Devil's Food by Janice Weber

hose.
    Ward lunged for the dancing nozzle, finally managing to turn the water off. “He frightens easily,” she explained, tossing
     Emily a towel. “And he doesn’t speak much English. Klepp can translate the Russian if absolutely necessary.”
    “Klepp is Russian?”
    “No, Estonian. He hates Russians.”
    “Aha.” Emily’s drenched blouse adhered to her bra. “Have we missed anyone?”
    “No, that about does it. You’ll meet the waiters and waitresses soon enough.”
    “
Waitron
is the preferred term,” Chess called.
    A curvaceous young woman entered the kitchen. Her black halter set off, among other things, a golden tan and slender neck.
     She knew her face was attractive. “Good morning,” she called, sailing to the coffee machine. Those in her wake sensed a light,
     spicy perfume.
    “This is Lola,” Ward told Emily. “One of the wa—serving staff.”
    “It would be criminal to call a woman like that a waitron,” Klepp mused. “Good morning, love. Try to sell a lot of asparagus
     quiche for me today, would you?”
    Ward looked at her watch, “Take it away, Major,” She returned to the dining room.
    Except for the mutters of the dishwater and indefatigable chopping at the butcher block, the kitchen was silent for a few
     moments after Ward had left. It was not a sympathetic silence and for a tiny second, Emily foresaw disaster here, “Please
     go about your business,” she said finally. “Today I’ll just be observing.”
    Byron leaped into action. “You need an apron, honey.” He lowered his voice. “Come to the locker room.”
    Emily followed him out back, where the sous-chef removed a clean apron from a drawer. “Listen, sugar pie, this is the scoop,”
     he said. “You’re going to have trouble with Francesca. She’s a bitch. Yip Chick swam over from China. He’ll be all right if
     you let him steal an occasional side of beef. Mustapha burns about half the desserts he makes. Klepp is a homophobic maniac.
     And Slavomir is a walking vodka bottle. He occasionally tries to drown himself in the dishwater.”
    “Excellent,” Emily commented, tying her apron. “What about you?”
    “I’m perfect, darling.” Pausing in front of a wall mirror, Byron adjusted his coiffure. “Cooking’s just a sideline. I’m really
     an actor. People tell me I look like a blond Tom Cruise.”
    Emily tried not to laugh. Byron was at least fifty years old. “No kidding.”
    “I’m between soaps at the moment.” He admired his three-quarter profile in the mirror. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re the
     spitting image of Philippa Banks? Only your hair’s different.”
    Smiling blandly, Emily went to the door. “What about Ward?”
    “She’s working out some problems through weight lifting. Need I say more?”
    “No thank you. How about a tour of the premises?”
    Byron led Emily down a tiled hallway. “Where did you work before, Maje?”
    “Cafe Presto. Near Quincy Market.”
    “Oh! Is that the place that wins those awards all the time?”
    “Yes.’ Emily followed him into a cool, dark room smelling of earth and spices. She walked slowly past the well-stocked shelves,
     stopping in front of a crate of mushrooms. “Chanterelles,” she said, sniffing. “Where are they from?”
    “A monastery. The monks pick them in the woods and bring them here. Actually, only one brings them in. He’s quite cute. Much
     too cute to be a monk. Such a waste.”
    Emily eyed a small basket. “Peace Power Farm. Never heard of it. Where’s Hale, Massachusetts?”
    “Midstate, I think. They supply milk, butter, herbs, and the rankest goat cheese in creation. The delivery woman makes Ward
     look like a cream puff.”
    “When’s she coming in next?”
    “Monday. So is the monk.”
    Emily and Byron returned to the kitchen. Several of the serving staff had arrived and were chatting with Lola at the coffee
     machine. “New dictator,” Byron called, “Leo’s replacement.” They waved.
    Emily ambled to