Page 133 of Neap & Spring

Roman works beside me, moving with practiced efficiency. We don’t talk. We don’t need to. He knows when to hand me the next pan, when to start plating the sauce, when to step back and let me work. We’ve done this dance so many times it’s muscle memory.

Cora appears at my elbow with a small bowl of herb oil, still fragrant from the blender. “How many?”

“Start with twelve.”

She nods and disappears.

Marcus is on garnish, adding the micro herbs with the same precise attention he gave the first course, his tweezers moving with surgical precision. Amara supervises, calling out times and keeping everyone moving.

The plates start going out. Becca and Morgan are in constant motion now, the rhythm of service kicking in. Frannie comes to stand at the pass, calling out table numbers and making sure nothing gets crossed.

Through the window, I watch my dad take his first bite of the scallop. He closes his eyes, sets down his fork, and just sits there for a second. When he opens them again, he’s looking toward the kitchen, looking for me.

I meet his eyes, and he nods once.

“Second course is killing,” Roman says, checking the tickets. “We’re at eighty-three plates and counting.”

“How’s the timing?”

“Perfect. We’re exactly where we need to be. Ahead, even.”

Vivienne appears in the kitchen doorway, and she’s glowing. “Callum. Table seven wants to talk to you. I told them they could wait!”

“The investors?”

“They want to tell you in person how incredible this is.” She’s trying to stay professional but I can see the excitement vibrating through her. “And table nineteen — the woman from Portland Magazine — just asked if she could interview you next week.”

“Tell them I’ll come out after the final course.”

“Okay.” She starts to leave, then turns back. “You’re doing it. You’re really doing it.”

“We’re doing it.” I correct.

She smiles, then she’s gone again, back into the dining room.

Third course is a collaboration between me and Amara. Halibut with a turmeric coconut broth, crispy lentils, charred leeks, and a finishing spoon of Amara’s black mustard and curry leaf butter that blooms across the surface of the bowl the moment it hits the heat. It’s delicate and technical and requires perfect timing between our stations.

“Okay,” Amara says, positioning herself at her station. “Marcus, you’re on the leeks. I’ll handle the broth. Callum, you’ve got the fish.”

“Heard.”

“Roman, you’re plating the lentils.”

“Heard, Chef.”

We move into position. The kitchen gets quiet in that way it does when everyone’s locked in. No unnecessary talking. Just the sound of pans hitting burners, knives on boards, and the controlled chaos of a team that knows exactly what they’re doing.

I start the halibut. Six filets at a time, skin side down, the sound of the sear filling the kitchen. The fish is pristine — Wesley brought it fresh this morning, still cold from the ocean. It cooks fast and needs constant attention. It can go from perfect to overcooked in thirty seconds.

Roman is beside me, spooning crispy lentils into the base of each bowl in perfect circles. His hands move fast, reaching for the next plate without looking.

“First six up,” I call out.

“Leeks ready,” Marcus responds.

“Broth in thirty seconds,” Amara says.

The timing has to be perfect. The fish can’t sit. The broth has to be hot. Everything has to come together in the same ten-second window or the dish doesn’t work.