Where the Ocean Begins

This story is about a Spanish chef trying to prove that she is talented enough to succeed in a competitive culinary environment. It was a school assignment, and I am super proud with how it turned out. Let me know your thoughts!

Where the Ocean Begins

By Misha Agostinelli

From a block away, she discovers the dishes being designed. As she walks down the street, the intoxicating smell fills her lungs while the sound of music and chatter filters through broad, beautiful double doors. She is getting closer now, walking calmly up the steps and savoring her last moment of harmony before striding into an ocean of blissful chaos. Breaking through the barrier, she finds herself in a vast room, people converge at tables discussing their troubles while others dance around them fulfilling their desires. Dodging the crowds, she makes her way to the back of the chamber. It is quiet there, the noise barely reaching her straining ears. she takes a step forward. The floor below her transitions from luscious red carpets to gleaming silver tile. She looks up. The flicker of fire dances before her eyes. This is what it feels like to be in ​La Mesa Cubana.​ This is what it feels like for Isabella Montenegro every time she steps through the door.

It was a luminous night in the depths of Madrid, the glow of the city lighting up the deserted streets. However, inside ​La Mesa Cubana,​ people are abuzz with conversation. Isabella, who is a line chef at the restaurant, chops vegetables in the corner of the kitchen. She seems to be lost in her dreams, thoughtlessly adding vegetables into a big pot. Waiters spiral in and out of the doors around her while chefs rapidly whip-up meals. The steady drone of water rushing out of the faucet fills her ears. She is concentrating, honing in on one goal, and not paying attention to the whirl of action closing in on her. Footsteps clomp toward Isabella. The clang of boots against the tile floor echoes throughout the kitchen. Everyone in the kitchen stops what they are doing. Heads turn. The water stops. A shape casts over Isabella as she slowly turns around to face the man in front of her. He smiles coolly, the shadow from his chef’s hat looming over Isabella.

“Will you tell me what you are making?”, he says ominously, his words booming in the quiet room. A moment passes. Silence. Isabella glances down at her shoes, then looks up, seeming to have regained her composure.

“I was just trying out a new recipe, Chef Torres,” Isabella replies, trying to break through the stiff, quiet air.

“You can try out new recipes on your own time,” the Chef answers indignantly, stalking back through the room full of staring cooks. He opens the door to the kitchen about to start into the restaurant ahead.

“But sir, if you would just try what I was making?”, Isabella asks, “Maybe we could offer the dish as a special tonight?”. He stops at the doorway, his foot in mid-stride. As he looks back, a smile glints in the back of his mouth. The Chef strides back to Isabella. She opens the pot and stirs the thick soup that rests inside. The Chef’s smirk falters and his eyes squint.

“I’m not serving that to a guest Isabella. You know my standards,” the Chef sighs, pacing haltingly across the room. He heads out the door pausing for only a moment before crossing the threshold.

“You may pack up your supplies, Chef Montenegro.”, the Chef announces, disappearing through the doorway and leaving behind a wake of startled chefs.

A month later Isabella strolls through the airport determined to give her recipe justice. She has packed her things and is lugging two suitcases behind her. She boards the plane and takes her seat.

Two Hours later, Isabella arrives at her destination: Paris, France. She determinedly walks off the plane and out of the airport, booking it to her hotel room. When she enters, music is playing quietly from a speaker on the dresser. Unpacking her things quickly, Isabella peers into her tiny kitchenette and prepares to cook. Isabella turns up the music, losing herself as she creates a delicious meal.

The front of Isabella's hotel is dreary and bland. She steps out the door, a container clutched in her hand. She walks up the street and pauses in front of big, boastful double doors to contain her writhing nerves. She slips into the restaurant and makes her way to the hostess stand. A slim, dark-haired woman smiles at her from behind the stand and speaks: “Hello, Is this a party of one?”

“Actually, I was wondering if I could speak to Chef Alarie?” Isabella requests, looking hopefully at the woman. Her nerves are squirming in her stomach.

“Of Course!” the woman replies, gesturing at the kitchen doors, “He ought to be right in there.” Isabella nods and heads to the kitchen doors, debating if she should just give up and go home. Pushing through the door, she steps into the kitchen and heads straight to a tall man in a white chef's hat.

“Hello, Mr. Alarie.” Isabella swallows down her nervousness. “I was wondering if I could cook something for you? I am a Chef.”

“What is your name?” the Chef replies skeptically.

