Circe pushed through the kitchen doors. “The family at table four wants more fries. Their kids are scarfing them like popcorn.” Her voice cut through the hiss and bubble from Yorgos’ pans.
Lefteris was right behind her. “Let it go,” he said in his ‘senior server’ voice.
Closing my eyes, I wished their latest spat would fizzle out quickly. Since it was Saturday night and we were busier than usual, having to play referee ranked lower than clearing the dish pit.
“How can I let it go? It’s like watching a junk food ad. I don’t know how those parents sleep at night.” Circe shook her head like she’d witnessed a crime.
Lefteris arched mocking eyebrows. “And here I thought potatoes were plant based.” He marched to the dish pit and dropped a stack of dirty dishes with a clatter.
This could head to resignations. Finding good servers before high season was like spotting an unoccupied beach umbrella after 11 a.m. I steered the conversation elsewhere. “A bigger tab is a good thing. You keep your job and get paid.”
Lefteris retied his shoulder-length black hair into a tight ponytail. “Believe whatever you want, but this is work. They,” he pointed his thumb toward the dining area, “don’t need your permission to eat whatever they want.”
Circe looked away; Lefteris didn’t. He lingered for a moment, grabbed a plate of soutzoukakia, and stomped out.
The small kitchen seemed to shrink as we stood in silence. From outside, clinking glasses and conversations heightened my discomfort. I tapped a pencil against my thigh.
For the next two months, I’d decided to be the invisible manager—no drama, no trace, no aftermath when I returned to my life in Athens. But these two threatened my plan.
I studied the young waitress. She looked like Lefteris had killed her cats.
“Yorgos, could you add baked carrot sticks to the French fries? Circe’s orders!” I tried to sound cheerful.
The menu tweak earned me a smile.
“This wasn’t about you, Circe. Business has been down this week.” When I’d Googled HR interview questions, the line hadn’t sounded so flat.
“I’m worried about the taverneio too, Anastasia, but I don’t attack people.” Her voice went sharp and high.
My teeth ground at the word—taverneio, a ridiculous mashup of taverna and kafeneio that she’d come up with and Dad had immediately adopted.
What would Dad say if he were here? I had no idea. The pencil snapped in my hands. Jagged wood nicked my palm. At least the pain helped me focus.
“I ju—I just need a minute,” Circe said
Untying her apron and hanging it up, she bolted like a cat who heard the vacuum. After knocking over a salt shaker, she disappeared down the hallway.
With a low growl, I snatched up the salt shaker. Before I could think better of it, I threw salt over my left shoulder—a silly superstition I’d seen my yiayia do and had sworn never to copy. I grabbed the broom.
Something prickled at my back. Shoulders tight, I turned but it was just Yorgos frying his zucchini. “Fussing over nothing. The oven dying on us. That’s a real problem,” he mumbled.
I paused mid-sweep. “Why do you say that, Yorgos? Is there an issue with the oven?”
He shot me a sharp look. “Petros didn’t tell you? For the past year now. Pray that we make it through the summer.”
Great. Losing the oven would be the kiss of death for Agistri. And Dad had said nothing—again. My laughter came out too sharp, and I swallowed it. On the next sweep, the bristles splayed against the floor, but by the third, I was spent. Empty.
It was a good thing the wall was behind me because my legs gave out. I could do nothing but watch Yorgos cook.
With flour, melted butter, and finally lemon juice, he stirred his avgolemono to creamy perfection. My life was all bitter aftertaste—the promotion I’d sacrificed, a marriage proposal on hold, the father who wouldn’t confide in me.
#
In a perfect world, I could’ve retreated to Dad’s office to compose myself. But with Circe AWOL in the bathroom, the Saturday-night crowd was my and Lefteris' responsibility. For the next quarter hour, I needed to be on my toes.
I turned to go to the dining area when something to my left caught my eye. The tickets rustled. I gawked at the movement, but it didn’t stop. All the windows were shut—it wasn’t a draft. Goosebumps prickled my arms as if I’d spent ten minutes in our walk-in freezer. Suddenly, dealing with customers didn’t seem so bad.
The tickets fluttered again. I took a hard breath, the air dense with fryer grease. Yorgos had his back turned, too busy flipping lamb chops on the grill and humming a Pantazis song about cheating.
I squeezed my eyes shut and wished the phenomenon away. God, it felt like I was in a B-movie. When I next peeked, they were still, normal and waiting patiently for Yorgos to collect them—as if nothing had happened. My stomach twisted, and not because of the usual kitchen smells. This all felt familiar. Like what happened with the yacht.
No! I didn’t need otherworldly signs. I pushed away my maternal family's heritage like I was trying to close a vacation suitcase—the way Mom had taught me. The only logical explanation was that I’d imagined the whole thing.
Stratos burst through the kitchen doors. “Circe says she’s going to take a break.”
He gave me a puzzled look. Probably fair.
“Yeah, okay.” I nodded.
Lefteris couldn’t manage all the tables on his own. But if locals saw me running Agistri, the rumor mill would run rampant. We couldn’t keep the lights on only with tourists.
Wonderful. Dad’s favorite employee had made a mess, and I, the prodigal daughter, needed to clean it up.
Breathe in. Breathe out. The storm may have passed, but I still needed to get out of the kitchen. Besides, nothing worse could happen out front.
#
Ten minutes later, I was still standing by the beat-up staff bench between the dining area and the kitchen. No customer had asked for anything—a rare lull in the Saturday-night busyness.
