I glance over at her. She’s looking out the window, trying to sound casual about something she’s been wanting to say for a week. I’ve known it was coming. “What do you want to do?”
“Say yes,” she admits. “I think I want to say yes.”
“Then say yes.”
She smiles at the window. “Just like that.”
“Just like that,” I confirm. “You’ve already been building it in your head. I’ve seen the notes on the fridge.”
She laughs, caught. “You weren’t supposed to read those.”
“You wrote them in red marker on the communal fridge.”
We arrive at the restaurant an hour before opening. The morning prep team is already in place. Lin has everything running with the efficiency Mei trained into her. I handle the front of house while Mei disappears into the kitchen, already in conversation with the prep cook about temperature windows and the suspect peppercorn shipment.
“Chef,” one of the servers says, approaching with a concerned expression. “That food critic from the Tribune is here again. Third time this month.”
Carlton Reed. Thin, bespectacled, expensive suit, expression of studied indifference. He’s been coming since we opened, looking for the gap between our reputation and our reality. He hasn’t found one yet, which seems to irritate him.
“Table twelve,” I say. Best view of the open kitchen. “Let Mei know he’s here.”
She knows, by the time service starts, and she gives him a show. Every dish that leaves her pass is exactly what it should be. Reed tries to maintain his aloof critic’s demeanor. I watch him taste the dragon pepper broth and fail.
The slight widening of eyes. The pause in his note-taking. The second spoonful before he can catch himself.
The situation with table nine arrives halfway through service. A red-faced man, the Five Alarm Noodles, the claim that no one would actually serve food this spicy and that it’s all for social media attention.
I start across the floor. Then I stop.
Because Mei is already there, and her expression tells me everything I need to know about whether she requires assistance.
I watch her listen to the complaint, nod once, pick up his chopsticks, and eat a substantial mouthful of the Five Alarm Noodles with the focused attention of someone conducting a quality check. She chews, swallows, considers. “Delicious,” she says. “Though I think the green onion garnish could be slightly fresher. I’ll speak to our produce supplier.”
The man gapes. Reed’s pen is moving.
She offers the sesame noodles, on the house, with a smile that contains multitudes. Then she walks back through the kitchen doors without a backward glance.
I find her at the sink, gulping water directly from the tap.
“That was a mistake,” she gasps, eyes streaming.
“That was extraordinary,” I say.
She looks up at me, face flushed, and grins. “Did you see his face?”
I hand her a towel. “Go check on Reed,” she says, pressing it to her cheeks. “I bet he took notes on the whole thing.”
He did. When I return to the dining room he gives me a small nod that feels almost like respect. It’s the closest thing to approval Carlton Reed has ever offered anyone in this city, and I will take it.
By closing time, I’m bone-tired and satisfied in the way that only comes from a successful service. We lock up and walk to the car, my arm around her shoulders.
“Think Reed will finally give us a decent review?” she asks.
“Does it matter?” I ask, genuinely.
She considers this. “Not really,” she decides. “Though it would be satisfying to convert him.”
“You converted me,” I remind her. “A stubborn orc set in his ways. Reed should be easy by comparison.”
