Username: SilhouetteStation
Name: Rosalinda Macintosh
Gender: Female
this is her story.
- - - -
Rosalinda Macintosh is not the sort of woman you'd like to mess with.
She had always been very strong-willed, and fiercely proud of her Spanish and Scottish heritage. She was proud of where she came from, and she was proud of the boundless drive that seemed imbedded deep within her soul. People who knew her knew that, when she wanted to do something, she did it. There was no force strong enough to stop her from getting what she wanted. Like a dog on a hunt, once she had her teeth stuck in to something, she would never let go.
She grew up in a quaint town, full of warm cobblestone and the smell of fresh bread from her mother's bakery. Her father worked at the farm that delivered their fresh ingredients, which Rosalinda and her mother would handcraft into delicious baking.
"You must knead with strong hands, yes?” her mother would say. “Like this. You work the dough. You shape it how you want.”
“Yes, Mama,” she would reply, narrowing her eyes and pushing the dough with the heel of her palm. Even as a child in those days, she was strong.
“It is like your future, yes?” her mother would continue. “You make it how you want to be. You don't let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Yes, Mama.”
From there, her passion for food only grew. As she became older, her mother let her help more around the bakery. She was allowed to make her own creations, her own delicate pastry delights; much to the joy of their customers. “You have a real knack for it, you know?” they would say. “A real natural.”
In her teenage years, she began to branch out from there. Sampling the local cuisine, making notes of flavor combinations she liked, and creating her own recipes. She began making dinner for her parents once, twice, three times a week to test them out. Of course there were a few mistakes, but those were firmly scribbled out of her notebook, and replaced with something better.
As time went on, she blossomed into a beautiful young woman, one filled with passion and drive and an unshakable love for food. Her parents saw this determination in her and, although it was a big change, encouraged her to travel away to culinary school. It was a strange notion, leaving the small town she called her home, but in her heart she knew it was right.
She packed her bags, said a fond farewell to the townspeople who had become her family, and began her adventure.
Culinary school was tough, but she was tougher. Her teachers were impressed by her knowledge of food and techniques, and said that with skills like hers, she would most certainly go places. She enjoyed the praise, but what she enjoyed more was the learning. She soaked up every ounce of knowledge like a sponge, and wasn't satisfied until she knew everything there was to know about certain dishes and produce. Some students found her intimidating – 'the small town girl with the big attitude' – but she couldn't have cared less.
One day, she was offered a job.
It wasn't a big job, just helping out part time in one of the local restaurants, but she snatched it up in a second despite never having worked in a proper kitchen. It was very different from being in her mother's bakery, where the atmosphere was warm and there was always a lovely smell drifting out from the oven. No, restaurant kitchens were not like that. They were white and steel, full of people jostling around each other, and the sound of the head chef yelling overhead. Rosalinda saw the way they commanded the crew, and how they obeyed, and how they all strove to produce nothing but perfection for their diners; and suddenly, in that moment, she saw her future laid out for her.
She worked hard, harder than she ever had in her life.
She was like a machine, the way she prepped and cleaned and danced her way around everyone else, and they began to notice her more than they had when she started. The head chef especially began to notice, and that's how part time became full time. There was never a moment when she got flustered, or made a mistake, or panicked over something going wrong. Someone had once asked her how she kept her cool, and she'd given them a hard look. “Shouting and panic get's people no where. Bad environment, bad results. You keep your head down, you do your job, and if something goes wrong, you fix it. Simple as that.”
Every night she would drag herself home, exhausted, and collapse on to her bed with a big sigh. But whenever her parents called, she would laugh. “I am happy here,” she would say. “They push me to do better, and I hope I do the same for them. I am tired, but I am happy.”
She spent a year working in that kitchen, and one day her hard work and dedication was rewarded. She was called in to the boss's office, and was greeted by him and another man wearing an expensive looking suit. Each shook her hand warmly, and she realized that this must be good news.
“There's going to be some changes around here,” the boss said happily. “We shall be going into partnership with this gentleman here, to help expand the business. And as you know, our head chef is also leaving us, with leads me to the question...would you like to take up that position?”
She felt as though all her dreams had come true. Everyone she'd worked for, all her years of schooling, the year of working in this kitchen, had all led to this. But she'd kept her composure, as she was known for, and gave him a smile. “Sir, I would be delighted to accept this opportunity.”
Her parents were ecstatic when she rang them later that night to tell them the news. Even going into work the following day, she was greeted merrily by her coworkers who seemed just as pleased that she was taking over as head chef. They all agreed that, despite her not working there as long as some, she had definitely proven herself. For a short time, Rosalinda felt on top of the world.
But, just like with cooking, things don't always go to plan.
Because the man they had gone into partnership, they realized too late, was not an honest man. In fact he was a very sly and cunning man, who worked for his own sly and cunning boss. And in the blink of an eye and a flourish of forged signatures, the restaurant was whipped out from beneath them, and taken away. The workers could only watch in despair as the jobs they loved, that they'd worked so hard for, had disappeared for in the blink of an eye. And what for? Some lousy chain restaurant.