“Isabella Montenegro. I used to work at ​La Mesa Cubana ​in Madrid.” Isabella answers, silently wishing that the Chef would say yes.

“Fine. I'll give you ten minutes.” Chef Alarie responds curtly. He walks away and steps into his office, which is located on the far side of the room. `Isabella heads to the counter and pulls the container out of her bag. Grabbing a small bowl, she opens the lid of the canister and pours the thick soup out and into the bowl. She adds a garnish and sprinkles some spices on top. Just as she is about to finish, there is a call from Chef Alarie’s office.

“Times up,” he announces, stepping out the door and into the kitchen. There is a smirk spreading across his face. Isabella sighs and hands the dish to him. Chef Alarie takes one glance at the soup and grimaces. He hands it back to Isabella.

“Nice try, but I would never serve that at an actual restaurant,” he remarks, striding nonchalantly across the room and slamming his office door. Isabella looks startled at the obvious display of revulsion.

Why won't anybody even try the dish?​ Isabella thinks, but she does not say it. After all, Chef Alarie is one of the most famous Chefs in Europe! Isabella sulks out the door, her head lost in the clouds, which are pouring down thoughts of embarrassment and hopelessness. She walks back to her hotel room in a daze, not bothering to look where she is going. She opens her Hotel room door and plops onto her bed, miserable as ever. Looking out the window, she sees the rain drenching the street outside.

The smell of coffee slips through the curtains that lead into the kitchen. The warmth of the oven fills the room, and the sweet scent of freshly baked bread comes with it. Isabella pours coffee into a small mug and hands it to a customer, smiling while she does it. The morning air outside is chilly, but inside the coffee shop, it feels pleasant and nice. A woman slides through the door, carrying a large bag on her shoulder. She spots Isabella at the cash register and hustles over.

“Hey Isabella!” the woman exclaims, putting her bag down on the counter and hugging Isabella.

“Hey, Sofia!” Isabella replies, “How is the restaurant?”

“Oh! It is great! Although I just came to tell you Chef Torres resigned yesterday.” Sofia blurts out. She looks flushed like she came all the way across the city to inform Isabella.

“What?! Why?” Isabella inquires, confusion spreading over her features.

“I don't know, I think maybe family issues. But it doesn't matter because the restaurant needs to hire a new chef! And guess what?” Sofia is talking so fast, she doesn't even wait for Isabella to answer. Instead, she blurts out, “The manager wants to try your soup!”

“Wait, What?” Isabella almost shouts, earning her a sideways look from another cashier, “When do I go?’

“Now, if you can get out of work,” Sofia responds. Isabella smiles and steps to the side, conversing with the other cashier. She nods and slips off her apron. In less than a minute, she is out the door with Sofia right on her heels. They rush across the street, laughing and talking the whole way. When they reach the restaurant, Sofia runs inside while Isabella stops in front staring up at the sign. A cold breeze rips through the city, making her shiver. Isabella gathers herself and heads for the entryway. Isabella rushes past the rows of empty tables that are being prepared for the night's festivities, scooches past waiters, who are setting up, and halts suddenly at the kitchen door. This is where the ocean begins, not at the front doors. This is where everything is designed. This is where the intoxicating smell drifts from. This is where everything is quiet. The calm before the storm. She breaks through the barriers and marches into the spinning, whirling hurricane before her. The kitchen is hectic, with every line chef frantically chopping vegetables and stirring soups in preparation for the upcoming night. Isabella walks slowly toward her destination, the stove in the back corner of the room. She grabs a pot from a rack and turns up the heat. A touch of salt and a dash of pepper. The sound of a knife hitting a wooden cutting board and the splash as water tumbles out of the faucet. A crowd gathers around her while she cooks, but Isabella doesn't even realize it. Her hands are in a frenzied state, zipping from one thing to another, but her mind is light-years away. She pours the soup into a small bowl and garnishes it with a leaf of basil. She steps back, her work completed. The kitchen is silent, but this time not in concern, but in awe. A woman in a suit pushes through the crowd, making her way to Isabella and the dish. She leans forward and takes a bite. There is no expression on her face, not disgust or revulsion. Not desire or pleasure. Nothing. Isabella's heart beats fast in her chest and her palms start to sweat. Finally, after a long moment, the manager simply says

“It’s good. You may unpack your belongings. You start tomorrow.”

Isabella smiles and walks out of the kitchen. The ocean calms, its clear. blue waters stretch in an endless expanse of opportunity.