THE LOST CANTRELL – CHAPTER ONE
Copyright © 2022 by Shamiso M. Lezard – All Rights Reserved
I have always considered myself a fairly confident
person. Fairly. It’s not that I think overly highly of
myself or anything. Not at all, actually. I just don’t care
what people think of me. I don’t mind not being perfect.
That’s a certain type of confidence, right?
I’m not cocky, but I’m definitely not timid either.
My confidence is balanced. Yeah, that’s the word that
best describes me in a nutshell. Balanced. I’ve always
had just enough confidence to get by in this cruel, cold,
judgmental world…and, clearly, enough dramatics, too.
That’s why, looking back on the events that led to
my present circumstances, I have no idea why I was
practically shaking as I stared up at the tall, grand
building that was The Lost Cantrell, a top five-star hotel
in Midtown, Manhattan. I was there to leave my resume
for a Kitchen Staff position that had been advertised for
its restaurant, L’Annette. I had been perfectly fine in
the taxi that I had taken from my apartment in Reign
Hill, but as soon as I had stepped out of it at the hotel
drop-off area, I was like a fish out of water.
It always fascinated me how quickly things
changed in a second. Emotions, relationships,
situations…they all changed so quickly. Confidence
could turn into plain nerves and anxiety, just like that.
I inhaled deeply and released the breath slowly as I
made my way closer to the hotel entrance doors. I could
already smell the “rich people” air from my spot on the
sidewalk. I fiddled with the sleek, low ponytail that I
had tied my meticulously flat-ironed, long, black hair
into, smoothing over non-existent stray strands. A side
effect of having usually very, very unpredictable curly
hair. Dropping my hand, I studied my approaching
reflection in the glass door of the hotel, over-analyzing
my dark-green turtleneck, tight black pencil skirt, and
long black coat outfit combo. There was a security
guard standing to the side of the doors, huge and
dressed in a black suit. When he saw me approaching,
he said, “Hello, ma’am.” I greeted him back with a
small smile. He was a big guy, and yet he still managed
to not draw too much attention to himself. I guessed
that was a good quality for a security guard to have.
As I stepped directly in front of the gold-framed
doors they slid apart automatically, allowing me into
the short corridor between the doors I had just stepped
through and what looked like a second door entrance,
surrounded by an enchanting glass encasement. The
thick glass displays on both sides of the corridor held
colorful, large artificial flowers, glittery ornaments, and
little lights that cast an inviting glow over the area,
reflecting off of the gold-tinted tiles. Trust The Lost
Cantrell to have an entrance within an entrance, I
thought as I made my way down the corridor toward the
next entrance doors. As I took my last step toward
them, about a foot away, they automatically slid open
too, just like the first set of doors. It felt like a warm
welcome for some reason. Like the hotel was saying,
“Come on in.” But my warm and fuzzies were quickly
forgotten when I finally laid my eyes on the
magnificence of The Lost Cantrell’s lobby, all gold
trimmings and crystal chandeliers and ivory leather
sofas. It was splendid, and I was so mesmerised by it
that it was only when I heard the bellhop’s greeting to
my right that I stopped staring, with my mouth slightly
agape, at my surroundings.
“Bonjour. I am Daniel. Welcome to The Lost
Cantrell. Le Cantrell Perdue.” He said it all with a mild
flourish, and I immediately caught on to the fact that he
was probably of genuine French heritage and not just
putting it on for the job. The Lost Cantrell was known
to have its employees use French greetings when guests
first arrived, but Daniel was very natural about it, and
even his English words were laced with an obvious
accent. With his neat navy-blue uniform, dark brown
eyes, and dark hair, he looked young. Younger than my
24 years.
On the same side that Daniel stood was the
L’Annette Restaurant of The Lost Cantrell. Its sign
wasn’t lit up and its glass doors were closed, but it still
looked like fine-dining perfection. I tried not to stare at
it, at the restaurant that I wanted to work in so badly,
and forced myself to focus on Daniel.
