Selfish Restaurant Owner Is Forced to Step into the Kitchen and Work Alongside Employees Who Despise Her — Story of the Day

Helen runs her restaurant with a strict hand, expecting perfection and showing no tolerance for mistakes. But when tensions rise and she ends up working in the kitchen herself, Helen realizes just how much her employees resent her. Faced with the truth, she must decide if she’s willing to change—or lose them all.

Helen moved slowly between the tables in her restaurant, her eyes constantly scanning every corner, every guest, and every member of her staff. She was always on the lookout for the slightest sign of a mistake.

She believed the place depended on her, so she arrived each day at dawn, before anyone else, and stayed until the last guest left, sometimes long past closing. As she passed the entrance, her photograph, framed and hung on the wall, caught her eye.

It was there so everyone who entered would know that she was in charge. Then, her eyes landed on a familiar face at one of the tables. An old acquaintance. She walked over, surprised but smiling.

“Richard! I didn’t expect to see you here,” Helen said, a hint of excitement in her voice.

“Well, I finally had a chance to stop by and check out your place. I have to say, it’s impressive,” Richard replied, looking around. “You’ve done well.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Helen said. “Did everything meet your expectations?”

“Yes, absolutely. The food tasted great, but…” Richard hesitated, glancing at her.

“But what?” Helen pressed, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe the presentation could use some work,” he said gently. “The dishes look a bit rushed. Just my two cents, though.”

Helen gave a small nod. “I appreciate your honesty, Richard. Enjoy your evening,” she replied before moving on.

Helen didn’t waste a second and stormed into the kitchen, her face set with determination. She called out sharply, “Mike!”

Mike, the head chef, turned to her with a scowl. “What now, Helen?”

“Guests are saying the dishes look sloppy,” Helen said, her voice cold.

Mike scoffed, his irritation clear. “Then they can go eat somewhere else!”

Helen narrowed her eyes. “Fix it. Redo the dishes.”

“No! I’m not redoing anything! You approved every single plate that left this kitchen, and now, suddenly, there’s a problem?!”

“Yes, now there is,” Helen insisted. “So, fix it.”

With a deep sigh, Mike glared at her. “I’m tired, Helen! It’s like a furnace in here because you refuse to get air conditioning! You treat everyone like they’re machines, not people! You don’t even know the names of the other cooks! And still, you want more, more, more. All you care about is money. This isn’t about making good food anymore.” He paused, looking her straight in the eyes. “I quit.”

Before Helen could say anything, Mike tore off his apron, threw it to the floor, and walked out. She felt a pang of unease. Mike was a talented chef, but she pushed that feeling down.

She turned to the rest of the kitchen staff. “Who’s the sous-chef here?”

A young man, barely in his twenties, raised his hand. “I am.”

Helen nodded. “Congratulations. You’re now in charge.”

The young man cleared his throat. “We need another person here, though.”

“I’ll handle it,” she said firmly, then turned and left the kitchen.

Helen paced her office, frustrated and tired. A whole week had gone by, and still no chef had applied for the job. She wasn’t surprised. Deep down, she knew the reason.

She’d heard the whispers from her staff and seen the looks they exchanged behind her back. People thought she was too harsh, that she cared only about profit. She always demanded her team work at their best, no exceptions.

Just then, the new head chef she’d appointed knocked on her door. “Helen, we really need another cook in the kitchen. People are saying they’ll quit if we don’t get help soon,” he said, stepping into her office.

Helen looked at him blankly for a moment. “Remind me—what’s your name again?”

“Tony,” he replied, a hint of impatience in his tone.

“Right. Tony. Look, I’ve tried, but no one is applying,” she said, shrugging.

Tony didn’t back down. “Well, they mean it, Helen. The other cooks said if we don’t get someone by the end of today, they’re all leaving.”

Helen’s jaw tightened. “Fine, Tony. Just get back to work. I’m not paying you to stand around talking,” she said, waving him off.

Tony gave her a steady look, then walked back to the kitchen.

“Damn it,” Helen muttered, rubbing her temples.

Helen realized she had no other option—she’d have to work in the kitchen herself. Memories of her early years came flooding back. She’d once been just another cook, sweating in a noisy kitchen and dreaming of one day owning her own place. But that was years ago, and she hadn’t set foot in a kitchen as a worker since.

She made her way to the locker room, grabbed an old set of chef’s whites, and changed quickly. As she entered the kitchen, she noticed the cooks clustered together, talking and laughing, relaxed in a way she rarely saw. They hadn’t yet noticed her standing there, watching.

“Do you get paid to stand around and have fun?!” Helen shouted, her voice sharp. The laughter stopped at once, and everyone moved back to their stations, heads down.

Tony stepped up to her, calm but firm. “Sometimes, people need to unwind. We’re all human, Helen,” he said.

