Free White Jacket Required by Jenna Weber Page A

glad I’d packed a gingerbread cookie in my purse for later because I had a feeling I would need it. The cookie was from my favorite bakery in Tampa; I had picked up a few when I went home last weekend, and had hoarded them like gold ever since. The thick, spicy cookie was one of the best I had ever eaten, and though I’d tried numerous times, I had never been able to make my own as well as the bakery could.
    Around 9 p.m. the restaurant was still jam-packed. In an effort to please Tony, I had thrown myself into making absolutely sure the Greens had a wonderful dining experience; I had even stopped to chat at several other tables. Tony was in the back, shouting at the line cooks. He had sweat dripping off his bright red face and was throwing his hands around violently. I stood up at the hostess stand, sneaking bites of gingerbread cookie from my purse, and smiled to myself. Despite Tony and his crazy mannerisms, I still loved the intense atmosphere of the restaurant.
    A few of the cooks knew I was going to LCB, and one was even in my program. They had questioned me early on as to why I didn’t want to work in the kitchen with them, why I’d settled for a lowly front-of-house position. I just smiled and said it was temporary and this was what worked with my schedule. The real reason, though, was that the idea of working in the kitchen scared the heck out me. Working in a classroom kitchen under a chef-instructor’s supervision was one thing, but the thought of working on the line, making people’s dinners as quickly as I could, made me want to crawl into a hole and hide. I suppose that’s why I went into my program with the firm knowledge that I wanted to write about food rather than cook it. Writing was safe. I could hide behind my laptop and dodge the grease, the yelling, and the pressure that the kitchen brought every night. When you worked on the line, it almost seemed like you were on the front lines every single day. My quiet, conservative demeanor didn’t seem to fit with the back of the house, and I was fine with that, though it was always a topic of conversation with my peers at school.
    â€œWeber! What are you doing just standing there?” Suddenly Tony was behind me, and I could feel his hot breath on the back of neck.
    â€œI just got through booking some new Christmas Eve reservations,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œI hired you to work, not just to stand there and look pretty,” he replied. “If you don’t have anything to do, you can go help Jason clear some tables. If you haven’t noticed, we’re slammed.” Tony’s voice offered no room for discussion, and I gritted my teeth and smiled.
    â€œSure,” I said. I left the stand and made my rounds, picking up napkins, stacking dirty plates, and gathering silverware. Laura had been allowed to go home early, so it was just me now. I glanced at my watch and checked my phone for text messages. Finally, an hour later, the last of the tables was leaving and I wandered to the back, looking for a manager to ask if I could head out for the evening. As I walked back to the office, I heard laughter coming from the kitchen and glanced up to see Tony with his son on his shoulders, joking with the chef. The little boy was all smiles and was hugging Tony’s neck for dear life.
    So maybe he does have a soft side , I thought to myself. Laura had said that more than anything Tony loved kids, and that’s why Roy’s was so child friendly. We kept a big cabinet full of toys, games, and pillows up front near the hostess stand, and I had seen Tony playing with the children before. It was as if kids were the crack in his “mean-guy” façade, and I had to admit, he wasn’t so intimidating with a cute little boy on his back.
    Tony saw me standing near the office and called over to me. “How’d it go, Weber?” he asked in a much friendlier voice than before.
    I