2025-02-14 - New Chef, Who Dis?

Dinner service is still hours away, which means it's the calm before the storm. There's always an element of controlled chaos, but in this moment everyone is at their station and aside for the usual sounds of a professional kitchen, it's fairly quiet. The pâtissier has no doubt been here the longest so far, but it looks like there's a full contigent of chefs on the line, which means the kitchen is pretty full.

Front of house is pretty empty, conversely. There are a couple of cleaners doing some last touches to make sure the dining rooms are tidy - no doubt it takes a lot of work with the sheer volume of things that ring the rooms, like some eccentric museum was raided for the decor - but the real source of activity at the Château is in the back.

And Cedric could be in the tiny, cramped office off to the side right now, working through administrative work. He could be. But that's boring, so he's prepping vegetables, knife in hand. His eyes are focused, downcast, but every once in a while he glances up around himself before returning to the work at hand.

Emerson arrived on the island yesterday and was given a room at the resort for his first night while they sorted out his actual apartment situation. But his first day to report to the kitchen was today, for dinner service, on a Friday. Nothing says diving in head first like starting your first day on a Friday, not to mention Valentine's day. But here he is, dressed in the requested attire for working in the kitchen with comfortable non-skid shoes. He comes in, brought back by one of the hostesses who gestures toward Cedric and then says to the Head Chef. "Fresh meat," with a flash of a smile before she's off again to return to her duties.

"Thank you Nina," Cedric calls out to the departing hostess, without looking up from the cutting board. The accent places him as being from somewhere in England, and definitely not the posh parts. He pushes the pile of diced onions he's been working on to the side and looks to his left, and a quick five-second conversation with another chef has them taking over. Then he's stepping away, wiping his hands on a rag that he sets aside, and now Emerson has Cedric's full and undivided attention.

Which amounts to a quick up-and-down, a nod, and a "Good," probably in regards to Emerson's chef whites, before Cedric's beckoning him to follow straight back out into the front, and over to one of the tables. He pulls out a chair and gestures for Emerson to do the same. "So, welcome. Settling in alright? Need anything? Have they put you up somewhere nice, at least?"

Emerson takes the inspection in stride, familiar with that surveying look. And when he seems to meet with approval, he follows after Cedric into the front and when a chair is motioned to, he takes the one opposite and pulls it out, settling into it comfortably. "Thank you," he says to the welcome, giving a quick nod to the question of whether he's settling in alright. "They've got me at the hotel while my apartment situation is sorted out," he says. "Room's nice. Comfortable. Think I'm all set until I need to move in. Just living out of a suitcase in the meantime." He smiles, though, not seeming to find any of that particularly troublesome. "Can't beat the commute." It's all of a ten minute ferry ride from the hotel. It'll be longer from Crescent Island.

"Sorry, I should - I'm Cedric Williams. Nice to meet you." He laughs it off, raising his hand to sweep it through his hair. "I realize I know some about you, and probably you know nothing about me." With a push of his palms he's rocking up on the back two legs of his chair, only to immediately drop down once he's done it. He does not wince, but it's a near thing.

Then he blows out a breath. "Right. First go at leading a kitchen, for me. But we'll make it work. Do you have any questions for me, before I take you back and give you the full introduction?"

"Emerson McKenna," he introduces himself in return with a smile and says, "Your name. That's about it." At least he's honest. And when Cedric admits that it's his first time leading a kitchen, he smiles and says, "Well, it's not my first time being a line cook so, I'll try not to make it more work for you than it needs to be," good-naturedly.

He looks thoughtful about whether he has any questions or not. "I guess, what's your vision? Like, why this place in particular and what do you hope to do with it? I applied because I dig the spooky aesthetic. I worked in a nice place up on Mackinack but it closed and I needed to find someplace to land and working a theme park seemed like an opportunity that doesn't come around every day. And I figured starting new with someone else who was also starting new would be pretty cool."

Cedric nods to the name; he's at least familiar with it, having been given some information ahead of time. But nothing beats real interaction. "Cheers to that," he says, when Emerson shares some of his own background, and saying he won't make more work for him.