Their boss was distraught, as to be expected, but it seemed Rosalinda was the one most fired up.
“That rat!” she hissed. “That horrible, sleazy, lowlife rat!” Many other words were spat out from her mouth, but none that she would ever say in front of her parents. From there it seemed many things began to spiral down. Many of the workers struggled to find new work in this hard business, including Rosalinda herself. Each restaurant that said they weren't looking for work felt like her feet were being kicked out from beneath her. For many months she tried, and for many months she failed. Her parents worried for her, but she assured them that she was fine, that she would keep going.
Eventually, her money began to run out.
One day she could no longer pay rent, and so she had to leave her apartment.
She found another small flat, hardly bigger than a box, but it was all she could afford with the little earnings she had left. And in this small, dingy house, she began to lose herself.
She felt the passion she'd always felt towards food begin to leave her, like drips from a leaky tap, slowly emptying her body and leaving her a hollow shell. More days than not she found herself curled up on the tatty old couch, letting silent tears slide down her face and into her lap. Her parents would send her money now and then to help pay, and she was grateful for it, but she felt as though she couldn't move back home. Couldn't face them. I've failed, she thought. I've failed.
Seconds ticked by, and for a moment, her foggy brain suddenly cleared. A slow burning began in the pit of her stomach, like a fire rekindled, and her fingers clenched. Into the bathroom she marched, slamming the door as she did so, and she stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red rimmed, her hair needed a wash, and her cheeks were more gaunt than she'd seen them. But there was a fierce light in her eyes as she glared at her reflection, as though daring herself to say those words again.
“I do not fail,” she whispered aloud, her voice filled with anger. “I do not give up. I am a fighter, and I will fight to take back what is mine.” The burning sensation flared up stronger. “That rat might have taken the restaurant, but he will not take me.”
The job hunt began again, and each step she took was filled with renewed determination. She began taking cooking lessons down at the community center to refuel her love for food. And, as much as she hated to admit it, her skills had become a little rusty. Despite a few wobbles, the instructor was impressed. “You're a natural,” they said, and she simply nodded. This she already knew.
Two more weeks went by, and a job opened up in another local restaurant. The position was only for a dishwasher, but she snapped it up in a second. She wouldn't let another opportunity slip away.
And so she found herself repeating a part of her history; back where she had first began in this industry, back to scraping plates and cleaning cutlery. She was reminded quite bluntly of how it felt to work at the lowest end of the pile; quite literally, at the bottom of the foodchain. How the other employees seemed not to notice her most of the time, and treated her as though she was a kind of maid. This is a tough business, she told herself. You know that. And you know you're better than this.
These words she repeated to herself day in and day out, week after week, all the while having her hands submerged in soapy water while dishes continually piled up beside her. Sometimes she felt as though she was getting nowhere, while other times she felt on the edge of another breakthrough. Neither side seemed to win and for awhile she stayed as she was until one day, in both the heat of the moment and the kitchen, she snapped.
“Stop it!” she snapped at the chefs, who had been arguing for the last half hour as they'd jostled and stumbled around each other, creating a chaotic atmosphere in the kitchen. They'd been so surprised by her outburst, words failed them for a second, and she took the opportunity to continue. “I don't care that it's a busy night! You should be used to it, this is how a restaurant works! You go to your stations, you do your jobs, you deliver good food, you go home happy. If something goes wrong, you fix it. If you need help, you ask. You don't blame each other and fight like a pack of dogs!” Her eyes were burning with an emotion they'd never seen in her before, and without thinking, she added, “Back in my restaurant, we never would have accepted behavior like this!”
The whole kitchen was quiet. She could hear her own breathing, which was slightly ragged and seemed too loud now. They all seemed to be staring at something behind her, and so she turned, only to feel her stomach sink. The boss stared back at her with a level gaze, and without a word gave a little nod for her to follow. Keeping her head held high, she followed. After a few seconds of uncertainty, quiet murmurs began from the kitchen again. “Did she say she had a restaurant?” she heard someone whisper.
Sat in the boss's office, anxiety began creeping into her mind. The last time she'd been called in like this, she'd thought everything was finally coming together. This time, she wasn't so sure. On the outside she remained calm, but inside, she was preparing herself for more disappointment. The boss looked at her from over the rim of their glasses, sitting back in their seat behind the desk.
“Tell me,” they said.
She blinked. “What would you like me to tell you?”
“Everything.”
And so she did. She told them about where she grew up, about her parents, the bakery, her love for food. Culinary school, and what it had meant to her, and how it gave her the first job. Working her way up, like she was now, and how she'd been so close to living her dream...and how it had been taken away. They listened in silence as she talked, nodding occasionally, their expression never changing. When she finished they still did not speak, looking deep in thought.
“Cook for me,” they finally said. “Once the restaurant is closed.”
“What would you like me to make?”
“Anything you'd like.”
