"I can't fucking stand you!" she screamed. "Get OUT of MY kitchen!"
"The feeling is mutual, honey, but I'm not going anywhere," he declared, egging her on.
"Vat tis the meaning ov dis...dis...velling?" the maitre'd asked in his thick accent as he burst into the kitchen from the front of the house. "Yous are dee-sturbing my guests!"
"Get that VILE man OUT of my kitchen and everything will be FINE!"
"I hate to tell you, sweetheart, but it's not YOUR kitchen," he said with a smirk as he continued delicately slicing the foie gras she'd had imported just this morning. "It's OUR kitchen."
"Ugh! I can't work like this!" she screamed, throwing her knife down onto the cutting board, then ripping off her chef's hat and tossing it into the sink. She turned and stormed towards the back exit.
"Vait!" yelled the maitre'd. "Yous can't leave! Dinner is avout to ve served!"
"Tell it to the Neanderthal," she said over her shoulder.
After pacing for several minutes, telling one of the waitresses about her kitchen woes, and downing a snifter of brandy courtesy of the bartender, she'd finally calmed down enough to creep back into the kitchen. She'd almost managed to return unnoticed, but apparently he'd been keeping an eye out for her, knowing she wouldn't abandon ship once she'd cooled down. "Ahhhh, the princess is back! Everyone stop what you're doing! We must bow and curtsey at once!" he yelled. He bowed properly, then chuckled, before returning to smoking the fingerling potatoes.
She calmly made her way over to his station, slamming her fist down on his cutting board. "You can cook tonight, but mark my words, you will NOT be in this kitchen before the week is out, do you hear me?"
"Yes ma'am, I hear you ma'am, me thanks you for letting me finish out da night," he said sarcastically before bursting into laughter once more.
"You won't be laughing when you're out of the job, buddy. I WILL be the ONLY head chef around here soon enough," she said before returning to her station.
"You don't have a prayer in hell, darlin'," he declared.
As the night wore on, the two chefs didn't talk to each other, but plenty was said. Elbows were thrown into his ribs, mashed potatoes seemed to keep making their way from his mixer into her hair...the rest of the staff did their best to stay out of the way.
Finally, the night was drawing to a close. The entire staff had gone home...except for the two stubborn chefs. Each was afraid they would somehow get screwed by the other one if they dared take a few hours to sleep. They sat in their respective corners, planning the next week's menu to present to the owner at the meeting first thing in the morning. She was also formulating another plan too, though...she was once and for all determined to rid that disgusting man from her kitchen. She should be THE head chef and not have to share the title with that silly, stupid, disgusting man. She'd had enough of sharing. She WOULD convince the restaurant owner that she deserved to run the kitchen on her own, she decided.
She was lost in her thoughts, thinking about what she'd say to the owner the next morning to persuade him, when the Neanderthal himself came over and sat down next to her. "So, whatchya got so far, honeypie?"
"Go back to your mud hole, you pig," she hissed.
"Put the claws back in for a sec, princess. What're you doing for the fourth course? Beef?"
"You'll see tomorrow morning at the meeting," she said, returning to her work.
"Ok, so you're doing beef...then I'd better plan for seafood," he said, making a note on his notepad.
"I did NOT say I was making beef!" she yelled, throwing her pen down.
"I bet $1 million dollars that you're making Kobe beef for the fourth course," he said as he made more notes.
"Don't you have somewhere to be? Someone waiting for you to come home and annoy them?"
"Nah, just an apartment in Soho. My cat doesn't care when I get home."
She rolled her eyes.
"So," he continued, "definitely beef for course four?"
"Ugh! You're impossible!"
"I'll take that as a yes," he said, jotting more notes.
She ripped his notebook out from underneath him and threw it across the kitchen. "Go fetch, doggy."
He stood up. "You're violent," he said, smirking. He turned his back to her and started walking towards his notepad, which was now laying on the floor.
"And you're an obnoxious pig!" she screamed, as she pulled a ladle off the utensil wall and hurled it at him. He bent over to pick up his notebook just in time to miss being hit with it. He quickly stood back up and looked back at her. She had a slotted spoon in her hand, ready to be thrown in his direction.
"Don't you dare!" he yelled, but it was too late. The spoon was already heading his way. Again, he ducked just in time to avoid being hit with it. "You crazy bitch!"
"I fucking hate you!"
"The feeling's mutual!"
Just then, something caught her eye. She turned her head to see his favorite stock pot sitting freshly washed near the sink. Every chef had a favorite piece of equipment and this was his...at least she had a bargaining chip to get rid of him even if it was only for a few hours. She slid over to it and picked it up.
"Don't you throw that pot! It'll get damaged!"
"I want you outta here!"
"Ain't gonna happen, sweetheart, so get over it...and put the pot down."
"Get out or the pot gets it!" she said, screaming like a lunatic, waving the pot in the air.
"Put MY pot down NOW!" he demanded.
"I will...as soon as YOU get out of MY kitchen!" He took a few steps towards her and she lifted the stock pot into the air. "STOP!"
He stood still on her command. "Put...my...pot...down."
