“Cut the meat across the grain,” he’d told her. The bitch didn’t listen. He hated having to train new kitchen help. Sure, they’d all been to cooking school. Some of them had been to the best schools in the country: Johnson & Wales, or the Culinary Fucking Institute for Christ-sake!
They still didn’t know a goddamn thing about food preparation, he reflected sadly as he finished rinsing and wiping down the bone-saw.
And did they ever listen to the top chef? Hell, no! Yet their incompetence served a purpose they would never fully appreciate.
His restaurant had a five-fucking-star rating with the local paper’s food critic for three years running. His meat slicing skills were top notch. And his highly talented methods of preparing steak were well known far and wide, making his restaurant the most popular steak joint in the city.
He’d lost count of the number of times people complimented him on his meat dishes, which they said were so different than anything they’d ever tasted before.
Jock walked over and closed the meat locker door, smiling to himself.
As he left the restaurant, he placed the cardboard “Help Wanted” sign back in the window.
He hoped tomorrow would bring yet another prime applicant for the job.