— No, unfortunately, we can’t hire you. But leave your résumé, in case something changes, — the HR manager smiled that particularly polite smile Vera Petrovna had already learned to recognize. That smile meant: “You’re too old, but I’m too polite to say it.”
— Of course, — Vera nodded mechanically, smoothing a crease on her skirt. — Thank you for your time.
After leaving the glass office building, she took out her worn notebook and scribbled: “Fifth rejection.” The air was damp and chilly, as if the weather itself was mocking her pitiful attempts to find a job. As if a fifty-five-year-old accountant with thirty years of experience should be handed a golden parachute instead of being shown the door with a meager severance when the factory went bankrupt.
Vera stopped in front of the café “Homely Comfort.” Waiters and customers flickered behind the glass, chewing and chatting carefree. She rummaged through her wallet—two hundred rubles, the last before her pension. Which she still had to live to reach.
“Tea with lemon — 80 rubles,” read the sign at the entrance.
Vera took a deep breath and pushed the door. Inside smelled of fresh pastries. Her stomach betrayed her with a loud rumble.
— Table for one? — a young waiter with a nametag “Artyom” greeted her with a friendly smile.
— Yes, please. And tea with lemon.
There was an unusual hustle in the café. Loud voices came from the kitchen; someone was clearly scolding.
— Vika, where are you stuck? The place is full! — came a commanding female shout.
— Nina Arkadyevna, she called, has been stuck in traffic for an hour! — someone answered.
Vera stared absently out the window. The rent was overdue, the fridge empty. Her daughter lived in another city, living her own life. She couldn’t ask her only child for help.
— Your tea… oh! — Artyom slipped, the tray tilted, and hot liquid spilled right onto Vera’s light blouse.
— Lord! — she jumped up, brushing off the drops.
— I’m so sorry! — Artyom panicked, grabbing napkins. — I’ll compensate you! Breakfast on the house!
— What’s going on here? — a strict woman around sixty with perfectly styled gray hair approached their table. A brooch shaped like a tiny fork and spoon gleamed on her elegant jacket.
— Nina Arkadyevna, it was an accident… — Artyom began to explain.
— I see it was an accident, — the woman cut him off and turned to Vera. — We apologize. Your breakfast is on the house, and we will pay for the dry cleaning.
At that moment, loud voices erupted from the neighboring table.
— We’ve been waiting for our order for forty minutes! This is outrageous! — two well-groomed middle-aged ladies were demonstratively tapping their nails on the table.
— Elena Mikhailovna, Tamara Georgievna, five more minutes, our chef…
— We don’t care about your chef! We’re late for an important meeting!
Nina Arkadyevna paled but kept her calm expression.
— Sorry, everything will be ready shortly.
Vera watched the scene, mechanically blotting the stain on her blouse. Suddenly a reckless thought flashed in her mind.
“I’ll leave without paying. That’ll be fair compensation for the blouse.”
She wrote the thought down on a napkin and tucked it into her bag. Artyom returned with a new cup of tea and a menu.
— Choose anything; it’s on us.
Vera looked at the commotion around her and suddenly remembered how her grandmother taught her to make cherry dumplings. “You have golden hands, Verochka,” she used to say.
From the kitchen came Nina Arkadyevna’s loud voice again: — What do you mean you can’t keep up? The hall is full!
Her thoughts raced wildly. The stain on the blouse. The last two hundred rubles. The shout from the kitchen. Hands remembering how to knead dough.
Vera got up and decisively headed toward the kitchen.
— Excuse me, — she stopped at the door, — can I help?
— What? — Nina Arkadyevna turned, looking at Vera with distrust. — You? Can you cook?
— My grandmother ran a canteen for thirty years. I grew up in the kitchen, — the words slipped out.
Nina Arkadyevna hesitated for only a second.
— It can’t get worse. Artyom, give the lady an apron!
Chaos reigned in the kitchen. The assistant cook nervously darted between the stove and the prep table, knocking over bowls and spilling spices.
— Where to start? — Vera carefully tied the apron, trying not to let her hands tremble.
— Those ladies ordered a French omelet and a “Provencal” salad, — the guy grumbled, clearly doubting salvation.
