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Summary
“I was told I would be able to meet with the chef this afternoon,” Beatrice says, as politely as she can manage. She’s meant to start working tomorrow and she hasn’t even met the executive chef yet, outside of traded emails where she was swayed by the promise of full autonomy into leaving her position as pastry chef at one of the only restaurants in the city with three Michelin stars for a fledgling fusion tapas joint sandwiched between a pierogi stand and a vape shop on the lower east side that got an upstart Michelin star in its first year of operation.