They Cut My Help, I Showed Them Proof

I'd worked as the private chef for the Whitcombe family for eight solid years, and Mrs. Athena Whitcombe, the matriarch, swore by my cooking. She wouldn't eat anyone else's. But Sabine, the eldest grandson's new wife, had only been in the family for three days when she dismissed my two kitchen assistants. Suddenly, I was stuck doing everything alone: grocery shopping, washing produce, chopping ingredients, cooking every dish, washing everything afterward, and even submitting monthly cost reports. Sure enough, the patriarch, Mr. Ambrose Whitmore, complained that his fish was overcooked and rubbery, while Mrs. Whitcombe said her soup was far too salty. As if that wasn't bad enough, Sabine docked 30 percent of my performance bonus because of those complaints. I didn't say a word. I simply turned around, rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, and pulled out the delivery receipts. The next second, Sabine stared at them in shock and burst into tears, bitterly regretting her mistake. ***** Mr. Whitcombe, was a retired deputy secretary, a senior civil service position that carried considerable prestige. He was also a real stickler for details. I was only twenty-two when I got the job eight years earlier. On the day of my interview, Mr. Whitcombe told me to make trout amandine, a classic French dish. After I finished cooking, he took one bite, set down his fork, and simply said, "She's the one." I found out later that I was the seventh chef they'd interviewed. The first six candidates included executive chefs from five-star hotels and classically trained French chefs brought in from Paris, but the patriarch had rejected every one of them. I didn't have any fancy credentials to my name. I just loved cooking. I'd learned to make French cuisine from my grandmother when I was little. Grandma always said cooking is all about precision. Cook something one degree too hot or one minute too long, and the meat turns tough. Use too little heat or time, and it's raw. Add even a fraction of an ounce too much seasoning, and it's too salty. A fraction of an ounce too little, and it's flat. I'd lived by those words for twenty years. After I started working for the Whitcombes, I had only one job every single day: cook. I'd wake up at 6 a.m. and head to the same seafood market I always visited to pick up the wild river trout Mr. Whitmore preferred. I'd be back in the kitchen by 8 a.m. to start preparing the ingredients. At 11 a.m., I'd serve lunch to Mrs. Whitcombe. At 3 p.m., I'd prepare afternoon tea for Mr. Whitcombe. At 5 p.m., I'd cook dinner for the whole family. I had two kitchen assistants back then. One handled the grocery runs and washed the produce. The other chopped ingredients and washed the dishes. All I had to do was stand in front of the stove and cook. For eight whole years, I never once ruined a meal for the Whitcombe family. Whenever Mr. Whitcombe came home from a fancy business banquet, he'd always say the same thing. "Romilly's cooking still hits the spot better than anything else." My name is Romilly Sayer, and no compliment meant more to me than that one. When Mrs. Whitcombe's bridge friends came over to play, they'd taste my lavender tea cake and insist on packing a whole box to take home with them. I thought I'd be working for the Whitcombe family for the rest of my life. That all changed last autumn, when the family's eldest grandson, Stellan Whitcombe, got married. His new wife was Sabine. She had a master's degree, had studied abroad, and had worked at an investment bank for two years. She took over management of the household just three days after the wedding. Stellan's mother, Corinne Wycliffe-Whitcombe, made the announcement in front of the whole family. "Sabine graduated from a top university, so she's more than capable of sorting out our household expenses. You're getting on in years, Mom. You don't need to worry about this stuff anymore." Mrs. Whitcombe didn't say a word. She glanced at Sabine and nodded in agreement. I was preparing ingredients in the kitchen when the staff passed the news along, and I felt a little jolt of unease in my gut. But I never imagined that her changes would eventually reach my department. During Sabine's first week managing the household budget, she announced that she was going to "optimize catering expenses." She told the butler to compile all the ingredient purchase lists and kitchen staffing costs and hand them over to her. ***** Three days later, she called me to the study room on the first floor. The study was huge. Sabine sat behind the desk in a soft cashmere sweater, her hair pulled into a neat, sleek bun. She was beautiful, and she spoke in a soft, gentle voice. "Ms. Sayer, you've worked here for eight years. Thank you for all your hard work." "It's just my job." She clicked her mouse and turned the computer screen toward me. An Excel spreadsheet filled the display. "I ran the numbers. The Whitcombe family spends $28,000 a month on catering. Of that, $15,000 goes toward ingredients, $9,000 toward kitchen staff wages, and the remaining $4,000 toward miscellaneous costs." I stared at the screen but didn't say anything. "I compared our expenses with those of other households of the same size, and ours are quite a bit higher than average." She looked at me and smiled politely. "I'm looking to trim things down a little." "What kind of cuts are we talking about?" "I'm planning to let go of the two kitchen assistants, Orson Pike and Tobin March. From now on, you'll be in charge of everything in the kitchen by yourself. "Grocery shopping, washing produce, preparing ingredients, cooking, washing dishes, and cleaning the entire kitchen. You'll handle all of it." I froze. "By myself? Three full meals a day? Plus the afternoon snacks?" "Exactly." She nodded. "I crunched the numbers. You spend less than four hours a day cooking at the stove. The assistants handle the rest of the work. "If you take over their tasks, that's only four extra hours of work a day." "Ms. Harcourt, preparation takes much more time than you think. Cutting the vegetables for a single terrine can take half an hour by itself." "Ms. Sayer," she cut me off sharply. "This isn't a request for your input." I immediately clamped my mouth shut. Sabine slid a printed document across the desk toward me. "This goes into effect next Monday. "One more thing. From now on, you need to submit a cost report at the end of every month. List the ingredients and labor cost for each meal." I picked up the document. My fingers felt a little cold. "Ms. Harcourt, I only know how to cook. I don't know how to make reports like that." "I'll teach you. It's easy. All you have to do is put together a simple Excel sheet." I didn't say another word. When I walked out of the study, I paused in the hallway for a minute. For the first time in eight years, I realized that the job I'd had for so long might not be one I could keep doing.