Would love to get some thoughts on this initial part of a story I'm woking on:
One without the Other
Elizabeth pushed through the double-acting doors to find Simon and Praveen squabbling in front of the entire staff, who were frozen at their workstations, pretending not to listen.
“You’re a disgrace to the profession, Simon,” Praveen snapped. “This isn’t a scullery. You see this? This is a Turbofan E32D5. It’s a Moffat, a six-thousand-dollar piece of machinery. I had to beg Elizabeth to let me buy it. And look, hardly three months in, and there are signs of early oxidation. You, sir, are a perfect example of why we can’t have nice things. I haven’t the slightest idea what Elizabeth sees in you, but here we are. Can you at least pretend to respect what I do?”
“Ha!” Simon snorted indignantly. “That,” he pointed to the Turbofan, “is not oxidation. I can get it clean in a heartbeat. And Lisbeth hired me because I have the vision to push culinary boundaries. To create something new. You—”
“That is oxidation, Simon,” Praveen cut him off. “Otherwise, it would have come off when I tried to clean it five minutes ago. This is what I’m talking about. Where’s your attention to detail? You’re the only CDC I’ve met who treats his workspace like an art studio.”
“What about you? Making madeleines and canelés and acting like you’re in a science lab!”
“Cooking is chemistry, Simon,” Praveen said, trying to keep himself composed.
“No, Praveen. Baking is chemistry. You follow a recipe, you get a result. Congratulations. Cooking? That’s craft,” Simon shot back.
Neither of them had noticed Elizabeth, their culinary director and boss, standing in the doorway. This was the second time this month she’d walked in on them bickering. The restaurant sommelier—with whom Elizabeth was having an affair—had reported at least four more altercations between them. The spats may well have become daily episodes.
Three weeks earlier, a fire in the adjacent building had damaged part of the wall in the upstairs kitchen. This meant that both her chef de cuisine and pâtissier were to share one workspace during emergency renovations. Elizabeth expected there would be a few contretemps, but nothing like what had transpired.
“Boys! Enough!” Her words cut through the room, instantly stopping the argument. “It’s getting rather tired, don’t you think, all this quarreling? Hmm?”
Both men looked like they’d been caught with their hands in the biscuit tin.
“You both deserve to be here,” Elizabeth said, taking off her coat and slinging it over her arm. She took a few moments to look around before returning her gaze to Simon and Praveen. “A lot more thought went into your hiring than either of you realizes. And to think: the men I’ve put in charge are constantly squabbling like children. What does that say about my judgment, huh? Did you think about that? I have bosses too, you know. And I promise you, if changes have to be made, you’ll both be replaced. I’ll see to it personally. So don’t even think about pulling me aside to poison me on the other. I’m sorry about the space squeeze. I know it’s not ideal, but the work upstairs is temporary. Two weeks. Three at the most, and you can have your kitchen back, Praveen. But until then, you’ll share this space, and the fighting needs to stop. We’re going to figure out how to do that today. Understood?”
Simon, who’d retreated to the cold station and was practically standing behind his garde-manger, nodded and said, “Okay.”
Praveen, stationed behind a speed rack looking at Elizabeth through freshly baked croissants, also nodded, muttering, “Agreed. Yes. Let’s.”
“Splendid. Now, I’m going to fix myself a cappuccino and meet you in the dining room in ten minutes. Everyone else, please get back to work. Oh, and Praveen, bring a few of those madeleines, would you? I happen to have it on good authority that Simon has described eating them as biting into a cloud.”