“Bonjour, Daniel. Uh, je m’appelle Ella.” I smiled
at him as I said it, and I knew that my French accent
and pronunciation was terrible, but he didn’t seem to
mind. It was weird for me to be speaking French in the
middle of New York but you know, when in Rome and
all that.
I turned my head back to the lobby space.
“Beautiful, n’est-ce pas?” Daniel said next to me.
When I turned back to him he had a smile on his face,
and it calmed my nerves a little.
“Yes, it is, Daniel. Very beautiful,” I replied.
“Would you like to book a room here at The Lost
Cantrell, Miss Ella?” Daniel asked.
“Um, no. I’m here to apply for a job actually. The
kitchen help job.” I reached into my slightly oversized
handbag that carried my resume folder and pulled it out.
“I’m here to drop off my resume.”
“Ah, I see. So we may be workmates soon, yes?”
He was so darn friendly that I couldn’t help but smile
again.
“I hope so, Daniel.”
“Well, you may make your way to Miss Bernadette
at the reception desk for further inquiry and
information,” he said as he held out his arm toward the
reception area. It was clear he said that a lot, like some
kind of rehearsed performance.
I looked over to the reception area on my left
where a young woman with long, curly auburn hair was
stationed, looking down at something.
I turned to head over there when I heard Daniel
say, “Bonne chance, Miss Ella. Good luck.”
“Merci, Daniel, “I replied, then I made my way
quickly toward the front desk.
The young auburn-haired woman looked up at me
with dark-green eyes as I approached her desk.
“Bonjour. Welcome to The Lost Cantrell. My name
is Bernadette. How may I help you?” she said with a
stiff smile. Her accent was American. Definitely
American.
“Bonjour, Bernadette. My name is Ella-Cherie
Silver. I’m here to drop off my resume for the kitchen
help position that was advertised on the hotel website.”
“Oh. Okay,” she replied as she looked down at my
resume in my hand, resting on the desk surface.
“Monsieur Cantrell, the owner of this hotel, reviews all
applications and candidates himself. But he is busy at
the moment. You can leave your resume with me, and I
will be sure to let him know that you came in, and I will
see to it that he receives it.” She smiled again. It was
not quite as stiff as the last time but certainly not as
pleasant as Daniel’s.
I was hesitant. I hated leaving room for error. What
if she didn’t give it to him? If he was ultimately in
charge of picking his employees, then I wanted to make
sure that he got it before the deadline. I couldn’t leave it
in the hands of someone else, regardless of how
efficient they seemed. If you want something done right
then you better do it yourself, right?
I was just about to politely let her know that I could
come back at a later time when Mr. Cantrell was not as
busy when her eyes suddenly cut to her left, and she
smiled genuinely this time.
“Looks like you’ll be able to hand it to him
yourself.”
I followed her eyes and saw a tall, slim man with
salt and pepper hair, dressed in an impeccable suit. He
was headed toward us, his strides long and strong. The
huge lobby space gave me enough time to study him as
he made his way to the front desk, an air of authority
surrounding him. I was immediately intimidated, and
all of the calmness that Daniel’s welcoming smile had
brought to me dissolved under the stoic expression of
The Lost Cantrell’s owner.
“Monsieur Cantrell, I’m so glad that you’re out of
your office now,” Bernadette said cheerfully when Mr.
Cantrell had reached us and looked over at her
questioningly. “Your presence is needed here.”
And that was when Mr. Cantrell turned his dark
brown eyes on me, and I felt instantly smaller. Literally.
I am not a short woman. Not by any standard. I am five
feet seven inches. Barefoot. In the heels that I was
wearing, I was about a solid five feet eleven. Yet there I
was, staring up at Mr. Cantrell, feeling completely out
of my depth. I guessed that he was way over six feet
tall. Way over. He looked down his nose at me with a
bored, blank expression, and it scared the heck out of
me. Why did it scare me? Here’s why: There was no
way he could have known what I was there for.
