“Perfect.” I’m already mentally mapping the prep list, dividing tasks by time and complexity. “I’ll need you on station with me. At least until we figure out the rhythm.”
This gets me a raised eyebrow. “You want me cooking?”
“I want you helping,” I clarify. “I’ll handle the actual cooking. You can do prep, plating, expediting. Basically, whatever I tell you to do.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped. Asking the bar owner to work the line is definitely pushing the boundaries of our professional relationship.
But then he smiles, that same quick flash of teeth. “Yes, Chef.”
There it is again. That little jolt of heat at the base of my spine. I turn away before he can see whatever’s showing on my face. “Great. Let’s get started. We’ve got four hours till service.”
Those four hours pass in a blur. Chopping, measuring, tasting, adjusting. Tovek proves to be a surprisingly quick study, his massive hands moving with unexpected dexterity as he juliennes carrots and minces garlic. He asks good questions, the kind that show he’s thinking about the food, not just following instructions. And he applies corrections immediately, without the defensiveness I’ve come to expect from kitchen newbies.
By five o’clock, we have portioned proteins, prepped vegetables, and sauces resting in squeeze bottles. The dining room is set. Simple place settings with the bar’s mismatched plates and cutlery, each table topped with a small jar of house-made chili oil. The menu board is propped in the window, “NOW SERVING” written in my best block letters.
Greta arrives at 5:30, takes one look at the kitchen, and lets out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. It actually looks like a real restaurant in here.”
“It is a real restaurant,” Tovek says, not looking up from the onions he’s dicing. “At least, it will be.”
“Assuming anyone shows up,” I mutter, checking the temperature of the pork belly braising in the oven.
As if on cue, the bell above the door jingles. Then again. And again.
By 6:15, we have a full dining room. Not just the usual bar crowd nursing beers and watching the game, but actual diners, people who’ve come specifically for food. They’re a mixed group. A table of shifters in their work clothes, still dusty from whatever construction site they came from. A couple of vampires with their special bottles of synthetic blood wine. A family of dwarves celebrating what looks like a birthday, complete with paper hats and noisemakers.
And they’re all looking at the menu with genuine interest, not the polite confusion I’ve seen on the faces of people confronted with bar food that’s trying too hard.
“Order in,” Greta calls, sliding a ticket onto the rail. “Table three wants the spicy pork noodles and the dumplings. Table six wants two orders of the mapo tofu, extra spicy. Table one wants the dan dan noodles and the cucumber salad.”
And just like that, we’re in service.
It’s chaos, of course. The first night always is. Equipment behaving in unexpected ways, tickets coming in faster than expected, the rhythm of the kitchen still finding its feet. Tovek is everywhere at once, filling water glasses, running food, washing dishes in the tiny sink when we run out of clean plates. His technique is enthusiastic if occasionally alarming. I have to stop him twice from using a meat cleaver to open a jar of chili paste, and once from reaching directly into the deep fryer to retrieve a fallen spring roll.
But he listens. Every time I correct him, he nods, says “Yes, Chef,” and does it exactly the way I showed him. No arguing, no defensiveness, just immediate application of the lesson.
It’s refreshing. And weirdly hot, though I refuse to examine that particular reaction too closely.
By 8:30, we’ve hit our stride. The tickets are flowing, the food is going out, and the dining room is buzzing.
CHAPTER 4
tovek
I wake to the smell of pork belly and rising dough, my brain registering food before consciousness fully kicks in. There’s the distinctive yeasty note of proofing bao dough, the rich aroma of slow-braised meat, and something sharp. Ginger, maybe, cutting through it all. My stomach growls before my eyes even open. It’s 6:17 according to the clock on my nightstand, which means Mei’s been in the kitchen for at least an hour already.
Day four of our arrangement, and she’s still beating me downstairs.
I roll out of bed and pull on the first clean shirt I can find. A faded black tee with “JUST THE TIP” printed across the chest in cracked letters. My sleep pants will have to do for now. I’m not planning to be seen by customers at this hour.
The hallway is dark, the only light coming from the kitchen at the end. There’s a muffled thud, followed by a quiet curse, and then the soft sound of humming. A tune I don’t recognize but that makes me think of early mornings and empty roads.
I pause at the doorway, watching her before she notices I’m there.
Mei is standing at the prep table, elbows deep in what looks like dumpling pleating. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to curl against her neck. There’s a dusting of flour on her right cheek and another on her collarbone, visible where her t-shirt has slipped down her shoulder. She’s wearing those black leggings again, the ones with the rip in the knee, and her feet are bare against the cold tile.
“Morning,” I say, and she startles, almost dropping the dumpling she’s holding.
“Jesus!” She presses a flour-dusted hand to her chest. “Don’t do that. I nearly sacrificed a perfect pleat.”