Vera took a deep breath. Eggs, cheese, herbs. Nothing complicated. Her hands seemed to recall the half-forgotten movements themselves.
— Is the butter salted? And the herbs fresh?
Work started in earnest. Vera felt every ingredient, every flavor nuance. Her fingers skillfully chopped the herbs while long-forgotten recipes surfaced in her mind. Fifteen minutes later, plates held a fluffy omelet with a crispy cheese crust and a bright salad smelling of freshness and sun.
— Where did you find such a cook? — came from the hall as the stubborn ladies tasted the food. — This is simply divine!
Nina Arkadyevna looked at Vera in surprise, but Vera was already conjuring up the next dish.
A young man with a worn-out face entered the café. He studied the menu for a long time, then shyly called Artyom over.
— I need something nutritious, but… — he hesitated, — I only have a hundred rubles. My mother is in the hospital, I want to visit her.
Artyom peeked into the kitchen.
— Vera Petrovna, do you have anything for the guy? His mother’s in the hospital, and he’s short on money.
Vera glanced out into the hall. A skinny student with sleep-deprived, inflamed eyes nervously wrote something in a notebook.
— Tell me your mother’s name and what illness she has.
Twenty minutes later, the astonished student had a bowl of rich chicken broth with homemade noodles and freshly baked pies in front of him.
— How much does this cost? — panic showed in the boy’s eyes.
— On the house, — Vera said firmly as she left the kitchen. — My name is Vera Petrovna. And yours?
— Dmitry… — he hesitated. — But this is too much charity.
— Dmitry, take the pies to your mother. She needs strength now.
The young man nodded gratefully, carefully packing the treats.
— You know, my grandmother baked these too… before she died.
When he left, Artyom pulled Vera aside.
— You’re a magician! — he whispered enthusiastically. — You know, we’re losing clients because of the boring menu. Vika is a decent cook but lacks imagination. But you…
— I just had a mom and grandmother who cooked. Nothing special, — Vera blushed.
— You’re too modest… — he stopped, noticing a noisy group entering the café. — Oh no, teachers from the neighboring school! They always order a lot at once!
Nina Arkadyevna rushed into the kitchen.
— We have a problem. A large order, and Vika is still on her way. Can you handle it? — she looked at Vera appraisingly.
— What do they want?
— They like our signature casserole and the “Capital” salad. But…
— Give me twenty minutes and freedom to act, — Vera unexpectedly declared.
Half an hour later, the teachers enthusiastically shared their impressions, calling Artyom over.
— This is not “Capital”! This is something divine! What’s the recipe?
— The secret of our new chef, — Artyom proudly replied, throwing admiring glances toward the kitchen.
Vera adjusted the classic recipes, adding her grandmother’s secret ingredients—walnut oil in the salad and rosemary in the casserole. Her hands moved like in a dance, and a culinary book she hadn’t known existed seemed to open in her mind.
— Compliments to the chef! — came from a table.
Nina Arkadyevna watched with undisguised surprise.
— I don’t understand anything, — she quietly said when she and Vera were alone in the kitchen. — You’re not a professional cook?
— Accountant, — Vera admitted. — Thirty years’ experience. The factory closed a month ago, and no one will give me a new job. Too… — she hesitated.
— Too experienced? — Nina Arkadyevna nodded understandingly. — Familiar story.
Vera’s phone vibrated in her pocket.
— Mom, how’s the interview? — her daughter’s worried voice.
— Lena, you won’t believe it, — Vera stepped into a corner, lowering her voice. — I’m in a restaurant kitchen. Cooking!
— You? — laughter was heard on the phone. — Mom, you hate cooking!
— Turns out I just didn’t know I could, — she caught her reflection in the shiny pot and didn’t recognize herself. Her cheeks flushed, eyes sparkled, and her shoulders straightened for the first time in months.
— Vera Petrovna! — Artyom peeked into the kitchen. — There’s a customer who wants to personally thank the chef.
A dignified man in a strict suit approached their table.
— Sergey Viktorovich Klimov, director of School No. 8, — he introduced himself. — I’m ready to kiss the hands that made this casserole! I’ve been coming here for twenty years but never tasted anything like this.