Bernadette had not told him that I was there, obviously
for fear of interrupting the boss while he was busy. For
all he knew, I was an inquiring potential guest, and yet
the way he was looking at me, neutral and uninterested,
was hardly befitting of what I would expect the owner
of a supposed hospitality establishment to be like. So,
in that moment, I concluded that that was either
Monsieur Cantrell’s natural demeanour around
everyone, including guests, or he was a mind reader and
already knew that I was nothing but a lowly job-seeker.
Either way, it did not bode well.
“Bonjour. I am Monsieur Hector Cantrell, the
owner of Le Cantrell Perdue. How may I assist you?”
He had more of an English accent, which surprised me.
I thought he would be definitively French.
I cleared my throat and responded. “Bonjour,
Monsieur Cantrell. My name is Ella-Cherie Silver. I am
here to apply for the kitchen help position. I have my
resume right here.” I lifted the folder containing my
resume off the desk surface slightly to draw his
attention to it. He glanced at the folder briefly and then
back to my face.
“Miss Silver,” he said slowly before continuing on,
“we use an online application system for the
recruitment process here at The Lost Cantrell, so as to
limit unnecessary movement in and out of the
establishment. Candidates need not come in unless they
are called in for an interview. You must use the online
application form provided on the website.” He turned a
look of mild irritation toward Bernadette as he said,
“Bernadette should have informed you of that as soon
as you made your inquiry.”
I hoped that she wouldn’t be in trouble because of
me, but when I looked over at her, she was more than
just a little unbothered by his words. In fact, she even
shrugged slightly as she said, “She’s already here.
Doesn’t make sense to send her away,” and went back
to staring down at her computer screen. I noticed
Monsieur Cantrell’s eye twitch a little as he watched
Bernadette return to her screen without a word of
apology at all. Then he turned back to me with a sigh,
took my resume folder from my light grasp, opened it
up, and began scanning over it. Relief washed over me.
This was good. At least he was looking at it.
It felt like forever before he finally looked back at
me, and I held my breath, waiting anxiously for his
words. Preferably an invitation for an interview.
“Thank you for your interest in the position, Miss
Silver, but it appears you are overqualified. I cannot
move forward with your application,” he stated plainly.
Then he closed the folder and held it out to me.
I stared at him. Was he serious?
“Overqualified?” I repeated in question.
“Yes.” One word. Not enough.
“I don’t understand.” I blinked up at him,
genuinely confused.
When Monsieur Cantrell realized that I hadn’t
taken my resume out of his hand yet, and quite frankly I
had no intention to, he put it down on the desk and
stood even straighter, which was something I would not
have thought possible.
“Let me explain, then,” he said. “This job is for
kitchen help. The general job description of kitchen
help here is to assist our head chef in whatever
preparation he needs done before meals are served, as
well as to clean up the tables and kitchen after serving.
This includes tasks such as washing the dishes,
sweeping, peeling and chopping of vegetables, and so
on.” He looked at me pointedly then, as if he had said
something that should have explained his rejection of
my application. I simply blinked at him again, which
made him release another sigh. “You are a qualified
chef, Miss Silver. A graduate of The Crest Institute of
Culinary Arts, according to your resume. This is not a
job for a chef. You are overqualified.”
That explained it.
Never had I thought that graduating from one of
the top culinary institutes in New York would be a
disadvantage to me. The Crest Institute of Culinary Arts
had a good name. It made the list of top Culinary Arts
Schools internationally every year, without fail. That’s
why I had worked hard to get into it. I thought that I
would graduate and get a good job at a top restaurant
immediately after, but that wasn’t the case. New York
was competitive. Sure, there were lots of job
opportunities in smaller restaurants, diners, and cafes.
But I didn’t go to culinary arts school for four years and
obtain a Bachelor in Culinary Arts for that. No. I
wanted a job in a Michelin star restaurant. Just like the
one-Michelin-star L’Annette Restaurant at The Lost
Cantrell.
