I roll my eyes. "You are so dramatic."
"It’s a family trait." He smiles at me, and there is something so charming about it that I cannot help the small laugh that escapes.
"Anyway, I assumed as much," he continues, looking unbothered by my rejection. "Based on the fact that you have been hostile to me for approximately ninety percent of our interactions."
"Hey, I am being quite nice right now," I say, gesturing at him with my glass. "I invited you over here, did I not? I am making polite conversation. I even avoided saying anything about your terrible taste in bourbon."
He glances down at his drink, then back at me with an expression of exaggerated offense. "This is a perfectly respectable bourbon."
"It’s afinebourbon," I say, drawing out the word. "For someone who does not know any better."
I take a pointed sip of my own bourbon with the smugness of someone who has superior taste and is not above flaunting it.
"And what would you recommend instead, since you are clearly such an expert?" He leans in slightly, clearly enjoying this.
“Anyone with taste knows that Blanton's is the good stuff," I say. "Not the Bulleit I saw the bartender pour for your glass. Perfectly drinkable, but nothing special.”
He laughs, warm and unguarded. It seems to come so easily to him, like playfulness is his default setting rather than something he has to work for.
"Ouch," he says, pressing his hand to his chest. "You are really good at the cutting remarks. Have you considered a career in professional insults?"
"I am half French," I say, as if that explains everything. "It comes naturally."
His smile widens. "Well, you havegotto stop being so mean to me, or I'm going to fall in love with you and then we're both in trouble."
I choke on my drink, bourbon burning the back of my throat as I cough in a way that is decidedly not elegant or attractive. My eyes water and I press the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to recover some shred of dignity.
"You okay there?" he asks, looking far too amused by my suffering.
"Fine," I manage once I can breathe again, my voice slightly hoarse. "Went down the wrong pipe."
"Sure it did."
"So," I say, once my lungs have stopped staging a revolt. "You have a thing for hostile women, is that it? Women who insult your bourbon?"
"I have a thing forinterestingwomen," he says, leaning back against the bar and getting comfortable. "And you are extremely interesting. The hostile bourbon critiques are just a cherry on top."
He winks at me, and I will be absolutely damned if it is not a little bit charming in an obnoxious sort of way.
"You are shameless," I say, shaking my head at him.
"Completely shameless," he agrees without a hint of remorse or self-consciousness. "It is one of my best qualities, honestly. Probably top three."
"I am afraid to ask what the other two are."
"If we get to know each other a bit better, maybe you will find out."
I should shut this down right now. I should tell him firmly and clearly that this is not happening, that he should save his charm for someone who is actually susceptible to it, someone who is not his evaluator's daughter and his ticket to a funded restaurant. But instead I find myself smiling back, just a little, against my better judgment.
I see Margot making her way back toward us, phone tucked away and looking relieved, like the wedding situation has been resolved to her satisfaction and she can finally relax. I turn back to Alex before she gets close enough to overhear.
"We’ll see," I say, and I am not entirely sure what I mean by that.
The sunchoke velouté for tomorrow's second course is three-quarters of the way to where it needs to be. The base is silky and the earthiness is there, but the finish still isn't landing. I've adjusted the ratio twice already and I'm standing here with a tasting spoon considering a third attempt.
I add another drop of the vinegar and whisk it through, then taste. Better, so I set the spoon down and make a note on the prep sheet to adjust the ratio for tomorrow's full batch.
Tomorrow is opening night. Which means today is about execution, timing, and making sure every person on this line can deliver at the level I expect without a single garnish a millimeter off center or a sauce broken under pressure.