved to. He was already on the fast track to making a name for himself in the sport when everything changed for us. He gave up everything to become my dad, including his thriving career, refusing to leave his local coaching job until I graduated from high school and was off doing my own thing.
He’s one of the good ones. In fact, I’d argue he’s the very best.
It’s been just the two of us most of my life and, though you’d think I left home at eighteen to spread my wings, I really did it so he could. I knew then, just as I know now, that the moment I stop moving, he’ll tie himself to whatever city I settle in to be close to me. So, for his sake, I haven’t stopped running since I left home at eighteen, and I have no plans to. He’s given up everything for me. The least I can do is make sure he doesn’t give up any more.
I stop at a convenience store, grabbing a couple of Coronas, one for me and one for him, before trading my kitchen pants and non-slip shoes for a pair of cutoff overalls and flip-flops. I peel off my long-sleeved shirt, replace my septum ring to its rightful home, and take the furthest parking spot from the entrance to the stunning hotel my dad is staying at.
Even after watching him coach in the majors for the past five years, I still can’t get over seeing him like this. We never had fancy or expensive things growing up. He didn’t make a lot of money being a college coach, and he was only twenty-five when he became my dad. In a lot of ways, we grew up together.
He fed me mac and cheese from the box more nights than not because he wasn’t the most proficient in the kitchen. Which is why, when I was old enough to, I took over in that department, learning to cook and finding my love for baking. I lit up whenever I impressed him with a new recipe, which, let’s be honest, was every single time. He’s easily my biggest fan.
But seeing him here, thriving, doing what he loves most and being so good at it that he’s already got a World Series ring, makes me infinitely proud of how well he’s done without me around.
I want to make him equally as proud, especially after everything he sacrificed for me, and I have the opportunity to. After being one of the youngest recipients of the James Beard Award, I’ve been booked for an eight-page spread in Food & Wine magazine, including the cover and three brand-new featured recipes that I can’t find the inspiration to create. All happening in two short months when I get to LA for my next project.
No pressure, whatsoever.
I twist the cap off one of the beers to swallow down the sky-high expectations I put on myself as the elevator opens on the lobby floor. The two men inside don’t get off, so I slide in between them.
The one to my left has a head of light brown hair and what seems like the inability to keep his jaw from hanging open.
“Hi,” he says, and I don’t know what it is about him, but I can almost guarantee this guy plays for my dad. He’s somewhat tall, athletic build, and looks freshly fucked.
My dad’s roster tends to be equally as invested in the women they take home from the field as they are in the game itself.
“Get off the elevator, Isaiah,” the man to my right says, and while yes, they’re both objectively good-looking, this one is offensively attractive.
He’s got a backwards hat on, dark-rimmed glasses, and a toddler in his arms with a matching cap for goodness’ sake. I try my hardest not to look too closely, but I can see the dark hair spilling out around the edges, ice- blue eyes framed by those glasses. Scruff slopes over his jawline, screaming “older man,” and that alone is my kryptonite.
Then you add the cute-ass kid he’s got slung on his hip and he’s almost begging to be drooled over.
“Bye,” the man to my left says as he gets off the elevator, leaving me to ride with the two cute boys to my right.
“Floor,” I ask, taking a swig of my beer as I press the number for my dad’s room.
There’s not a chance in hell he didn’t hear me, but still, Baby Daddy doesn’t respond.
“Should I just guess?” I ask. “I can press them all if you’d like and we could take a nice long elevator ride together?”
He doesn’t laugh or even crack a smile which is a red flag if you ask me. His little boy reaches for me, and I’ve never been one to fawn over kids,
but this one is especially cute. He’s happy, and after the morning I’ve had, a toddler smiling at me like I’m the greatest thing to ever exist is surprisingly what I need.
His cheeks are so chubby that his eyes almost disappear from his beaming grin as his dad continues to ignore me, pressing his floor number himself.
Well, okay then. This should be fun.
The longest elevator ride of my life has me concluding that the gorgeous man I rode with has a giant stick up his ass. And when I make it to my dad’s room and knock, I couldn’t be more thankful that our brief encounter is over.
“What are you doing here?” my dad asks, his face lighting up. “I thought I wasn’t going to get to see you again this trip?”
I hold up both beer bottles in faux excitement, one empty, one still full. “I quit my job!”
He eyes me with concern, widening the opening into his room. “Why don’t you come in and tell me why you’re drinking at 9 a.m.”
