“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “I could have handled the ordering.”
He shrugs, the movement rippling through his shoulders. “Figured I’d get the ball rolling. The suppliers know me. They’remore likely to prioritize the order if it comes from the bar owner.”
There’s a logic to it, but it still leaves me feeling oddly unbalanced. Tovek has already thought three moves ahead. Coffee, supplies, the basics covered before I’ve even had a chance to think about them. It’s either incredibly thoughtful or incredibly manipulative, and I’m not sure which is more disconcerting.
“We should talk about how this is going to work,” I say, setting my mug down. “Lay out some ground rules.”
He nods, reaching for a notepad that’s tucked between the coffee maker and the wall. “I was thinking the same thing.”
For the next twenty minutes, we establish the basics of our arrangement. The kitchen is mine. Menu, plating, staff (if and when we hire any), all of it falls under my jurisdiction. The bar remains Tovek’s domain, though we agree to coordinate on drink pairings and themed nights. The apartment upstairs is communal but with clear boundaries. His room, my room, shared bathroom and living space. Rent is covered as part of my compensation, along with a percentage of food sales that increases once the initial debt is paid.
“Oh, and I took care of your payment,” Tovek says, like he’s mentioning the weather. “The one that was due. And I set it up so future payments come out of the restaurant’s account. You won’t have to deal with Vex unless you want to.”
I blink at him. “You what?”
“Paid it off.” He’s still looking at his notepad, scribbling something. “Seemed easier than having goblins show up during service.”
My throat goes tight. “Tovek, that’s?—”
“Part of the deal,” he says firmly. “You can’t cook if you’re worried about debt collectors breaking your kneecaps.”
I want to argue. Want to tell him it’s too much, that I can handle my own problems. But the relief flooding through me is so intense it makes my knees weak. “Thank you,” I manage. “Really. I’ll pay you back.”
“You will,” he agrees. “With the best damn food this city’s ever seen.”
It’s straightforward, professional, and exactly the kind of arrangement I should be comfortable with. So why does it feel like we’re negotiating something else entirely?
“You’re sure about the creative control?” I ask, watching his face carefully. “Some owners have pretty strong opinions about their menus.”
“I’m not hiring you for your ability to follow my recipes,” Tovek says, and there’s a note in his voice. Not quite humor, but something adjacent to it. “I’m hiring you because you’re good. The best, actually.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I’m not?—”
“You are,” he interrupts. “And I want you to do what you do. No restrictions, no micro-managing. Just...” He hesitates, seeming to search for the right word. “Just make it yours.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes my chest go tight. Earnest, direct, with none of the calculating assessment I’ve come to expect from people offering me opportunities. Either he’s the most genuine person I’ve ever met, or he’s playing a very long game.
“I will,” I promise. “It’ll be good. I’ll make sure of it.”
He smiles then, a quick flash of white teeth and the subtle gleam of a tusk. “I know you will, Chef.”
The title hits me like a physical thing, a warm weight settling between my shoulder blades. In my old kitchen, “Chef” was just what everyone called everyone else. A shorthand, a habit, nothing more. But there’s something in the way Tovek says itthat makes my skin prickle. Like it means something. Like he’s been waiting to say it.
We spend the rest of the morning doing a proper inventory of the kitchen. It’s better than I expected. The six-burner range has four functional elements, not two as Greta claimed. The walk-in, while noisy, maintains a perfect 38 degrees. And the prep tables, despite their scuffed surfaces, are solid and well-positioned. The wok station in the corner is the real prize. A custom-built setup with its own ventilation and a burner that could probably melt steel.
“You installed this yourself?” I ask, running a hand along the curved metal hood.
Tovek looks up from the clipboard where he’s been making notes. “Yeah. Had to reroute some gas lines, but it wasn’t too complicated.”
“It’s professional grade,” I say. “Better than what I had at the Pharaoh.”
He shrugs, but there’s a pleased set to his shoulders. “Wanted to do it right.”
By noon, we have a working menu. Six dishes to start, all built around the staples Tovek ordered and the equipment we have available. Nothing fancy, nothing that requires special ingredients or techniques I can’t execute with one hand tied behind my back. Just good, solid food with enough heat to make people notice and enough flavor to make them come back.
“We’ll do a soft open tonight,” I decide, writing “SPICY PORK NOODLES” in block letters at the top of the menu board. “No announcements, no social media. Just put the sign in the window and see who shows up.”
Tovek nods, already reaching for his phone. “I’ll let Greta know. She’s got a group text with the regulars.”
