This is the evening of our wedding, and we’re at The Edge, propping up the dinner service.
I hadn’t foreseen the level of uproar the kitchen would be in when we turned up.
Henrik called to say he had to rush to the hospital because his kid had taken ill. I told him to drop everything and go. Family always comes first. And kids, especially so.
If anyone noticed that I was dressed in black tie and Harper in a dress that looked suspiciously like a wedding dress, they didn’t comment.
We both pocketed our wedding rings before we donned our chef whites. She exchanged her stilettos for shoes. Her fascinator for a hat.
Then I found out that our saucier, who handles the meats, sauces and reductions, was a no-show.
Also, the delivery of our vegetables and meats was mixed up with that of another restaurant. Which led to a fight breaking out between the delivery guy and the line chef who took delivery. It resulted in himdecking the delivery guy, who threatened to press charges, which is when we walked in.
I had to turn on my charm to convince the delivery guy to leave without taking action. And that required a promise that he could bring his family to the restaurant for a meal. Small price to pay to stave off that additional headache. By the time I returned to the kitchen with the line chef, the service was already running ten minutes late. Fuck.
One absence is never just one thing. It distorts timing, which leads to additional pressure on the rest of the kitchen staff. It means everyone needs to fulfill their own role well and also fill in the gaps left by the missing person.
“Right.” I nod in Harper’s direction. “You’re on saucier.”
Now, that’s a lot for anyone to handle. But I’d have asked my sous chef, whether or not it was Harper, to take on the saucier’s role in addition to their own.
I want to signal to the team that marrying her doesn’t mean she gets preferential treatment. This way they’ll continue to respect her.
She nods and goes back to her vegetables.
I can't look away.
The fluidity of her movements. The way her knife finds the board without hesitation. How she turns, reaches, plates, all of it seamless. Effortless.
A dance.
That's what it is. She's dancing through her workspace, and every step is perfect.
I've spent my career around talented chefs. I know competence when I see it. This isn't just competence.
This is artistry.
And watching my wife create it does something to my chest I'm not prepared to examine.
My wife.
The rightness of those words settles in the marrow of my bones. In the deepest recesses of my heart. In places no emotion has infiltrated for a long, long time.
I feel a quiet shift in me. I acknowledge it. Then set it aside and return my attention to the kitchen.
For a few seconds, there’s only the shuffle of feet, the tinny noise ofladles against dishes, the hiss of the steamer at the end of the kitchen, the low hum of the burners, the buzz of the exhaust fans.
The scent of sautéed vegetables, mixed with the buzz of adrenaline and the thrum of nerves stretched in anticipation of the oncoming dinner rush, is almost overpowering.
It’s mise en place time. The kitchen is all about focused methodical work now. The garde-manger who manages the cold station is busy washing and spinning salad greens, making vinaigrettes, portioning terrines, and plating cold appetizers in advance, where possible.
The line chef managing the fish station is scoring skin on fish portions, preparing fish fumet aka stock for sauces, and blanching vegetables for garnish.
Harper has started portioning steaks to exact weights. She’s making good time.
Every station chef is busy, focused.
I walk the line. Stopping first at the fish station, then the cold station, the hot appetizer station, and the pastry section, tasting every sauce, testing every portion size with a scale, smelling everything, checking temperatures.
