“Help me.” I’m not asking. Not being polite. If they want to avoid me, fine, but they can’t avoid their work.
I show him how to dress the plates, praying we won’t have another confusion in the vein of the raisins versus prunes debacle, but I’m desperate enough that even Felix’s help is better than nothing. Together, we dress the plates, and since Makayla is busy running drinks from the bar since we are short on waitresses, I send him out with the food.
“But I’m a cook,” he argues.
“I’m aware, Felix. Tonight, you are a cook and a waiter. Just deliver the food and get back to the kitchen. It’s simple.”
Apparently, not simple enough, however. Five minutes after Felix delivers the food, Makayla rushes in and whispers in my ear. “Complaint at table ten. They want to see the chef.”
I groan.
