“You know they are nervous.”
“Nervous people should not invest in restaurants.”
“Then restaurants would have no investors.”
“Exactly.”
Julien watches the last of the crew filter toward the staff exit. Marc leaves first with a muttered good night. Inès follows, carrying an extra bundle of herbs she claims will otherwise be wasted, which is theft only in the technical sense and therefore not worth discussion. Elise leaves with the citrus tart notes folded into her notebook and a face that promises the tart will have character tomorrow or someone will suffer.
Thomas lingers at his station, wiping the same clean corner of steel for the fourth time.
“Thomas,” I say.
He looks up immediately. “Yes, Chef.”
“Go home.”
“Yes, Chef.”
He hesitates, then says, “The second stock was better.”
“It was.”
His shoulders drop by a degree.
“Not good enough yet,” I say.
His shoulders rise again.
“But better,” I say.
He nods once. “Thank you, Chef.”
“Do not thank me for accuracy.”
“No, Chef.”
He leaves quickly, which is the correct response.
Julien waits until the door closes behind him.
“That was almost kind,” Julien says.
“No, it was accurate.”
“As you say.”
“I do.”
“You also enjoyed saying it.”
“Go home, Julien.”
He picks up his bag from beneath the counter. “You first.”
“I own the restaurant.”
“You have said that twice today.”