The Black Wife Privilege

Chapter 1

Celia

The alarm pierces through my dreams, and I jolt awake, my hand fumbling to silence the shrill sound. Sunlight streams through the half-drawn blinds of my tiny New York apartment. As I swing my legs off the bed, my pinky toe catches the corner of my dresser.

"Son of a—" I hop on one foot, clutching my throbbing toe. This is what happens when your entire life is crammed into 400 square feet. Books on culinary techniques pile up beside my bed, recipe cards scatter across every surface, and chef's knives compete for space with my coffee maker on the kitchen counter.

My phone buzzes with a text from Olivia: "Got a new fusion dish idea. Come in early?"

A smile spreads across my face. Working as sous chef at Flavor Fusion under Olivia Blackwood isn't just a job—it's a masterclass in culinary excellence. The way she combines flavors, her attention to detail, her innovative takes on traditional dishes... she's everything I aspire to be.

And maybe one day, I'll find myself a nice husband like she has. A six-foot-two hunk who is also filthy rich. What? Can't a girl dream?

I rush through my morning routine, tying my curly hair back in a messy bun. My chef's whites are pristine, despite the cramped quarters. That's one thing Olivia taught me early on—presentation matters, starting with ourselves.

Three years ago, when I first walked into her kitchen, nervous and fresh out of culinary school, Olivia took one look at me and said, "Girl, you've got that fire in your eyes. Same one I had when I started." Since then, she's been more than just my boss. She's my mentor, showing me how to navigate this industry as a Black woman, how to turn criticism into fuel for excellence.

Last week, we spent hours perfecting a Caribbean-Asian fusion sauce that had customers practically licking their plates clean. That's what I love about working with Olivia—she pushes boundaries, challenges conventions, and demands nothing less than perfection. And somehow, she makes it look effortless.

I grab my knife roll and keys, dodging the stack of cookbooks by the door. My apartment might be chaos, but in Olivia's kitchen, everything has its place. There's something beautiful about that order, that precision. It's where I feel most at home.

The drive to Flavor Fusion is short, and automatic. My body takes over while my mind drifts elsewhere, thinking about recipes and ingredients and smiling guests who will scrutinize their meal's presentation with the keenest eyes.

Every now and then, we'll get an asshole of a customer who no one can please. Not even Olivia.

"Those people are few and far between," she always reassures, patting me on the back. "Just deal with them, smile, and minimize conflict. You can't please everyone."

Her words are still ringing in my head as I straighten out the last of my outfit's wrinkles. I push through Flavor Fusion's back entrance, the familiar scent of fresh herbs and sautéed garlic greeting me. The kitchen's already humming with activity—prep cooks dicing vegetables, line cooks setting up their stations.

"Morning, Chef." I tie my apron around my waist, moving straight to the prep list Olivia's posted.

"Perfect timing." Olivia waves me over to her station. "I'm thinking lemongrass-infused coconut curry with a twist. But first—"

"Prep for lunch service." I nod, already reaching for my knife roll. No matter how exciting the new dishes sound, the basics come first.

My hands move on autopilot: julienning carrots, breaking down chickens, blanching vegetables. The morning dissolves into a blur of repetitive tasks. A voice in my head whispers about the spice combination I've been dreaming up, but I push it aside. There's no time for experimentation when tickets start rolling in.

"Celia, I need you on garnish," Olivia calls out as the lunch rush hits. "Then help Marco on sauté—he's in the weeds."

I jump from station to station, plating dishes with precise movements. A splash of microgreens here, a drizzle of sauce there. My own creative ideas simmer on the back burner while I focus on executing Olivia's vision perfectly.

"Behind!" I weave through the cramped kitchen, carrying a stack of fresh herbs. "Corner!" Two steps to the right, dodge the dishwasher, pivot around the prep cook.

The tickets keep coming. I wipe sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, check the time—three hours have passed in what feels like minutes. This is the reality of restaurant life: creativity takes a backseat to consistency and speed.

"Fire table seven!" Olivia's voice cuts through the chaos. I grab plates, arrange garnishes, ensure each dish matches the photos in our plating guide exactly. There's no room for interpretation or artistic license during service. Every plate must be identical, every component precise.

Through the kitchen's swinging doors, snippets of conversation drift in from the dining room. I'm wiping down my station when a woman's excited voice catches my attention.

