Stand up when the real chef walks in, dishwasher

Marco grabbed a plate off the pass, a butchered duck confit swimming in broken jus, and shoved it into my chest. Sauce splattered across my apron. “Taste that. Tell me what a peasant like you thinks.” The line went quiet. I looked down at the plate, then up at him, then past him, to table nine. The silver-haired woman set down her wineglass and stood. Marco followed my eyes. His smirk faltered. “Madame Reyes,” he stammered, smoothing his whites. “I didn’t see you come in—” “I’ve been here forty minutes, Marco. Watching.” She walked through the swinging doors into the kitchen like she owned the floor tiles, because she did. Her heels clicked once, twice, and stopped in front of me. “Chef Aubert. I’m sorry I’m late.” Marco’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. “Chef?” he whispered. Madame Reyes turned to him, slow as a closing door. “Camille Aubert. Two Michelin stars at Le Cinq before she was thirty. I asked her to spend six months observing the kitchen incognito before I decided whether to renew your contract or replace you.” She glanced at the duck on my apron. “I think she’s seen enough.” I untied the apron and folded it on the counter, neat as a napkin. “The jus broke because he’s reducing on a dirty pan,” I said quietly. “The duck is overcooked because he won’t let the meat rest. And the staff is terrified, which is why the plating is sloppy. I have nineteen pages of notes.” Marco reached for my arm. “Camille, please, we can talk—” “Don’t touch the new executive chef,” Madame Reyes said. Security was already at the door. As they walked Marco out the back, he turned and snapped his fingers at me one last time, desperate, pleading. I picked up a clean towel, wiped my hands, and finally smiled. “Stand up,” I told the line cooks softly. “Service starts over in ten.”