Vera shyly wiped her hands on her apron.
— Glad you liked it.
— Listen, we have a graduation party next week. Could you organize the buffet? The budget is decent.
Vera looked confused at Nina Arkadyevna.
— That needs to be discussed with management.
— We’ll discuss it, — she nodded. — Come to my office in an hour.
At that moment the café door swung open and a young woman with disheveled hair entered.
— Finally! — she sighed. — That traffic jam nearly killed me!
— Vika, you’re three hours late, — Nina Arkadyevna said coldly. — The orders are already done.
Victoria looked around confused and noticed Vera in an apron.
— And who’s this?
— Your temporary replacement, — Artyom explained. — And, I must say, a very successful one!
Victoria’s face paled, then flushed red.
— You hired another cook without telling me? — she turned to Nina Arkadyevna.
— I didn’t. Just lucky that Vera Petrovna happened to be in the right place at the right time, — the owner cut in. — And if not for her, we would have lost half the clients.
— I’ve always been loyal to the café! — tears welled in Victoria’s eyes. — One traffic jam, and you’re ready to replace me with the first stranger?
Sergey Viktorovich coughed awkwardly.
— Perhaps I’ll come back later to discuss order details.
In the heavy silence, Victoria’s heavy breathing was clearly audible. She glanced around the kitchen and noticed the unusual arrangement of spices.
— Who touched my jars? — she exclaimed indignantly. — This is chaos!
— Actually, it’s a logical system based on frequency of use, — Vera quietly remarked.
— Are you lecturing me? — Victoria arrogantly lifted her chin. — I graduated from culinary school!
— I just helped out in an emergency, — Vera began to untie her apron. — Thanks for the tea, Nina Arkadyevna. I have to go.
— Wait! — Nina decisively blocked her way. — I have a proposal. We’ll have a cooking duel. Victoria versus Vera. One dish chosen by our esteemed guest, — she nodded toward Sergey Viktorovich, who hadn’t left.
— Cooking duel? — Victoria nervously laughed. — That’s ridiculous. I’m a professional, and she… — the girl glanced at Vera with disdain, — a random street person.
— A random street person just had the whole hall ask to send their thanks, — Nina Arkadyevna calmly said. — And we have a chance to get the graduation order. Sergey Viktorovich, what would you like to try?
The school director thought for a moment.
— Graduation is a special day. It needs something festive but not clichéd. Something memorable for the kids.
— A restaurant dessert! — Victoria immediately blurted out. — I suggest an exquisite menu with French petits fours and Italian tiramisu.
— And you, Vera Petrovna? — Nina Arkadyevna turned to Vera.
She slowly removed her apron.
— Sorry, but I think I’ll pass on this competition, — she said quietly. — I really am not a professional.
Artyom grabbed her hand.
— Vera Petrovna, please don’t leave! I saw the sparkle in the customers’ eyes when they tasted your food!
— She’s just afraid to lose, — Victoria snorted.
Those words struck something in Vera’s soul. She remembered how many times in recent months she had heard “no,” how many doors closed on her because of her age. Suddenly she was seized by determination.
— Fine, — she tied the apron back on. — I propose an old Russian dessert recipe from my grandmother—“Pastila with apples and honey.”
— Pastila? — Victoria laughed loudly. — Seriously? That’s rustic simplicity!
— Sometimes simplicity is genius, — Sergey Viktorovich noted. — I accept the duel conditions. Let each prepare her version of the dessert.
Nina Arkadyevna led Vera to her office. Vera noticed papers with red marks on the desk.
— Sit down, — Nina gestured to a chair. — Be honest, can you really cook, or was today just luck?
— I… don’t know, — Vera admitted. — I’ve never cooked professionally. Only at home, for my family.
— You know, I also started without education, — Nina unexpectedly confessed. — Opened a café with my last money after my divorce.
At that moment the phone rang. Nina answered, her face grew serious.
— Yes, Olga Semyonovna… Yes, I understand about the overdue payment… — she glanced at Vera and lowered her voice. — Let’s discuss this later.