"...and then at Per Se, they served this incredible wagyu with black truffle shavings. The plating was like artwork..."

My hands slow their methodical cleaning as I strain to hear more.

"Oh, but you haven't lived until you've tried Chef Matsuda's tasting menu," her companion replies. "Fifteen courses of pure genius. The way he combines traditional Japanese techniques with modern molecular gastronomy..."

I glance down at the sauce-splattered counter I'm cleaning. Don't get me wrong—Olivia's food is amazing, and Flavor Fusion draws crowds every night. But these diners are talking about experiences that cost more than anything I've ever known. The kind of dining that transforms eating into art.

"Behind!" A line cook squeezes past with a heavy pot, jolting me back to reality.

My savings account has exactly $847.32 in it. My student loans eat half my paycheck every month. The other half barely covers rent and groceries. How am I supposed to create the kind of culinary experiences these people are raving about when I can barely afford to eat at them?

I've been here three years. Started as line cook, worked my way up to sous chef. Maybe it's time to ask Olivia for a raise? My stomach knots at the thought. She's already given me so many opportunities, taught me so much. What if asking for more money makes me seem ungrateful?

More voices drift in from the dining room: "...that chef who started that pop-up in Brooklyn? Now she's got three Michelin stars..."

My hands grip the cleaning rag tighter, knuckles straining against the damp cloth. That could be me. Should be me. I have notebooks full of ideas, flavor combinations I've never seen anyone try. Vietnamese pho spices in a French onion soup. Moroccan preserved lemon in an Italian risotto. Bold moves that could put me on the map. But ideas don't pay bills. And starting your own restaurant requires capital I definitely don't have.

I watch Olivia plate a dish with precise movements, adding the perfect drizzle of sauce. Her steady hands create an artistic swoop across the white porcelain. She makes it look so easy, so effortless. But I know the years of grinding it took to get here, the sacrifices she made. The sixteen-hour days, the burns, the cuts, the missed holidays with family.

The question isn't whether I should ask for a raise—it's whether a raise would even be enough to get me where I want to go. My dreams are bigger than a few extra dollars per hour. They're about having my own kitchen, my own menu, my own chance to prove what I can do. But right now, those dreams feel as far away as those Michelin stars.

As my shift comes to a close, I peel off my chef's whites, muscles aching from the constant motion of lunch service. The small staff bathroom at Flavor Fusion barely has room to change, but I manage to squeeze into my bartending uniform—black V-neck and dark jeans.

"Heading to your other gig?" Olivia's voice carries concern as I emerge.

"Bills won't pay themselves." I attempt a smile, but exhaustion tugs at the corners of my mouth.

The drive to The Copper Room feels longer than usual. My feet throb in their non-slip shoes, and the day's prep lists still scroll through my mind like endless ticker tape.

The bar's already packed when I arrive. Bass thumps through speakers, and the smell of spilled beer mingles with perfume and sweat. I clock in, tie my apron, and jump straight into the Friday night chaos.

"Cosmo!"

"Two Old Fashioneds!"

"Shot of Patron!"

My hands move mechanically—shake, strain, garnish. Pour, mix, serve. The movements mirror my kitchen work, but lack the same satisfaction. Here, I'm just facilitating other people's good times.

A group of suits crowds the bar, fresh from their Wall Street offices. Their watches probably cost more than six months of my rent. They order round after round of top-shelf whiskey, tossing back hundred-dollar shots like water.

"Another round!" One slaps his credit card down. "Life is good!"

My shoulders tense as I prepare their drinks. Must be nice, having that kind of disposable income. Meanwhile, I'm calculating if I can stretch my groceries another day to avoid dipping into my meager savings.

The night drags on. My lower back screams from standing for sixteen hours straight. The ice well needs refilling. Someone spills a martini. A drunk girl cries in the corner. Through it all, I keep moving, keep serving, keep smiling that practiced bartender smile that doesn't reach my eyes.

By 2 AM, my dreams of owning my own restaurant feel like fantasy—as intangible as smoke from the cigarettes these patrons sneak outside. My hands smell like citrus and stale beer instead of the complex sauces I created earlier. Is this what my life will be? Forever chasing a dream while running myself ragged just to survive?