"How is she really?" Jean-Pierre asks, his voice low. "Not the professional assessment. I want to know what you've actually observed. Your updates were positive, but I want the truth."
I consider what to say. He asked me to observe and report, that was the deal from the beginning, and I've been doing it honestly for two weeks. What he doesn't know is that I've been showing Isabelle the messages before I send them.
"She's ready," I say. "More than ready. The menu is brilliant, the team is solid, she's going to execute at the highest level tonight. There's no but. That's the whole picture."
Jean-Pierre nods slowly. "And her state of mind? Is she focused? Confident?"
"She's exactly what you'd want her to be the day of opening night. Focused, prepared, running her kitchen like she was born to do it." I hold his gaze, deciding to push a little further than he probably wants me to. "You should tell her that yourself, by the way. Before service starts. She'd like to hear it from you."
A flicker crosses Jean-Pierre's face, too fast for me to read, and then his expression settles back into steel. "I'm sure she knows how I feel about her capabilities."
"With respect, sir, she's carrying a lot of weight tonight. A word from you before service could go a long way. She's yourdaughter."
Jean-Pierre studies me with those sharp dark eyes, so unlike Isabelle's warm hazel ones, and for a second I genuinely wonder if I've just ended my Seattle career before it started.
"You've gotten to know her well," he says finally. "In two weeks."
"Well enough to see how good she is," I say, relieved that his first sentence at least isn't telling me to go fuck myself.
He nods once. "I'll be back."
I watch him head down the path toward the kitchen doors, then turn back to the dining room to find Olivier watching mefrom table six with an expression I don't like at all, speculative and calculating.
I give him a pleasant, meaningless smile and get back to work. Theo would be proud of my restraint.
The next twenty minutes are a blur of arrivals and greetings and all the small orchestrations that make a service run smoothly. TheTimescritic arrives at seven sharp, a woman in her fifties with silver hair and an expression that gives away absolutely nothing. More guests filter in after that, industry people and food writers.
I work the floor, moving between the dining room and the kitchen, checking in with Isabelle, making sure the machinery of the evening runs without anyone seeing the gears. Back at the kitchen, Isabelle looks completely in her element.
Calling orders, adjusting plates, and I feel inexplicably proud of her. I've only known her for two weeks, but it's impossible not to feel proud of her, watching her command that kitchen like she was built for it, knowing how hard she’s worked.
I make my rounds through the dining room, checking on Jean-Pierre and Olivier a few times in passing. The kitchen isn't visible from the dining room, but I catch Olivier glancing toward the path that leads to it with an expression I don't like one bit.
The first tickets come through and the kitchen kicks into gear for real. The amuse-bouche goes out first, Isabelle's olive oil spheres glistening on their tiny spoons, and I track them across the dining room to their tables, watching faces for reactions. Raised eyebrows. Small nods. A woman at table three closing her eyes as she tastes it. So far, so good.
The first course follows, then the second, each plate leaving the pass exactly as it should, and I start to feel the satisfaction that comes when a service is running well. The kitchen is tight. The front of house is flowing. Everything is clicking into place.
I'm near the bar checking on wine service when I noticeOlivier flagging down one of the servers, a young woman named Katherine. He's saying something I can't hear, gesturing toward the kitchen, and whatever it is makes Katherine look uncomfortable before she nods and heads toward the walkway.
I move closer, positioning myself at the host stand near their table where I'm within earshot, as though I’m suddenly very interested in the menus on the podium. If I happen to overhear something while urgently reorganizing a stack of reservation cards, well, that's just unfortunate timing.
Isabelle appears a moment later, walking over to the table.
"Ah, Isabelle!" Jean-Pierre smiles and gestures for her to join them.
"Papa. Olivier." She nods to each of them, her voice pleasant and cool. "I hope you're enjoying the meal."
"The amuse-bouche was delightful." Olivier leans back in his chair, looking up at her with an expression that makes me want to physically insert myself between them. "Very creative, the little sphere thing. Your father was just telling me about the technique."
"Well that’s wonderful to hear," she says politely. "But I really should get back to the kitchen. We're between courses and I need to be on the line."
"Surely you can spare a few minutes." Jean-Pierre says it lightly. "A chef should be able to step away without things falling apart. If you can't, it means you haven't delegated properly. I've told Olivier a great deal about you, ma chérie, he's been looking forward to meeting you."
Olivier leans forward. "Yes, please. I've been looking for a culinary partner for a new venture, and your father speaks so highly of your talents. I'd love to discuss possibilities."
Isabelle's smile doesn't waver, but I catch the flicker of irritation in her eyes. She's trapped and she knows it.
I step forward, positioning myself beside Isabelle and addressing the table with my best apologetic smile. "I'm so sorryto interrupt, but we need Chef Beaumont back in the kitchen. One of the hosts just let me know that Sofia has a question about one of the dishes."