Helen’s gaze hardened. “When you’re in my restaurant, you’re employees. You’re here to work, not relax,” she snapped. “I’ll be in here with you until I find a new cook.”

Tony’s expression didn’t waver. “Then you’ll have to follow my rules. I’m the head chef here.”

“No way,” Helen replied, crossing her arms. “This is my kitchen, just as much as you are my employees.”

Tony shook his head with a small, almost mocking smile. “Then good luck, Helen. I’d love to see how long you last in your kitchen with that attitude.”

As orders began rolling in, Helen jumped in, ready to assist. She tried to chop vegetables and prepare ingredients, but it seemed like no one noticed. The cooks ignored her questions, refused to pass her what she needed, and even tossed her chopped vegetables in the trash without a word.

Fuming, Helen snapped, “How dare you?! Those vegetables were bought with my money!”

A young woman, one of the cooks, looked at her with a smirk. “Then maybe learn to chop them right.”

Laughter echoed through the kitchen, and Helen’s face turned red. Tony stepped forward, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Hey! This is a team, and we work like one. Got it?”

“Yes, Chef!” the cooks shouted together, their attitudes shifting.

After that, they began treating Helen as part of the team—helping her, answering her questions, and even asking her for help in return. She couldn’t believe how much Tony’s words changed the kitchen’s atmosphere.

By the end of the shift, Helen felt completely drained. The heat was intense, and sweat trickled down her face. She wiped her brow and looked around, frowning. “Why doesn’t anyone turn on the air conditioning?” she asked, almost to herself.

Tony glanced over at her. “There isn’t any air conditioning. You told us if it’s hot, we should just open a window.”

Helen’s eyes narrowed. “Well, then open the damn window!” she snapped, frustration in her voice.

“It’s already open,” Tony replied calmly.

Helen fell silent, watching as the cooks kept working, each focused and moving steadily despite the stifling heat. She felt something shift in her but said nothing.

After the shift, she ran into Tony in the locker room. “Thank you for standing up for me back there, in the kitchen,” she said.

Tony shook his head. “I wasn’t standing up for you. I was making sure they remember we’re a team. It doesn’t matter who’s in the kitchen.”

Helen nodded slowly. “I like you better than Mike,” she admitted.

Tony just nodded in return, then turned and walked out of the locker room.

The next morning, the cooks walked into the kitchen to feel a cool, refreshing breeze. They looked around, noticing the new air conditioning unit humming softly above them.

A few exchanged surprised glances, but nobody said a word. It was strange, considering Helen’s usual unwillingness to spend money on their comfort.

Despite the change, they still didn’t trust her; she was still “the boss,” and most of them still felt a grudge.

But over the next few days, Helen’s behavior surprised them. She took the time to talk to each cook, learning their names, asking how they got to work, and even listening to their stories.

Gradually, she began covering their transportation costs. She stepped in to defend the cooks when picky guests criticized the menu, insisting the team had crafted it with care.

She even adjusted the schedule, making shifts shorter and giving everyone longer breaks. Little by little, the staff began to see a different side of Helen.

One evening, Helen bumped into Tony in the locker room. She looked tired but determined. “Tony, I want to replace some of the equipment in the kitchen,” she began. “It’s not suitable. It’s too hard to work with.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Mike told you that for months,” he replied, leaning against a locker.

Helen nodded slowly. “I guess I had to work in the kitchen myself to understand,” she admitted. “I used to work in a kitchen when I was young. Back then, I hated our manager. She didn’t understand how hard our jobs were, and she never made things easier. She only made them harder. I promised myself I’d never be like her, but then I became an owner, and things… changed.”

Tony watched her for a moment. “I hope working with us these past days showed you there’s more than one way to keep things running.”

Helen looked down, thinking. “Yes, it has,” she said. “But honestly, Tony, I don’t think the staff will ever like me.”

Tony shrugged. “They don’t have to like you. But they do need to respect you. And respect goes both ways. The moment you started respecting them, they began respecting you, too.”

Helen looked up, a bit surprised. “Really?” she asked.

Tony gave her a knowing smile. “Haven’t you noticed how smoothly the kitchen’s been running lately?”

Helen shrugged. “I don’t know. I never really noticed before.”

Tony chuckled. “Well, now you know. And for the record, the cooks have definitely stopped spitting in your dishes.”

Helen’s eyes widened. “They did what?” she asked, horrified.

Tony shook his head, grinning. “Hey, you spit on their lives first. It was their small way of getting back. Goodnight, Helen.”

“Goodbye,” she replied, sighing. “But I wish you hadn’t told me that.”

“Just keep going, Helen,” Tony said as he walked out. “You’re on the right path.”

Helen stepped into the quiet, empty restaurant, her footsteps echoing softly. She paused by the entrance, where her framed photo hung proudly on the wall.

For a moment, she stared at it, seeing it differently now. Without hesitation, she reached up and took it down. The next morning, the wall held a new photo—a picture of the entire team, together as one.

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