Claire’s reply arrives eight seconds later.
Claire: I will take this as a breakthrough and pretend not to notice the insult.
Julien, passing behind me with the fish order in hand, looks at the phone and reads it upside down.
“Progress,” he says.
“Fish,” I say again.
This time, he goes. He disappears into the walk-in with the fish order in his hand and enough satisfaction in his shoulders to be irritating from behind. I let him have it. A man has to allow his sous-chef small victories if he wants the larger ones to keep meaning anything.
The kitchen moves around me in clean lines. Thomas rotates the first tray of bones and checks the color before reaching for the timer. Good. He can be taught, which is more than can be said for several men twice his age who have confused experience with wisdom. Elise slides a sheet tray into the pastry oven and adjusts the temperature by three degrees without looking at the dial for longer than necessary. Inès tastes the herb oil, pauses, then adds salt with the pinched precision of someone who knows salt is a decision, not a reflex.
Marc looks up from sauce. “Chef?”
I cross to his station. “What?”
He hands me a spoon. The sauce is dark, glossy, and almost where it needs to be.Almostis the most dangerous place in a kitchen.Almostconvinces weaker men to stop.
I taste.
“Too much reduction,” I say.
Marc nods once. “I thought so.”
“Then why am I tasting it?”
“Because I wanted to be sure.”
“Be sure before you give me the spoon.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Mount it again, lower heat, and stop treating patience like a punishment.”
He takes the pan off the flame.
“Yes, Chef.”
Behind me, Julien exits the walk-in.
“Fish is still excellent.”
“How generous of it.”
“I told it you would be relieved.”
“It knows better.”
Julien sets the clipboard on the pass.
“Claire sent the press sheet.”
“Already?”
“You gave her a paragraph. She smelled weakness.”
“I gave her a sentence.”