Gioele's POV

"The chef wants to see you in his office," Manuel greeted me at the beginning of my last day of internship.

The kitchen was quiet, with only the sound of Rick's yawns disturbing the atmosphere. Michela hadn't emerged yet from the infernal depths where I supposed she lived.

"Now? I haven't even finished lighting the pilot flames. If I don't get the broth going before Michela arrives, she'll kill me."

"Don't worry, I'll take care of the broth." And he immediately got to work after giving me a pat on the shoulder.

I wasn't too thrilled about being summoned by the chef; I almost preferred to face the beast. Too bad I had no power to choose. So, I left my apron and hat in the kitchen and headed to the chef's small office.

"Ah, Dagostino." I was greeted by a bespectacled face settled in a swivel chair, behind a giant monitor from the 2000s. It was strange to see the chef without his uniform and with those round glasses.

"Please, take a seat." He pointed at a chair in front of the desk, and I immediately complied.

I hadn't expected the most important person in the kitchen to spend so much time away from the stoves. The chef spent more hours organizing staff shifts, placing orders with suppliers, and drafting the menu than cooking. I could never do his job; it seemed terribly boring and full of responsibilities. Being a regular cook was tiring and super stressful, but at least you didn't get bored.

"Dagostino." The chef took off his glasses in the same dramatic way a surgeon removes a mask after a failed surgery. "Tell me honestly: why are you here?"

I furrowed my brows. "Manuel told me to come here."

"No, I mean... the kitchen. Why did you choose to go to cookery school?"

I completed in my head the part of the sentence he didn't say aloud. Why did you choose to go to cookery school if you suck at cooking?

I contemplated the idea of lying; it would have been easier to say something like "cooking has always been my passion" or something similar. But I didn't want to. I hated lying.

"I like shellfish and fish," I grumbled. "I like touching them, they're soft and slimy. And I like putting my hands in dough or deboning a chicken."

The chef glared at me. Or maybe it was just a strange look he gave me, I wasn't sure.

"Is that all? There's much more to being a cook than that."

I shrugged and sank into the chair. There was more, but it probably wouldn't help my case. I also liked it when many colorful elements were cute on the plate, placed close together. And I liked using the slicer; it was like playing with playdough. But these things certainly wouldn't be good enough reasons.

"Dagostino..."

"Couldn't you have Flavio do my evaluation? I'm not saying he'll give me a good grade, but at least he doesn't hate me like Michela."

"What are you saying? Michela doesn't hate you at all. She's just a bit brusque in her manners; that's how she is. And anyway, your evaluation has already been compiled." With that, he produced a folded card like a booklet, which had been hidden behind the giant monitor.

For two seconds, I sat there, gripping the armrests of my chair. I felt my heart beating like a crazed drum. Finally, I gathered my courage and reached out to take my evaluation.

Gioele Dagostino Higher Technical Institute for Hotel and Restaurant Activities Don Milani Evaluation by Michela Santoro - Sous Chef - Baron Restaurant of the Piedmont Dynasty Hotel

Upon his arrival, Gioele encountered many difficulties in coordinating activities and managing kitchen tools, demonstrating poor basic knowledge and skills. However, with ever-present commitment and dedication, Gioele has learned a lot, acquiring a partial autonomy in carrying out the tasks assigned to him. Overall, I am very satisfied with Gioele's commitment, which has never been inert despite the difficulties.

Punctuality 5/5

Quality of work performed 2/5

Autonomy and reliability 3/5

Ability to relate and collaborate with others 4/5

Commitment and application 5/5

Overall rating: 3.8/5

I stared at the card without blinking. Michela was very satisfied with my commitment? I got 3.8 out of 5?! It was like a seven and a half! It wasn't an outstanding grade, but it was a perfectly decent one!

"Dagostino."

I lowered the evaluation with a huge smile, which the chef made sure to wipe off with a very serious look.

"Commitment is important, it can take you very far, but alone it's not enough." His gray mustache wiggled over a worried grimace. "Are you sure this is the career for you?"

