They Cut My Help, I Showed Them Proof

Chapter 3

But Sabine didn't stop shaking things up. During the second week, she introduced a new rule: Every ingredient for the kitchen had to be bought exclusively through one approved grocery delivery service.

I told her plainly that the wild river trout Mr. Whitcombe wanted and the fresh gulf shrimp Mrs. Whitcombe preferred weren't available through that service.

"Use substitutes." Her reply was sharp and unapologetic, leaving no room for negotiation.

"Mr. Whitcombe has an extremely discerning palate. He'll taste the difference immediately if we switch the ingredients."

"They'll get used to it eventually. Just give them time."

Sabine's tone was completely flat. There was no room for argument.

I couldn't refuse her. I ended up ordering farmed trout and frozen shrimp from the service.

That day, when the steamed trout reached the table, Mr. Whitcombe took one tiny bite and immediately set down his fork, his face clouding over.

"This isn't a wild trout," he said without hesitation.

Stellan jumped in to smooth things over. "Grandpa, it is trout. Maybe it was just prepared a little differently today."

"I've been eating trout my whole life, and you're trying to tell me this is the real thing?" He slammed his fork against the table with a loud clatter, rattling the plates.

Corinne hurried to chime in. "Dad, the kitchen is making some adjustments right now. Everything will be back to normal in a couple of days."

"Adjustments, my foot! A perfectly good meal was ruined because of your so-called adjustments."

Mrs. Whitcombe didn't say a word. She chewed slowly for a few moments, then set down her fork as well. She glanced at Sabine. Sabine stared down at her food, taking bite after bite without saying a single word.

That dinner ended on a sour note, with everyone frustrated and leaving the table in silence. I was in the kitchen listening to the commotion outside, squeezing my spatula so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

That night, Sabine sent the butler to deliver a message. "Ms. Sayer, grandma said tonight's dinner was unacceptable. Starting next month, your performance bonus will be cut by thirty percent."

I didn't say a word.

My performance bonus made up a third of my monthly salary. A thirty percent cut meant that I'd lose more than $1,000 every month. I wanted to yell that none of this was my fault, but who could I even say that to?

Tell Sabine? She was the one who'd made the ridiculous rule in the first place. Tell Mrs. Whitcombe? All she cared about was whether the food tasted good. She didn't give a damn how many people were working in the kitchen to make it happen.

I used to live by a simple rule: as long as your cooking is exceptional, no one can touch you. It turned out that I was dead wrong. Whether the food turned out well wasn't entirely up to the cook.

*****

The next day, I went to find Sabine. "Ms. Harcourt, can you transfer Orson back? I really can't handle all this work by myself."

She sat in the study and didn't even bother looking up from what she was doing.

"Labor costs are fixed. If we bring Orson back, we'll have to cut staff somewhere else. Do you want the other departments to be short-handed?"

"Then at least let me buy the ingredients myself."

"No. Our purchasing channels have to be unified. How else are we supposed to control costs?"

I stood in the doorway. My throat felt tight, and I couldn't get a single word out.

Finally, she lifted her head and glanced at me. "Ms. Sayer, I know you're working hard, but the Whitcombe family isn't a charity. Our expenses are much too high. We have to cut back.

"You've been here a long time. You should understand."

Understand? What exactly was I supposed to understand?

Was I supposed to understand that she was cutting costs so aggressively that the whole family had to eat bland, cafeteria-quality food?

Was I supposed to understand that she had cut my pay by thirty percent and expected me to thank her for it?

I didn't say another word. I just turned around and walked out. When I returned to the kitchen, I sat in front of the stove and stared at the recipe notes taped to the wall.

I'd put them up eight years ago, when I first started working there. They were covered in scribbles, with red and blue ink marking exact cooking times and ingredient ratios.

Trout amandine: heat the oil to 325 degrees Fahrenheit, or until a wooden spoon dipped into it sizzles immediately, then fry twice.

Lavender tea cake: reduce the oven to medium heat after preheating, then bake for twelve minutes.

Steamed trout: place it in the steamer once the water boils, turn off the heat after eight minutes, then let it sit covered for two minutes.

Every single word was written in my own hand. But none of it mattered anymore.

The fish wasn't the same fish, the water wasn't the same water, and even I wasn't the same cook who used to stand at this stove with nothing else on my mind but the food I was making.

I suddenly remembered what my grandmother used to tell me.

"Cooking isn't something you can rush, and it isn't something you can do carelessly."

I stared at the stovetop and zoned out for ages.

*****

That evening, Stellan's younger sister, Delphine, came into the kitchen to get a glass of water. She spotted me scrubbing pots alone, leaned against the door frame, and spoke up.

"Romilly, did you do something to get on my sister-in-law's bad side?"

"No, not that I know of."

"Then why is she picking on you specifically? I heard from the butler that she's planning to lay off two more people from the garden and garage staff."

I kept my mouth shut.

After Delphine left, I finished scrubbing the pot, wiped down the stovetop, and turned off the lights. But just as I stepped over the kitchen threshold, I froze.

'Wait a second.'

Had Delphine just said that Sabine was cutting staff in other departments too?

I turned around, switched the kitchen light back on, and opened the pantry cabinet. Inside were the purchasing records from the past two years.

They weren't the polished Excel spreadsheets Sabine demanded these days, but my handwritten delivery receipts. Every ingredient purchase was logged there, including the date, vendor, and cost.

I flipped through a few pages, and a sharp thought suddenly occurred to me.

'Maybe I should look through these receipts.'