Hanging up, Nina rubbed her temples tiredly.
— Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, — Vera said embarrassed.
— It’s okay, — Nina waved her hand. — All restaurants are going through tough times. The graduation order could really help.
Vera suddenly realized that not only her fate but that of all café employees depended on her culinary skills. This realization gave her resolve.
— I can do it, — she said firmly.
Back in the kitchen, Vera saw Victoria already cooking vigorously. The girl combined trendy ingredients—saffron, exotic fruits, rose petals. Her dessert promised to be exquisite and spectacular.
Vera started simple—apples, honey, spices, whipped egg whites. Her movements grew more confident. She felt as if she had stood at the stove all her life, and accounting was just a strange dream.
Artyom quietly approached and whispered:
— Vika is Nina Arkadyevna’s school friend’s daughter. They won’t fire her even if her cooking objectively is worse. But you’re still competing!
Vera nodded. She wasn’t fighting anymore—she was creating. Her grandmother’s forgotten recipe surfaced, but Vera added her own touches—a bit of cinnamon, a drop of orange oil.
An hour and a half later, both desserts were ready. Victoria’s French petits fours looked like works of art—perfect proportions, bright colors, glossy glaze. Vera’s pastila seemed modest beside them—delicate snow-white clouds with rosy apple spots and shining honey syrup.
Sergey Viktorovich carefully examined both dishes, then tasted them. Victoria’s face glowed with confidence; Vera nervously fiddled with her apron.
— Well, — finally the director said — both desserts deserve high praise.
Victoria smiled victoriously.
— But, — he continued — Vera Petrovna’s dessert has what modern culinary innovations lack—soul and memory. Every piece of this pastila evoked memories of my grandmother’s home and carefree childhood. That’s exactly the feeling I want to give the graduates.
At that moment, Vera’s phone rang inside her bag. She hurried to find it, accidentally dropping the napkin with the note: “I’ll leave without paying. Compensation for the blouse.”
Nina Arkadyevna picked up the napkin and read the message. Her gaze slowly moved to Vera. The kitchen fell silent.
— Come to my office, — the café owner said dryly.
Vera followed her as if to the scaffold. Bitter irony spun in her head—she had just found what she was looking for and immediately lost it because of a silly note. And she hadn’t even used that “plan.”
In the office, Nina Arkadyevna sat at the desk, carefully spread the napkin with the betraying note and put it before her.
— Explain yourself.
Vera took a deep breath.
— When Artyom spilled tea on me, I was desperate. Fifth interview, fifth rejection. The last money in my wallet, unpaid bills at home. I thought— — she faltered — it would be fair to leave without paying. It was a foolish moment of weakness.
— But you didn’t leave.
— No. At first, I was delayed by the commotion, then… I wanted to help.
Nina was silent for a long time, tapping her fingers on the table. Then suddenly opened a drawer and took out an old, worn notebook.
— You know, in ’98 I was on the edge too. Worse even—I thought about robbing the cash register of my previous employer. Here are all my sinful thoughts, — she patted the notebook. — But I found the strength to start over.
Nina got up and went to the window.
— A person is defined not by thoughts, but by actions. And your actions today are talent and compassion. Sergey Viktorovich has already signed the contract for the graduation service, by the way.
— But I… — Vera began confusedly.
— I offer you the position of head chef, — Nina interrupted. — With a full contract and salary. Victoria will remain your assistant.
There was a knock on the door. It was Victoria, with tear-streaked eyes.
— Nina Arkadyevna, I wanted to apologize for my behavior and…
— Vika, meet our new head chef, — Nina nodded toward Vera.
Victoria froze, her face tensed, but then unexpectedly extended her hand.
— Your pastila… my grandmother made that too, but I could never replicate the taste. Will you teach me?
A month later, the café “Homely Comfort” experienced a true renaissance. Vera Petrovna’s new menu combined classics and innovation, nostalgia and fresh ideas. Victoria turned out to be a capable student, and Artyom diligently recorded recipes for a future cookbook.
— Vera Petrovna, we have a full house again, — Artyom happily reported, peeking into the kitchen. — And that school director came again. Seems