“We’re drinking,” I correct.
He chuckles. “You seem like you might need that second one more than me, Millie.”
Crossing the room, I take a seat on the couch. “What’s going on?” he asks.
“I suck at my job. I don’t even enjoy baking right now because I’m so bad at it. When have you ever heard me say I don’t enjoy baking?”
He holds his hands up. “You don’t have to justify it to me. I want you to be happy and if that job wasn’t making you happy, then I’m glad you quit.”
I knew he’d say that. And I know when I tell him that my new summer plans consist of driving around the country and living out of my van to get some fresh air and a fresh perspective, he’ll say he’s happy for me even though there will be concern laced in his tone. But I’m not fazed by his concern. What I’m worried about seeing is disappointment.
In the twenty years he’s been my dad, he’s never once shown it so I’m not sure why I constantly look for it. But I’d work my ass off and stay in
every miserable kitchen for the rest of my life if it meant I could avoid disappointing him.
I’m self-aware enough to know that I have an innate need to be the best at whatever checkmark or goal I’m chasing. Right now, I’m not the best and I don’t want to give anyone the opportunity to watch me fail. Especially him. He’s why I strive for perfection in my career, which is a stark contrast to the wild, unattached, and go-with-the-flow attitude I have towards my personal life.
“Are you done for good?” he asks.
“Oh, God no. I’m taking the summer to get my groove back. I’ll be back and better than before. I just need space without prying eyes to get it together, and to give myself a little break.”
His eyes lighten with excitement. “So, where are you spending this summer break?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve got two months and my next job is in LA. Maybe I’ll take my time driving to the West Coast and see some sights along the way. Practice in my kitchen on wheels.”
“Live out of your van.”
“Yes, Dad,” I chuckle. “Live out of my van and try to figure out why every dessert I attempt to create since I won that fucking award has been a complete and utter disaster.”
“Every dessert is not a disaster. Everything you’ve made me is phenomenal. You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Basic cookies and cakes are different. It’s the creative stuff that’s giving me a hard time.”
“Well, maybe it’s the creative stuff that’s the problem. Maybe you need to go back to the basics.”
He’s not in the food world the way I am so he doesn’t understand that a chocolate chip cookie isn’t going to cut it.
“You know,” he starts. “You could come spend the summer in Chicago with me.”
“Why? You’ll be on the road half of the time for work, and when you’re home, you’ll be at the field.”
“Come on the road with me. We haven’t been in the same place for more than a few days since you were eighteen and I miss my girl.”
I haven’t had a holiday, weekend, or more than a single evening free in seven years. I’ve been endlessly working, killing myself in the kitchen, and
even tonight, my dad’s team has a game in town. It never dawned on me to take the night off to go watch.
“Dad—”
“I’m not above begging, Miller. Your old man needs some quality time.” “I just spent three weeks in a kitchen full of dudes, one of whom was
practically begging me to file a sexual harassment complaint with HR. The last thing I want is to spend my summer around another team full of men.”
He leans forward, tatted arms propped on his knees, eyes wide. “Excuse me?”
“I handled it.”
“Handled it how, exactly?”
“With a swift knee to the balls.” I take a casual sip of my beer. “Just how you taught me.”
He shakes his head with a small laugh. “I never taught you that, you little psycho, but I wish I had. And now I’m even more adamant about you coming on the road with me. You know my guys aren’t like that.”
“Dad, I was planning . . .” My words die on my tongue when I look up at him across the couch. Sad and pleading eyes, tired even. “Are you lonely in Chicago?”
“I’m not going to answer that. Of course, I miss you, but I want you to come hang out with me for a couple of months because you miss me too. Not because you feel obligated to.”
I don’t feel obligated. Not in that regard, at least. But everything I do, in some way, is an attempt to erase the guilt I have towards our situation. To repay a debt he paid by giving up his entire life for me when he was only twenty-five years old.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss him too. It’s why I ensure all my jobs overlap with his travel. I pick kitchens in big cities with MLB teams that my dad will be coming through for work. So of course, I miss him.
A summer with my old man does sound nice, and if having me nearby for a bit will make him happy, it’s the least I could do after everything he’s done for me.
Except there’s one problem.
“There’s no way upper management would allow that,” I remind him. “No one on the team or staff is allowed to have family members with them while they travel.”
“There is one family member who’s allowed to travel with the team this season.” A sly smile slides across his lips. “I have an idea.”
