The cooks lean in to examine the photos, passing them between stations. I glance back at Alex, who hasn't moved from the doorframe, still watching me with that half-smile on his face.
"One more thing," I say, because I might as well acknowledge the elephant in the room before he starts causing problems. "This is Alex Midnight. He's here as a consultant, courtesy of my father. Alex, I believe there's a lovely corner over there where you can observe without getting in anyone's way."
He pushes off the doorframe and ambles over, hands in his pockets, seemingly completely unbothered by my tone. "Corner. Got it. I'll just be over here not touching anything."
To my annoyance, this gets a few laughs out of the cooks, and Sofia laughs louder than I really think is necessary, like he just said the funniest thing she's heard all week. I suppress an eye roll. He's notthatfunny.
"Perfect." I smile at him, sweet as arsenic, then turn back to my team. "Now. Let's walk through the menu."
I work through the assignments, writing each name next to their station, making notes about timing and cross-training. This is the part I love, the part that feels like solving a puzzle,fitting people into roles, figuring out how to make a group of individuals function as a single unit. It's like conducting an orchestra, except the instruments are knives and sauté pans and the music is a seven-course tasting menu.
The next six hours pass in a blur of demonstrations and refinements. I walk them through the halibut course, adjusting ratios until the color is exactly right, until it tastes like the sea and summer and the faintest trace of floral underneath. I drill them on the timing for the egg course, the one that has to hit the table within ninety seconds of plating or the yolk sets too firmly and the whole thing falls apart.
Every now and then I catch Alex nodding at a technique or tilting his head during an explanation. I can practically see the opinions forming behind his eyes. But thankfully he keeps them to himself.
By the time I dismiss the team for a break, my feet are aching and my shoulders have locked into a permanent hunch. The kitchen empties, cooks heading for coffee and fresh air. Sofia lingers for a moment, glancing toward Alex's corner, but he has already slipped out through the side door.
I stay at the center island, reviewing my notes, adding reminders about things I forgot to mention. I finally pull out my phone, which displays multiple texts from my father, wishing me luck, hoping I will come around to seeing the value in his little arrangement. His last text in particular makes my jaw clench.Isabelle, you have to trust that I have been in this business for a very long time and I know better than you what you need right now.
"It ismyfucking pop-up," I mutter at my phone, “you do not get to decide what I need." I stab out a reply and then delete it before I can send something I will regret.
"Bad time?"
I spin around. Alex has come back into the kitchen and is standing a few feet away, watching me with an expressionbetween curiosity and amusement. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks immediately.
"Just my father," I say, shoving my phone into my back pocket and waving my hand like I can dismiss the whole thing. "He is driving me up the wall."
Alex nods. "Well, this might not be the right time then, but do you have a second? I noticed something on the calendar and wanted to check with you before you finalized things with the vendors."
He holds up the delivery calendar that I had left on the prep table earlier, the one with all my careful color-coding and margin notes.
"Sure, what is it?" I ask, setting my pen down on the counter.
"Your lamb delivery." He walks over and stops next to me, leaning one hip against the edge of the prep station and laying the calendar flat between us. "You’ve got it scheduled for Friday morning, but the soft preview is Thursday night. That means you would be serving lamb that has not even arrived yet."
He points at the date, and my stomach drops. He’s right. I would be standing in the kitchen on Thursday night with a lamb course on the menu and no lamb in the walk-in. It is a rookie mistake, and the fact that he is the one who caught it makes it worse.
"Thursday afternoon," I say, pulling the calendar back toward me and grabbing my pen. "I will move it up. Thanks."
"No problem." He straightens up from the prep station. "I mean, you are dealing with a ton right now."
He is being kind about it, which somehow makes me feel worse. My father would not have made a mistake like that nor let it go so easily. But I do not say that out loud. I just scribble the note in the margin and make a reminder to call the vendor first thing in the morning to adjust the delivery window.
I open my mouth to thank him, to say something gracious and professional and appropriately appreciative, but nothingcomes out. The words stick somewhere between my pride and my throat.
"If you notice anything else, please always tell me directly," I say. "Not the team. And not my father. Please."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts. "I'm the worst spy ever hired, remember?"
"Hmm.” I cross my arms because I don't know what else to do with them. “Well, thank you."
He nods, then tilts his head at me. "Also, I tried that halibut crudo tester you left out for the team earlier. The one with the Espelette and the shallot confit. It was incredible, really."
I narrow my eyes at him immediately, suspicious. "Are you making fun of me? Because I worked really hard on that dish and if you're being sarcastic I will throw this pen at you."
He looks surprised and laughs. "What? No. God no, I'm being completely serious. Does that happen a lot? People making fun of your food?"
"No," I admit. "But I still don’t completely trust you."