As she trudged back down to the busy kitchen, she idly wondered whether or not they'd remember. The other employees looked up as she reentered, but didn't say anything. She noticed that they were considerably less hectic than before. Maybe her words had done some good after all. Throughout the rest of her shift she thought hard on what to make, what techniques she could use, what she thought would impress them. But in the end, she realized none of that would help her. Good food came from the heart, not from trying to impress people. Without passion, food just wasn't the same.
Later that night the time came, when the customers left and the doors were shut, and the kitchen emptied and she was left standing alone facing the boss. “Are you ready?” they asked. She nodded. “I always have been.”
They stood back to give her space, lingering in the doorway. She noticed that the other employees hadn't gone far, and she could hear them whispering out in the corridor. For the moment she ignored them; she had more important things to do. Her mother had taught her long ago that simple was often the best way to go, and today she followed her advice. While she moved around the kitchen, she couldn't help but revel in the feeling of being back here; it was like being home again.
The dish she served up was elegant, but simple. “Pumpkin and ricotta ravioli,” she presented it to them. Pasta was one of the first things her mother taught her to make. Simple ingredients can produce magic, she would say. You just have to respect them.
By now the other staff weren't bothering to hide themselves, and were all crowded around the bench looking at the plate. All she was focused on was the boss, and their reaction. She watched them pick up the fork, take some of the pasta, and pop it into their mouth. They chewed slowly. Everyone else stared at them, waiting for their reaction. For a few seconds they said nothing. And then, they smiled.
Things moved rather quickly from there. She was promoted on the spot to become a chef, which she'd been extremely grateful for. A small part of her longed for more, but for the moment, she was content in this job. She'd only kept this position for a short while before the boss dropped some news on her; “We have a new restaurant opening in France,” he told her, “and I'd like you to be head chef over there.” Moving to a new country was a daunting prospect, and made her dizzy at her thought. But with her parents encouragement and the boss's firm belief, she took the chance.
She spent a year working in the French kitchen. Before moving over she'd taught herself basic French, but was fluent within a few months. It was a necessity to run a place like this smoothly. For the most part, she found that she was happy. Once again she was running the staff, creating delicious food, and following her life's passion. But there were times at night, when she was laying in bed, that her mind drifted back to the man that had stolen her first chance. The slow burning would return, like her stomach was full of hot embers, ready for the flame to be provoked back to life. Try as she might, she couldn't shake the desire to hurt him back; to get her revenge. For her, and for all of her old friends.
She tried to push this feeling aside, and focus on the present. When she moved back her parents were overjoyed at her return, and was greeted warmly by the boss. She'd hardly been back a month when they called her in to his office again. They asked about her time in France, and listened intently as she spoke of how wonderful the experience had been. “The food, the people, the atmosphere,” she told them. “Everything was brilliant. I loved it very much.” They would nod, and seemed pleased at her responses, but she could tell there was something else they wanted to speak to her about.
When she asked, they nodded. “Yes, there is something else,” they said. “We're looking to expand the business, and open up another restaurant. I'd like you to run it.”
It had taken her a moment to fully understand what they'd said. “The whole thing?”
“Yes.”
“Not head chef? You want me to run – the whole thing?”
“Yes,” they repeated. “You've more than proven you're capable. I trust you, and I want you in charge of one of my restaurants.”
She was stunned into silence.
Things became a blur again. Research of locations, scouting for areas, constantly checking to see what was for sale, trying to find the perfect place. They narrowed it down to a few, but still couldn't seem to decide, like something was holding them back. She was in the office one day, looking over blueprints again, when the boss came in with some news. “We have another possibility,” they announced. “Not exactly on the market yet, but the inside word is that their profits have gone way down in the last couple of years, and that they'll probably sell for the right price.”
They handed her a piece of paper with the details, and she idly heard them talking in the background. She couldn't hear them. Her eyes were stuck at the top of the page, on the address.
She read it.
She read it again.
She looked at the picture of the building.
Her building.
“Rosalinda?” The boss's voice broke her thoughts. “Are you okay?”
Her insides burned. “This one,” she said, hardly above a whisper. “This is the one.” The flame flared up, searing and cackling with both laughter and cheer. Finally, she thought. Finally I can get my revenge.
And what a sick kind of happiness she felt when the deal went through and she went with her boss to the new building; her old building. Her old opportunity, stolen and tainted, now cleansed with her fire and reborn anew; her new opportunity. To add to her twisted joy, the rat had been there, and his face had drained of color when he saw her. Clearly, he remembered. It also seemed that his own boss had sold this place from beneath him without his knowledge, which Rosalinda wasn't surprised about. These weren't nice people. He should have seen it coming.
And so, after all of her hard work, she finally had what she wanted. The flame, which had consumed her for so long, mellowed down and returned to being her usual fiery spirit. She invited her parents to the opening night, and they had wept for her struggles, and for her new beginning. “We always knew you could do it,” they said. “You never give up.”
This she already knew.
She also knew, after all that had happened, that revenge was not supposed to be cold. The burning within her had not been cold, but hot, fueling her desire to take back what had once been hers. No, revenge was a dish best served with customer satisfaction guaranteed.