As if she read my mind, a blonde waved me over. I stopped biting my lips, pasted on a smile and went to table six.
I’d barely taken two steps when the room became muffled like I was underwater. Even the cutlery didn’t clatter as loudly as usual, but no one else seemed to notice anything off. Slowing down, I focused on all the normalcy—people eating, kids running around, Dad’s old bouzouki hanging on the wall.
Can I wash away this weird night from my brain like dirt off lettuce? Shaking it off, I took in the couple. Definitely foreigners.
“Good evening. How can I help?” I asked in the universal language.
Her smile, revealing perfect, whitened teeth, made me feel like Little Red Riding Hood.
Why did she look familiar?
“Oh, you speak English. Excellent,” the blonde said. “This is unacceptable.” She pushed the plate away, her fingers, which sported long neon-pink nails, barely grazing it.
Keeping my smile took effort. I glanced at the fish. It was well-cooked. Yorgos had bought it fresh this morning. Poor red mullet. At least I could defend myself.
I folded my arms behind my back and squeezed my hands. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, I’m not sure what your cook,” she curled her lips at the word, “was going for, but I can neither taste vadouvan nor saffron.”
Her GPS needed to recalculate—this was the Aegean coast, not the French Riviera. Swallowing back the retort, I picked up the offending plate and gave a sharp nod.
“Could you have him prepare it again, only right this time?” Her question stopped me as I turned to leave.
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Well, I can ask, but that’s not really something we do.”
Her cobalt eyes lit up. “I knew you’d see reason,” she said, as if I’d agreed. Great. If Yorgos refused, she’d accuse me of breaking my word.
“Is the rest of your order okay?” I tried to earn some points just in case. I turned to the man next to her, but he was staring at his shoelaces. He had a stillness that made you forget he was there.
“The other dishes are passable, I guess,” the table’s spokesperson piped up. She hadn’t actually said “for a godforsaken island taverna”, but the comment hung in the air.
“Good.” I hurried away.
If she’d continued talking, she might’ve pushed me to marinate her mullet in vinegar and spite. That would definitely hurt business.
I ducked into the kitchen before I snapped like Lefteris.
I scraped the fish into the cat bag just in time to catch Yorgos’ glare. Pretending not to notice, I put the dirty dish in the pit. Stratos gave me a grateful smile.
“They didn’t like the fish?” he said, like a parent defending his only child.
I cleared my throat. “The customer said she couldn’t taste any saffron or vadouvan,” I added firmly.
Circe had returned and watched the conversation with morbid curiosity. If she said anything that might light Yorgos’ fuse...
“Good. The recipe doesn’t include either ingredient.” He scoffed. “You can tell her we don’t use them in any dish on the menu. Period.” Yorgos roughly wiped his hands on his apron.
I blew out a frustrated breath. “You’re completely right. But she’s not above making a big fuss.”
He puffed out his chest and took steps toward the door. “She can try to insult my fish to my face.”
“But she might leave a bad review.” Circe’s words stopped him.
“She can do as she likes.” Yorgos turned to stir the bubbling pot.
“Half the taverneio heard her say the fish was the worst thing she’s ever eaten,” Circe added. “I can only imagine what she’ll write in the review.”
I wanted to bury my face in my hands and scream. How could she have told him that?
Yorgos faced us slowly. “She did what?”
I scoffed and stepped in front of the waitress so he wouldn’t see her. ”Circe’s exaggerating. You know how she is. They ordered half the menu; not liking one dish is a raving review.”
Did he not get that their tab was crucial to our daily profit? They were the kind of people who over ordered to show off.
I softened my tone. ”Just cook it the way she wants so we can move on.”
“She can have the red mullet but only if someone else cooks it,” he said after barely two seconds.
Deathly silence. What was I going to do? Pulling rank on someone twice my age felt wrong, and it might poison our relationship.
Circe made a hasty exit, leaving me to put out the fire she set. And I was caught in the middle. Needing to think, I stepped out into the hallway.
So I could upset one of them or… I could not choose sides and cook the fish myself.
It was a staple dish, and I’d watched Yorgos make it twice this week, but my stomach still twisted into knots at the thought. It had been almost a decade since I’d cooked anything at Agistri, and even then, Dad was monitoring me.
Taking in a deep breath, I walked back into the kitchen. More likely than not, the woman wouldn’t know the difference.
Yorgos watched as I tied on an apron and pulled out a fresh red mullet. His expression belonged at a poker tournament table.
“You’re going to cook?” Stratos stared, wide-eyed.
“Yes.” My voice was steadier than I felt.
Thankfully, Yorgos didn’t hover like a mother hen, but returned to his station with his back to me—and yet I could feel him monitoring me.
Dad’s voice barked out instructions: Prep the fish. Season it, just enough. The buttered pan hissed as I laid the mullet down. I counted time through the entire process.
The finished dish looked... passable. Okay, it wasn’t as perfect as Yorgos made it, but passable.
On the way to serve it, I kept wondering if everything would work out. It will. I took the lead. I handled the crisis.
“Enjoy,” I told the blonde, staring just above her head and went back through the swinging doors.
That damned Circe! She’d renamed herself after a witch—what had I expected?
As if I’d summoned her, Circe came barreling toward me, her long boho earrings swinging wildly. Instead of stopping, she bumped right into me and whispered loudly, “You won’t believe who the red-mullet woman is.”