But to eventually get a top chef or sous-chef job,
you needed experience and to get experience, you
needed a job in a top restaurant. See the problem? I
needed a job in an upmarket, high star restaurant. There
was no shortage of qualified chefs looking for that kind
of job too, though. Like I said: competitive.
So the whole situation was new to me. In most
cases when I would apply to a job at a top restaurant or
hotel, I would be one of the least qualified applicants
due to my lack of relevant experience. So hearing the
term “over-qualified” being used on me in a place as
grand as The Lost Cantrell was obviously surprising, at
the very least. I didn’t know whether to pat myself on
the back or cry at the irony of it all.
“I don’t mind washing dishes, Monsieur Cantrell. I
really don’t. And wouldn’t it be to the hotel’s
advantage, anyway, to have a qualified chef at the wage
of general kitchen help?” I pointed out. I was trying
hard to convince him to at least give me an interview.
He looked at me and lowered his chin a little. “Be
that as it may, it still would not sit well with me.” Then
his eyes softened ever so slightly as he said, “You may
think that you are content with general kitchen work
now, but I assure you, Miss Silver, that this blind
enthusiasm will not last long. Ambition is a powerful
force, and it does not allow for contentment.” Then he
lifted his chin up again and said the words that were in
line with the general response that I had gotten from
most of my applications to top establishments. “Good
luck with your future endeavors, and I hope you find a
position more suited to you. Good day, Miss Silver.”
He turned away from me and made his way around the
semi-circle shaped front desk and entered behind it to
stand next to Bernadette. He had basically dismissed
me. He was going about his business, while I stood
there looking like a nerd trying to get in with the “cool”
crowd…and failing of course.
I had been rejected. Again.
Not again. Not again, I thought.
I stared at my resume folder that Monsieur Cantrell
had left on the desk surface, and I shook my head
lightly, my disappointment slowly turning into
determination and a refusal to accept yet another
rejection. Then I looked up at him again, and he was
speaking to Bernadette as if I wasn’t even there.
No. Not this time. Not that easily.
I let out a light exhale and began speaking before
my nerves had any chance of interfering with my
newfound courage.
“I’ll prove myself,” I said softly, but clearly loud
enough that Monsieur Cantrell and Bernadette heard
me, because they both looked up, as if they were
surprised that I was still standing there. “I’ll prove
myself,” I repeated, a little louder.
“Miss Silver…” Monsieur Cantrell began, and I
knew where it was going.
“With all due respect, Monsieur Cantrell,” I cut
him off quickly, watching as his head snapped back
ever so slightly at my interruption, “we both know that
working here as kitchen help is just as good as working
at a no-star restaurant as a chef. The Lost Cantrell is a
big deal. So I’m willing to work my way up.” I looked
him in the eyes and added some grit to my voice so I
didn’t sound whiney when I said, “But I have to start
somewhere, sir. And there’s no better start than here for
me. All I’m asking for is a shot at an interview.” Then
to maintain my respectfulness, I added, “Sir.”
Bernadette turned her head slowly to look at
Monsieur Cantrell with her eyebrows raised. I got the
distinct feeling that no one had ever interrupted him
before, let alone argued a point against him. Especially
not someone who was looking for a job. He stared at
me with his mouth in a thin line and his expression
skeptical. Then he turned that same skeptical eye to
Bernadette, who shrugged again and said, “I like her.”
My nerves were all over the place again, and I kept
looking back and forth between the two of them.
Bernadette liking me didn’t seem like a significant
enough factor. However, I didn’t have enough time to
dwell on it because Monsieur Cantrell suddenly
snatched up my resume from the desk, turned away,
and made his way out from behind the reception area,
heading back in the direction he came from before,
without a word.
I stared off after him, too surprised to say anything.
Until I finally heard Bernadette’s voice say, “You asked
for an interview, right?”
