Free Pretty in Ink by Lindsey Palmer Page B

column in the food section is all, and we want you to oversee it.”
    I clutch at a paring knife and begin aggressively mincing a clove of garlic. “So Rhee will pitch me ideas and then I’ll give the yay or nay?”
    Victoria shakes her head. “More like, she’ll share whatever trend she’s spotted in her niche of the culinary world or she’ll cook up new recipes, then you’ll test them out to make sure they work.”
    “So I’ll be her assistant?” I ask.
    “I wouldn’t describe it that way.”
    “Of course you wouldn’t.” I steady my hand, still wielding the knife. “Victoria, I appreciate your stopping by. I’m going to get back to the weeknight dinners story, if you don’t mind.”
    “Sure,” she says. “I’m glad we’re on the same page here.” On her way out Victoria’s hair swings behind her, the unnatural tint of cherry food coloring.

    “What in the hell is this?” I slap Mimi’s latest memo down on Abby’s desk.
    “Would you like me to read it aloud to you?” The managing editor smirks. I think she secretly enjoys my griping.
    I read: “ ‘Starting tomorrow, Hers employees will set the example at Schmidt & Delancey of what it means to look polished and professional. To that end, we will no longer wear shorts and we will limit our donning of denim to Fridays.’ ” I look up at Abby. “ ‘Donning of denim’—is she serious? ”
    “The point is, Mimi would like to dress up the office a bit.”
    “No shit.” I keep reading: “ ‘The ladies will make an effort with our hair and makeup, and wear high heels on a daily basis. If we choose to wear flats during our commutes, we will change into our heels before we enter the building.’ Um, I haven’t owned a pair of high heels since 1989.”
    “Would you like me to take you shopping? We can slip out to Barneys at lunch.” I don’t laugh at what must be a joke.
    “Abby, our dictator in chief is pretty much mandating the shortening of our calf muscles and deterioration of our knees. Plus she’s increasing the risk of falls. Does she really want to deal with a lawsuit when someone takes a face-plant in her stilettos and breaks a bone?”
    “Debbie, I know you’re upset, but the truth is, Mimi has a right to instate a dress code.”
    “What’s next—she’ll require Ed to wear a tux to deliver the mail?”
    “Listen, why don’t you just keep a pair of comfortable wedges on hand and change into them when you come down to the office or visit the cafeteria? Use your company card for the shoe purchase; you can expense it.”
    “Ugh, how come you’re always so goddamned reasonable?” I storm out of Abby’s office, clutching the offensive memo.
    Back upstairs, I have an idea. I search through my back issues of Professional Chef, certain that what I’m looking for appeared sometime in 2011. I flip to the fall issue, and freeze: The cover features Eileen Houtt, my partner and closest friend from back in culinary school; her big smile is familiar, only a bit crinkled with age and with an added dash of smugness. The coverline reads: “Houtt Commodity: Chicago’s most inventive chef makes a splash with chic new seafood restaurant.” I roll my eyes and toss it aside, then turn to the winter issue, where I find the story I want.
    “Excuse me, she’s busy,” Laura says as I breeze by her cubicle and march into Mimi’s office. I slap the Professional Chef article down on her desk.
    “Jesus Christ, what is this?” Mimi wails. I forgot just how gruesome the story’s images are. The burned, mangled foot looks like it belongs to some freakish monster, and the bruises span the colors of a painter’s palette.
    “What this is,” I say, “is a story about people who wore improper footwear in the kitchen and then suffered the consequences: boiling Alfredo sauce splashed on the foot of a chef in open-toed shoes, and a prep cook who wore fashion boots, slipped on spilled olive oil, and fell flat on her back. She’s probably now