“Table one, two appetizers ready. Table two, one appetizer.”
She looks tired, her eye still a bit red, but she’s holding it together.
The kitchen is hot, loud, and alive. The smell of roasting lamb and spices fills the air.
“Taste this,” Knox says, holding a spoon out to me.
I taste the lamb sauce. “Perfect. The acid cuts the richness.”
“Good.”
The first course goes out. I watch through the service window as Sarah serves the dishes. She’s smiling, charming the guests. Maybe she’s not so bad after all.
Next comes the pasta, the porcini pappardelle with white truffle oil. Knox plates it beautifully, arranging the pasta in a nest, garnishing it with shaved parmesan and fresh thyme. It smells earthy and rich.
Then the main event. The spice-crusted halibut.
Knox sears the fish, the skin crisping up perfectly. He plates it over a bed of citrus-braised fennel, tops it with the mango-habanero salsa, and sends it out.
We hold our breath.
A few minutes later, the door to the kitchen swings open. Ruth’s niece, a young woman with bright blue hair, walks in. She’s holding a clean plate.
“Oh my god,” she says, looking around. “Who made the fish?”
Knox turns, wiping his hands. “I did.”
She rushes over to him. “That was incredible. Best thing I’ve ever eaten. And that kick? The spice is perfect.”
Knox blinks, clearly taken aback. “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Ruth is raving about the pasta,” she continues. “And the service? Sarah is amazing. You guys have really outdone yourselves.”
She bounces back out to the dining room.
Knox looks at the door, then at us. For the first time all day, the corners of his mouth twitch upward. It’s a small smile, barely there, but it’s a smile.
“Looks like we nailed it,” Fallon says, clapping Knox on the back.
“Don’t get complacent,” Knox says, but the edge is gone from his voice. “Dessert is next.”
I pull the tarts from the fridge. The chili chocolate is set perfectly. I whip the cream, adding a hint of ancho powder and sugar. I pipe it onto the tarts in delicate rosettes, garnishing each with a sliver of candied orange peel.
Amber carries the tray out.
When she returns, she’s beaming. “They love them. Ruth said she’s going to write a review for the town paper.”
A collective sigh of relief goes through the kitchen. The tension that has been plaguing us all day evaporates. We did it.
The dinner finishes without a hitch. The guests leave, full and happy.
The dining room is empty. The kitchen is a wreck—pots, pans, trays, dirty dishes everywhere. But the mood is triumphant.
“I’m not cleaning this tonight,” Fallon declares, leaning heavily against the counter. “I’m dead on my feet.”
Knox looks around the messy kitchen. He actually sighs, a sound of pure exhaustion. “Neither am I.”
“How about we clean up at ten?” I suggest. “Give everyone time to sleep in?”