He leans forward against the table, one arm slung along it. "Well, this is a proper château, isn't it? Looking to bring some French inspiration in. Spent some time working in Marseille with a real prick of a chef but he did teach me all the fundamentals. Then I worked on a yacht in the Med a while for this guy who wanted some really crazy stuff, which was fun. I want to try to, y'know, bring the two together. Do something fun. Not stuffy old French," Cedric waves a hand, "Whatever. People already do that, like, well."

Then, his hand still extended, he points at a cabinet filled with daggers and other sharp implements. Locked, thankfully. Also probably cursed. "Like, that? Nobody's doing that in the business. That's wild."

"After school, I did some traveling abroad and worked in Ireland at a place some distant relatives ran, nearly two hundred years old now. Great little place. Great people. Then I was in Portugal for a while. Beautiful coast. Had a great experience there working at a little place in a tourist town. Met a lot of interesting folks. Then Italy before I returned here. Tuscany was everything it was rumored to be. And I got to spend some time in some beautiful vineyards learning a lot about wine that I'm sure I've forgotten, but it was an experience I'll never forget," Emerson grins. "Getting to do that couple of years just traveling and getting experience in different places was fantastic. Cannot recommend enough."

He looks over to the cabinet filled with daggers and says, "Leaving the cutlery out in the open? No, can't say as I've seen many places that do that," with an amused little smile. But then a little more seriously he says, "This whole place is fascinating. And everywhere you look there's some other little detail."

"It's mental is what it is, and I love that." Cedric looks at the cabinet for a second or two longer before his attention snaps back to Emerson, and he leans forward a little, against the table. His eyebrows go up as Ireland is mentioned, but it's not until Italy that he interjects with an, "Oh yeah? Tuscany? Nice. I worked on Sardinia for a while, couldn't pick up the language for shit but the beaches were mint."

He nods along, not interrupting again as Emerson rounds up his background and the topic shifts back to the cabinet, which Cedric looks at again, this time just a glance. "Yeah. Dunno who did the decorating but," he clicks his tongue in approval. "That's the rundown. Today is going to be... something. Let's get you introduced and up to speed, sounds right?" Then he's up on his feet, gesturing back to the hallway that'll lead them to the kitchen.

"Me either," Emerson says with a shake of his head. "I can only speak a little of my own Irish and a smattering of French, mostly from culinary school. But I retained absolutely no Portuguese or Italian, sadly. Even after months working there. I suppose I can say a couple of things, but some of them are not repeatable in polite company." He has no accent, himself. He probably means the fact that his family is Irish. He's very much American, with a very neutral midwest sort of tonality.

He takes another moment or two to just take in the room that they're sitting in, from the decor to the table linens to the place settings that are around them. Then he nods to Cedric and rises from his seat along with him, ready to head back into the kitchen. "Sounds good," he agrees. "I'm ready." He may or may not be ready, but half of confidence is saying it til you believe it.

Off they go, then. Cedric leads the way back to the kitchen, through the swinging door and returns to the controlled chaos of it all.

"Excuse me chefs," he calls out, and gradually the noise all comes to a stop. No more whirring of immersion blenders or rattling of spoons, no whisks, no knives chopping. Cedric steps aside and nods to Emerson. "This is Emerson McKenna, he's our new line chef, say hello please."

A chorus of "hello"s rings out from down the line.

He turns on his heel back to Emerson and says, "Let me show you to your station, chef."

Emerson follows Cedric back to the kitchen and stands just a little off to one side and behind him as the room falls into silence. He gives a little nod and smile of greeting to those gathered. "Hello," he says in response. "Looking forward to working with you all."

Having worked the grill and being familiar with the proper grilling of meats, veg, and seafood, he falls easily into place as the Grillardin, ready to prepare things to the perfect temperatures and consistency to please every request. Though please don't make him weep and ask for well-done meat. Travesty.

He follows Cedric over and takes inventory of what is present and the position of the station in relation to everything else in the room.