“We’re working on a deal,” I say, keeping it vague. “Mei’s considering using our kitchen for a pop-up concept.”
Greta’s other eyebrow joins the first. “The kitchen. Our kitchen. The one with the stove that only has two working burners and the refrigerator that moans like it’s being tortured whenever you open the door.”
“It’s got character,” I say.
“It’s got possible health code violations,” Greta counters.
Mei laughs, the sound bright against the bar’s dim interior. “I’ve worked with worse. Trust me.”
Greta squints at her, and before she says anything, I clear my throat. “Why don’t I show you the kitchen? Get you set up?”
Mei nods, but before we can move, Greta slides a glass of amber liquid across the bar. “House special. On the house.” She nods to Mei. “You look like you could use it.”
Mei takes a sip, and I watch her face carefully. The house special is my own blend. Whiskey aged with vanilla pods and a hint of smoked pepper. It’s not for everyone.
Her eyes widen slightly. “That’s...”
“Too much?” I ask, ready to apologize.
“Perfect,” she finishes. “Exactly the right amount of burn.”
My shoulders drop about three inches. “Come on. Kitchen’s this way.”
The kitchen is, objectively speaking, a disaster.
The previous owner, a dragon-shifter and the bar’s namesake, had more ambition than follow-through. He’d had grand plans for a full bar menu that never materialized. He installed industrial equipment, then decided it was too much work and switched to air frying taquitos and pretzels instead.
When I bought the place, I kept meaning to do something with it, but between learning the bar business and trying to keep the lights on, it fell by the wayside.
It’s not a total loss, though. There’s a six-burner stove (even if only two work consistently), a decent-sized oven, and a proper prep station. The refrigerator is making that groaning sound Greta mentioned, but it’s keeping things cold. And there’s a wok station in the corner that I installed on a whim.
Mei walks through the space with the careful assessment of someone who’s worked in enough kitchens to see past the surface. She opens drawers, checks the stove burners, peers into the refrigerator. Her face is neutral, professional.
“I’ve got connections with suppliers,” I offer. “Can get you whatever ingredients you need.”
“It’s not bad,” she says finally. “Definitely workable.” She runs a hand along the countertop. “The wok station is a nice surprise.”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Thought it might come in handy.”
What I don’t tell her is that I installed it myself after watching her video on proper wok technique. Spent an entire weekend cutting pipes and running gas lines, all while imagining her using it someday. Which is either romantic or deeply unhinged, depending on who you ask.
“I should probably show you the living quarters,” I say, to change the subject before I embarrass myself further. “They’re upstairs, above the bar. Nothing fancy, but...”
“There’s something on the stove,” Mei interrupts, pointing to the covered pot I’d made myself for dinner and left simmering before I went out.
My stomach drops. “That’s...”
But she’s already crossing to it, lifting the lid. The smell that fills the kitchen is unmistakable. Cumin, garlic, chili oil, and slow-braised lamb.
“You made my noodles,” she says, sounding surprised.
“I was testing the stove,” I lie. “Making sure it could handle, you know. Cooking.”
The truth is, I’d spent the afternoon following her video step by step, pausing between each instruction to make sure I got it right. I wanted to have something ready when she came to look at the kitchen. A demonstration that I understood what she did, that I respected it. That I wasn’t just some random orc who’d happened to see her show.
“May I?”
I must have nodded or grunted out a yes or something, because the next thing I know, Mei reaches for a pair of chopsticks on the counter, and twirls a bite of noodles.
