"Isabelle, look at you," she says, stepping back to examine me with her hands on my shoulders, her dark eyes warm andassessing. "California agrees with you. You look less stressed than the last time I saw you."
"Thanks, Camille. It's so good to see you too." I smile and step back, gesturing to Margot. "This is my friend Margot."
They exchange pleasant greetings, Margot turning on her charm, and then we head back through the dining room and into the kitchen. It's a serious place, and has built a reputation as a Michelin contender. I take in the elegant wood tables, black details and brass fixtures, the subtle lighting that makes everything feel intimate and expensive.
“This is it.” Camille gestures around the empty room with one graceful hand. "I wanted you to see the space, meet the team, get a sense of what we're building here. What the atmosphere is like when it's just us."
She walks us through the kitchen, pushing through the swinging doors, and it's impeccable. Top-of-the-line equipment, everything stainless steel and spotless. Three line cooks are prepping for the evening service in the corner, theirmise en placelaid out in perfect rows.
She talks about pursuing a Michelin star, about building the kind of reputation that attracts critics and serious diners. Her eyes light up when she talks about it, the passion clear. I nod and ask questions about her sourcing, her menu development, her team structure, and try to feel excited, try to feel the way I should feel when someone is offering me a position this good.
But it doesn't come. The excitement, the pull, theyesrising in my chest—none of it materializes.
We end up back in the dining room, sitting at one of the tables while Camille has one of the servers bring us espresso. Margot has been quiet, observing, taking in the space and the team and the operation, and I can feel her watching me carefully.
"So," Camille says, leaning forward. "I'll be honest with you, Isabelle. I need someone I can trust in this kitchen. Someonewith your training, your palate, your reputation. Someone who understands what we're trying to build here, someone who can execute at this level, that I don't have to train or manage or second-guess."
"Well it's certainly a beautiful operation," I say. "Really impressive, Camille. You've built an incredible place here. I'm still getting my bearings a bit, figuring out what I want, but this is seriously gorgeous."
She smiles. "Well I take that as a good sign. And I'm sorry about the thing with your father, though I won't lie I wanted to pounce and scoop you up as soon as I heard the news. He's insane not to keep you in the fold. You've always been a generational talent, Isabelle. Even back in Paris when you were just staging, everyone could see it."
I smile, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "Thanks Camille, that means a lot to hear."
She nods, then glances at her phone and winces. "Shoot, let me handle this supplier issue real quick. One of our farms is being difficult about the delivery schedule. Discuss what you think, alright? I'll be back in ten minutes, maybe fifteen."
She stands gracefully and heads toward the back office, leaving Margot and me alone at the table with our espressos.
Margot looks over. "So, what do you think?" she asks gently.
I sigh, looking around. "I feel so indecisive. Like I should know what I want by now, but I don't. My father has made the calls for so long. And I've always thought of myself as an independent person. But now I see how much was guided for me and I feel paralyzed by the sudden possibility of actual choice. Like, is this even the kind of food Iwantto cook? It's so similar to what I've been doing my whole career, pursuing Michelin stars and technical perfection, but…"
She looks at me thoughtfully, setting down her espresso cup. "When I'm trying to decide what type of wine to recommend for an event, especially when I'm not sure what direction to go, Ithink to myself, what was the best wine I had this year? What was the best pairing I experienced last spring? The one that made me stop and really pay attention. And then I go from there. So, what was the best thing you ate this year?"
I sit with that question, thinking and turning it over in my mind. Outside the frosted windows, I can hear the muffled sounds of the city—taxi horns, voices, the constant hum of Manhattan.
"I don't even think it wasmypop-up food," I say slowly, the realization settling over me. "Like I was proud of all that, the technique was flawless, the execution was perfect. But it was technically perfect like my father likes. Like his New York City restaurant style. It didn't make me...feel, you know?"
She nods encouragingly.
"If I think about the things I really loved," I continue, trying to articulate what's been nagging at me for weeks. "It's how my grandmother used to cook. How she used to make food feel like it fed your soul. It was nostalgic, homey, comforting like a hug, working with the seasons. She took care of people with her food."
She smiles warmly. "That sounds like she was a wonderful cook."
"She was," I say, feeling the familiar ache of missing her. "Alex cooks like that actually. His restaurant wasamazingwhen he took me there to Dark River, and he made me that fig dish in honor of my grandmother. He already knows how to do what I'm trying to articulate."
I turn to look out the window, watching blurred figures move past on the sidewalk. "I think the best meal I had this year was at that French restaurant Alex took me to on that getaway weekend. I want to cook food likethat. Delicious food, technically excellent, but with soul. Food that also makes people feel welcome and at home.
"Sounds like you already know that this isn't the fit for you,"Margot says gently. "I'm usually one for a pro-con list and a detailed analysis, but I think you've got to trust your gut on this one."
I nod slowly, relief and anxiety mixing together in my chest. "Yeah, I think you're right. Ugh, now I just need to tell Camille no."
Margot squeezes my hand, her fingers warm around mine. "She'll understand. And if she doesn't, that's okay too. You're allowed to want what you want, Isabelle. Even if it doesn't make sense to anyone else."
Camille returns a few minutes later, sliding back into her seat with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that."
I take a breath. "Camille, I need to be honest with you."
She reads my expression and her face softens. "You're going to say no."