I hold my breath.
She chews slowly, her expression unreadable. Then she takes another bite, and another, her movements quickening.
“These are good,” she says finally. “Really good. The lamb’s tender, the sauce has the right balance...” She tilts her head. “You used black vinegar instead of rice?”
My face heats. “Black vinegar was all I had.”
“Use what you have, I always say. It works,” she says, taking another bite. “Adds depth.” She studies me over the edge of the bowl. “You learned this from the video?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“All of it? The folding technique for the noodles? The marinade for the lamb?”
“Just wanted to get it right,” I manage.
She sets down the bowl, chopsticks placed neatly across the top. “I’ll take the job, if that wasn’t obvious,” she says. “And the room. On two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“One: complete creative control. The menu, the plating, the sourcing. All of it stays with me.”
“Done,” I say immediately. “And two?”
She grins, that same mischievous smile I’ve watched light up my phone screen a hundred times. “Two: you have to let me upgrade this kitchen. Nothing crazy, but a proper ventilation system and a working stove would be nice.”
Relief floods through me, along with something warmer that I refuse to examine too closely. “I think we can manage that.”
She holds out her hand. “Then we have a deal, Mr. Greenfist.”
Heat flushes my cheeks. “Oh, please, Tovek,” I supply, taking her hand. “Just Tovek.”
“Tovek,” she repeats, and I’m probably imagining the way she lingers on the syllables. “It’s nice to meet you. Properly, I mean. Not on the street fearing for my kneecaps.”
“Likewise, Chef Tan.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Mei, please. If we’re going to be working together, formality seems unnecessary.”
“Mei, then.” I release her hand before I do something stupid like hold on too long. “Welcome, formally, to The Drunken Dragon.”
“Thanks for the rescue,” she says quietly. “And the noodles.”
Later, after I’ve shown her to the spare room and given her the spare key to the back door, I’m back behind the bar with Greta. The place is half-full. Not great for a Tuesday, but not the ghost town it’s been lately either.
“So,” Greta says, sliding a beer my way. “The Noodle Queen, huh?”
“Don’t start,” I warn.
“I’m just saying, it’s convenient timing.” She wipes down the bar with more focus than necessary. “What with Grishnak sniffing around again last week.”
I stiffen. Grishnak. That damn goblin mobster turned restaurateur with three high-end places in the casino district and a reputation for stealing recipes, poaching staff, and generally being the kind of parasite who thrives on others’ misfortunes. He’s been circling The Drunken Dragon for months, making lowball offers and thinly veiled threats about what happens to businesses that don’t adapt to changing markets.
And, seems like he’d been circling Mei as well.
“He’s not getting his hands on this place,” I say. “Or my chef.”
Greta raises an eyebrow. “Your chef now, is she?”
“You know what I mean.”
