“Oh my god!” someone cries out in Spanish. “The stove is on fire.”
Fuck. Seriously?
“Why is it hooked up?” I call out, also in Spanish as I walk briskly toward the kitchen. “And can someone turn off the fucking alarm and laser light show?”
“Laser light show?” the designer questions.
“The lights.” I point up at the strobes.
“Oh.” She laughs. “I think you might want to get the stove under control first.”
I give her my most scathing look as I plow past her.
I enter the kitchen and sure enough, the stove—the brand-new, top-of-the-line, expensive-as-fuck—stove is on fire. Four of sixteen burners are shooting flames high into the air, with black smoke rising from them.
All I know is, thank god the sprinkler system isn’t hooked up yet or this entire kitchen would be flooded.
The plumber is staring at the flames like he has no clue what to do. Not exactly reassuring. Two guys are running around, there are broken pieces of something on the floor, and another guy is working on the lights, but the bigger question to that is why are the lights going on along with the smoke alarm?
“I started the burners to test the gas,” the plumber tells me.
“Turn off the burner.”
“Oh. Smart idea.”
“Ya think?” I can’t stop my sarcasm, but this is literally what the man does. He doesn’t even hear me over the blaring siren. “The grates are clearly not on right,” I shout. “Turn it off!”
The smoke is a problem. There shouldn’t be black smoke from a gas stove. Then I notice that the plastic is still covering the grates and that’s what caught on fire and caused the smoke.
He tested the gas with the plastic still on.
Also, while the alarm has been going off, he didn’t turn off the gas or the burners. If he ruined my new stove, I’ll quickly earn my reputation for being a dick all over again.
“Just the burners or the gas?” he asks, still mesmerized by the fire and I can’t with this. I just can’t.
I push him aside and twist the knobs on the burners. Just like that, the fire is gone.
Unfortunately, the alarm and lights won’t budge. It’s like a rave in here and if I ever did acid, I’d be having a flashback for sure.
I don a thermal glove and go for my stove while the electricians hopefully fix the alarm. Plastic is stuck to the cast-irongrates, crinkled and charred. Piece by piece, I peel it back and by some miracle, my stove isn’t ruined.
“How about next time you don’t test out a stove while it’s still covered in plastic.”
The plumber looks at me with a sheepish expression and this is really not what I needed today.
“Chef Fritz, the fitness center called and informed us that they got you a punching bag.”
I don’t know who’s talking to me. I don’t care.
“Great. Take care of this. It better be back to normal by the time I return.” I’m talking to everyone, but this is why I have to be on site during the construction of a restaurant.
I’m likely not coming back today, but they don’t need to know that. I need everything working before Brae’s birthday in a couple of days because I have a lot planned for that and I need my kitchen operational.
I start out at a jog, taking the trail back up to the villa, the echo of the alarm still ringing through my ears.
“Brae?” I call out.
“Out here,” she mumbles, sounding sleepy.