Page 62 of Neap & Spring

“I want you to evolve your menu. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Callum, can we argue later about this? We don’t have time right now.”

“Yeah. Fine. What else?” He’s stopped pacing and is now standing in the middle of the tiny office with his arms crossed, that familiar defensive posture I’ve seen too many times these past weeks.

I look back at my phone. “Maybe a special event. Something that generates buzz. A collaborative dinner with another chef or a wine pairing event, or — I don’t know, something that gets people talking and gets press coverage. And reminds people this place exists.”

“You want me to turn my restaurant into a circus.”

“I want you to market your restaurant like it’s 2026, not 2006!” I shoot back, my voice bouncing off the close walls.

We stare at each other.

Callum’s jaw is working, that muscle jumping the way it does when he’s angry. “These are all — these are all surface changes. Social media and events and jumping through hoops like a fucking trained monkey. But none of this addresses the actual problem.” He waves his hand dramatically at the room. “The debt.”

“I know.

“So what’s the plan for that?”

“I don’t have one yet.” The admission feels like failure. “The debt is complicated, Callum. It’s not something I can fix with a few Instagram posts and a wine dinner.”

“Then what can you fix?”

The question hangs between us, but I refuse to back down. I know what I’m doing. I’m a damn good consultant, and I refuse to let the fire in Callum’s eyes make me forget that.

I meet his eyes and hold them. “I can fix the things that are keeping you invisible. The things that are preventing this restaurant from reaching its full potential. The food is incredible. You know that, I know that, anyone who eats here knows that. But if people don’t know you exist, if they can’t find you online, if they come once and never have a reason to come back —” I watch the words hit their intended mark. “I can’t make the debt disappear. But I can help you make enough money to manage it and to survive long enough to actually pay it off.”

Callum holds my gaze, not quite ready to concede. “These investors. They’re going to want more than ‘we’re working on Instagram.’”

“I know.”

“They’re going to want numbers and projections. Probably a timeline.”

“I know.”

“Do you have any of that?”

“Not in a format I can present in” — I check my watch — “one hour and forty-three minutes.”

“Fuck,” Callum hisses. “Okay. Okay. What do we do?”

The fact that he said we doesn’t escape my notice.

I pull up my laptop files on my phone and scan through spreadsheets and notes. “I have some preliminary numbers. Projected revenue increase based on improved social media engagement. There are industry standards for that. Estimated cost of website updates. Potential ROI on special events based on similar restaurants in comparable markets.”

“Can you put that together in time?”

“If you help me, maybe.”

His arms uncross finally, and he rubs his hand over his mustache. “What do you need?”

“Your financials. The real ones. Not just what you sent the investors initially. I need current numbers. Exactly how much you’re making, how much you’re spending, and where every dollar is going.”

Hesitation flickers across his face. Or maybe embarrassment.

“I can’t help you if I don’t know the full picture.”