I laughed cheerfully, even though the feeling that those words had evoked in me was far from joy. "Uhm... no? I mean... I'm seventeen, I'm not sure about anything. Ever. And cooking... I like it. Sometimes, and sometimes not. More not than yes, maybe."

The chef offered me a genuine smile. "There are many professions related to food, and most are not as intense as this one. If you like working with fish, you could consider a job in a fish market. I know it's not considered a prestigious position, but it might be what makes you happiest."

The chef put his glasses back on and moved the computer mouse to bring the screen back to life.

"Thank you for the service you provided in my kitchen. Now you can go back to work. And, please, send in your partner."

"Okay." I got up from the chair, clutching my impossible evaluation to my chest. I reached the door and grabbed the handle.

"Gioele?"

"Mh."

The chef smiled like a father. "Even if you haven't found your place in my kitchen, you'll find it soon somewhere else."

My place.

Nicola had said something similar. I didn't know if it was one of those things people said but didn't really mean. Like when they say good morning; most of the time, they don't really care if you have a good day, they just say it.

"Thank you, chef."

But this time I hoped they meant it seriously. And I hoped they were right.

...

Nicola got a 5 out of 5, but he was almost happier about my 3.8 than his perfect score.

Our last day was strange. Everyone behaved as if nothing extraordinary was happening until the end. From their point of view, maybe it wasn't, I suppose, but Nicola and I had briefly immersed ourselves in a completely new world, and now we had to go back to our real lives. It was a bit like waking up suddenly in the middle of a dream.

When I tried to thank Michela for her evaluation, she told me not to waste time, to get to work, and not to get in her way. Maybe it was true that she was just a gruff person. Like Heidi's grandfather, who always seems angry but actually loves his granddaughter very much.

At the end of the evening service, the brigade bid us farewell. The line cooks hurriedly thanked us for our work, wished us a good trip, and then rushed to the locker rooms. Flavio lingered for a moment to pinch my cheeks and tell me to eat more.

The apprentices, on the other hand, lingered for a few minutes with us in the hallway.

While Manuel and Rick said goodbye to Nico, the pastry girl (Bianca, I think her name was) put a hand on my shoulder and told me how sweet Nicola was. Wasn't he a sweet guy?

And I replied that yes, he was a very sweet guy, and Bianca seemed incredibly pleased with that.

"Take care, little chick." They hugged us, and then it was over.

Nico and I returned to our room without exchanging a word. Once inside, we took off our hats and aprons and got rid of our heavy shoes.

Nico opened his suitcase and started putting his things in it. He delicately peeled off the colorful sign with his name that I had made for him on our first day and tucked it into a side pocket of the suitcase. We had to vacate the room by nine o'clock the next morning; it was probably a good idea to start preparing now.

Everything seemed so strange. I was happy because the evaluation had gone well, and because Michela didn't seem to hate me. And I was happy to go back to my home, to my room, and to see my mother again.

But I would miss that place with a strange nostalgia akin to Stockholm syndrome. More than anything, I would miss the people. Manuel and Rick, Flavio. The chef who had been so kind.

Maybe not Michela, even though she had been nice in the evaluation.

And I would have missed Nicola. We weren't even in the same class. I didn't even know where he lived, and I realized I had never asked him. Maybe, by pure chance, we lived in the same neighborhood.

"Hey, Nico, where do you live?" I stopped him as he was packing his clothes into his suitcase.

"In San Domenico. How about you?"

"Ah, near the hospital."

Nico smiled, causing his ears to sway. "Come on, it's not that far. It's about a ten-minute bike ride."

The fact that he was also thinking about how close we lived gave me a tremendous sense of contentment. I had never been good at figuring out if people really liked me. Sometimes I would get attached to someone, but then I would find out through back channels that in reality, that person found me very irritating. Surely sometimes Nico found me irritating, but I think for the most part, he liked me.

"But I don't know how to ride a bike."

"Are you serious?" Nico bagged his kitchen shoes and tucked them into his suitcase. "I can teach you. Or I can give you a ride on the back. I bet you weigh nothing."

Both of those prospects seemed terrifying, but for now, I would keep it to myself. If he really wanted to keep hanging out with me after the internship, I would get used to taking long walks to San Domenico.