He stands. Extends one enormous hand down to me. I ignore it, rise on my own, and cross to the supply closet for a mop. The floor is a lake. We'll break our necks before we cook a single dish.
"Rule one," I say, dragging the mop. "No volatile spice work indoors without my direct supervision."
"Agreed."
"Rule two. We split the prep station evenly. Your half, my half. No encroachment."
"Agreed."
"Rule three." I stop mopping and face him. "Every component of this dish gets plated to my standard. Not thrown onto a trencher like medieval slop."
His jaw tightens. There it is. The line in the sand he doesn't want to cross. Boris Cleaver does not plate. Boris Cleaver heaps. Boris Cleaver piles food into wooden bowls and shoves them across his bar with both hands and calls it service.
"Show me," he says. The words come out low. Almost a growl.
I lean the mop against the wall and cross to the supply rack. The tweezers are in the third drawer, rolled in a cloth sleeve alongside my offset spatulas, ring molds, and squeeze bottles. I unfurl the kit on the counter.
Boris stares at the tweezers like I've presented him with a surgical instrument.
"Pick them up."
"Those are for eyebrows."
"Those are for precision placement of micro greens, edible flowers, and any component smaller than a quarter. Pick them up."
His hand engulfs them. The tweezers vanish inside his fist. He holds them between thumb and forefinger, pinched like a splinter, and the metal bows under the pressure.
"Lighter. You're bending them."
He adjusts. Still too much force. The tips don't meet cleanly.
"Here." I reach up and reposition his fingers. His skin is furnace-warm and rough with calluses. I press his index finger forward along the shaft to create a fulcrum point. "Grip comes from here. Not the whole hand. Just these two fingers."
I set a single nasturtium blossom on the cutting board. Orange petals, delicate as tissue paper. "Place it at two o'clock on the dinner plate. Don't bruise it."
The tweezers descend. His hand trembles with the effort of restraint. The flower pinches, lifts, hovers over the white porcelain.
Crushed. Petal fragments stick to the tines. Orange smeared plate.
"Again."
Second blossom. Same result. Mangled.
"You are murdering flowers."
"They are very small and I am very large. This is geometry, not skill."
"Again."
Third blossom. He breathes out slow through his nose. The tweezers close with a fraction less pressure. The flower lifts. Trembles. Lands on the dish at roughly two o'clock.
One petal bent. But intact.
"Better."
"My hand is cramping."
"Do it nine more times."