I blinked at her, still surprised by Monsieur
Cantrell’s sudden departure.
“He wants you to follow him,” Bernadette said
slowly, catching on to my confusion.
“Oh, right!” I exclaimed, already hurrying off in
the same direction that I had seen Monsieur Cantrell
head off in, but I just about managed to turn around and
call out, “Thank you!” to Bernadette, who simply
smiled in return.
I followed Monsieur Cantrell through a door that
read Monsieur Cantrell in gold lettering. No question as
to who the office belongs to. He closed the door behind
me, then went to stand behind the large desk that was
toward the back wall. It was made of the same beautiful
deep, dark wood that the front reception desk was made
of, but the rest of his office was certainly not as warm
and inviting as The Lost Cantrell’s lobby. It was a fairly
large office, with a brown leather double sofa to the far
right of the desk on the same wall side as the office
entrance door, and rows of high windows along two of
the walls: one row on the back wall behind the desk;
and the other row on the wall to the left of the desk.
They allowed for ventilation without letting people
outside see into the office. There was also a large, fully
stocked bookshelf in the corner but, besides that, the
office was plain. No photos or paintings or anything.
Just plain. It surprised me because Monsieur Cantrell
obviously must have had excellent taste in décor if he
had anything to do with the lobby design. It did not
make sense for his office to look that way.
All of the windows in his office were open, letting
in the cold late-March air. So yeah, his office was also
cold. Plain and cold. Just plain cold.
“Take a seat, Miss Silver,” he said, still standing
behind his desk, with my resume resting on top of the
shiny wood surface.
I sat down in the chair opposite him on the other
side of the desk and waited while he stayed standing
and looked over my resume again. Then he finally took
his own seat and looked straight at me with
disinterested eyes.
“Since you are already here, I have decided to
conduct your interview now.”
“Thank you, sir,” I responded, after clearing my
throat.
He pulled out a clipboard from his desk drawer, as
well as one red ink and one black ink pen. He scribbled
something on the top sheet of paper in black ink and
then looked up at me again.
“Let’s begin,” he said, completely neutral. I saw
him flick his wrist quickly over the paper as he
wrote…in red ink this time. I assumed that the red ink
was for negatives. I already have one negative before
the interview has even started. That must be a record.
“We have already established that you cannot
follow simple instructions, otherwise you would not be
here right now. So, I will leave out the question as to
how well you can.” He glanced at me briefly when he
said this, and I had no response because, technically, he
was not 100 percent wrong. I figured that was what the
excess amount of red ink was all about. Not great, but I
can salvage this. I looked directly at him and sat up a
little straighter in the chair, determined to impress
Monsieur Cantrell with my responses. And by the end
of the interview, I was sure that I had. I managed to
answer the rest of the questions smoothly and
confidently, and Monsieur Cantrell seemed to have run
out of snide, snarky comments.
“Thank you for your time, Miss Silver. We will be
in touch to inform you of the result of your interview.
Please note that I discuss all candidates with our Head
Chef before any decision is made, as he plays a major
part in the decision-making for hiring kitchen staff.
Good day,” he said, as he stood from his chair and held
out his hand to me. Ever the professional.
I smiled at him politely as I took his hand, shook it,
and said, “Thank you, sir. Good day to you, too.”
Then he walked over to the door, opening it to
indicate that we were totally done, and I exited his
office feeling way more calm and collected than I had
barely twenty minutes before. Bernadette was no longer
at the front desk when I looked over, but Daniel was
still at his post, and as I approached him, heading for
the hotel doors, he cheerfully said, “See you soon.”
All I could say, because it was the only thing that I
knew for certain, was the same thing that I had said to
him earlier, “I hope so, Daniel. I hope so.”
Daniel nodded his understanding, then I made my
way out of the beautiful Lost Cantrell, praying for just a
shot at the opportunity to work there.
The Lost Cantrell is available to order. Get your copy from any of the links below:
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