Turn up the Heat

round belly that stretched his short-sleeved white kitchen shirt. His graying hair curled around his hairline. Santos was Javier’s opposite, weighing half what his relative did and, at six feet, towering above him. While Javier was loud and garrulous, Santos was horribly shy and barely said a word unless spoken to.
    “Hola, Chloe! ¿Cómo estás?" Javier called above the din of rushing water.
    “Estoy bien, señor.” I’d been trying to learn Spanish with the help of an online Spanish tutorial and had amassed a collection of travel phrases. “Dónde está un buen restaurante?” I asked with a smile. Where is a good restaurant?
    “You are funny, señorita.” Javier bellowed his wonderful laugh.
    “All right, señorita.” Josh smiled and shook his head at my Spanish. “I’ll be back in a minute. Check the walk-in. Isabelle might be there.”
    I waved to Javier and Santos and went to look for Isabelle. After searching the walk-in refrigerator, where the perishable food was kept, I went to the dining room to see if I’d missed her there. Isabelle was near the bar, bagging table linens and aprons for the cleaners to pick up. I was happy to see her doing so well here, by which I don't just mean that she was competent at bagging linens. Josh said she was a good employee and that although she’d never worked in a kitchen before, she was becoming a good prep cook. Whatever Josh taught her, she picked up quickly. In some ways, Josh told me, he preferred working with people without kitchen experience because he could teach them to cook the way he liked and didn’t have to break them of bad habits.
    Isabelle smiled when she saw me. “I heard you were here tonight, Chloe. It’s so good to see you. Guess what? Josh is going to teach me how to cut and debone fish tomorrow!” she said excitedly, her short black curls bouncing as she spoke. Like all new employees, Isabelle had been paying her dues in the kitchen by performing the most tedious of tasks, like peeling gallons of potatoes, so each time Josh taught her a new skill, it was a reward for her good performance.
    “That’s great. I’m so happy this job is working out for you. How is your apartment?” Isabelle had recently found a three-bedroom apartment that she shared with five other girls. In spite of the cramped quarters, she’d been totally giddy at the prospect of moving into a real place rather than living in social service housing in Cambridge.
    “I love it! You wouldn’t believe how cool my roommates are! One of them works at this TV station and...” Isabelle launched into details about the other girls. I listened to her happily describe her new life and new friends. The only time she paused for breath was when Simmer’s owner, Gavin, passed by. I was pretty sure I detected a nervous blush color her cheeks. But who wouldn’t have a crush on Gavin? He was young, handsome, wealthy, hardworking, and successful: the perfect catch. But Isabelle was only nineteen, whereas Gavin was in his midthirties, so I suspected that her crush would remain just that. Furthermore, Gavin already had Leandra. I talked with Isabelle for a bit while she finished with the laundry and then started to help clean the bar.
    The general manager, Wade, nodded his appreciation to Isabelle. “Thanks for your help, Isabelle. We got killed tonight.” His black T-shirt clung to his muscular chest and arms, and a simple silver chain peeked out from under his shirt. He had this weird Ryan Cabrera hair thing going on—lots of long gelled strands puffed out from his head— and he had his usual few days’ growth of facial hair. I’d have put money on it that he spent more time in front of a mirror than I did.
    “How was your dinner tonight, Chloe?” Wade asked as he began going through a mountain of receipts.
    “Excellent, as always.”
    “Good. Josh made us all something to eat before the dinner rush. Did you have that new scallop entrée? God, that was good. Your boy has got talent. I can definitely say that.”
    “I did, and I agree. I loved it.”
    Kevin, one of the bartenders, began cleaning out the taps. I couldn’t help but think what a crappy job it was to clean up at the end of the night. These guys had just spent hours serving wealthy customers and hobnobbing with Boston’s young and elite, and here they were dumping backwash out of glasses and mopping liquor off the rubber mats that lined the floor behind the bar.
    “Wade, could you grab me more tequila,