Page 64 of Neap & Spring

“Menu evolution. This one’s free. It’s just you being willing to try new things more often. Rotate one or two specials every two weeks instead of every month.”

He looks up at that. “Every two weeks?”

“It keeps things interesting and gives food writers a reason to come back.”

“It’s more work.”

“You’re a chef. Creating new dishes is literally what you do.”

He makes a sound that might be agreement or might be frustration, but he writes it down anyway.

“Special event,” I continue, typing as I talk. “Let’s say a collaborative dinner. You partner with another chef. Someone from Portland or San Francisco. Someone with a big following. I’m thinking a five-course meal, limited seating with premium pricing. We could charge $150 a head easily, maybe more.”

“I don’t know any chefs who’d want to do that.”

“I do.” The words are out before I can think about them.

Callum looks at me quickly before looking back down at his notes. “Yeah?”

“I still have contacts. From before.” From when I was a chef, I don’t say. “I can make some calls.”

He’s staring at me like he’s doing the math on something he doesn’t quite have all the numbers for. “You’d do that?”

“Callum, I’m literally being paid to save your restaurant. Yes, I’d do that.”

“That’s not what I —” He presses his lips together and swallows loudly. “Okay. What else?”

We work in silence for a while, building the presentation piece by piece. I pull industry benchmarks, calculate projected revenue increases and create graphs that make the numbers look less terrifying. Callum feeds me current figures, points out where costs could be cut and where we might be able to negotiate with suppliers.

My table becomes a war room. Papers spread out in every direction, coffee cups multiplying, my laptop screen filled with spreadsheets and projections.

“What about timeline?” Callum asks at one point. He’s taken off his hat, his hair sticking up in different directions from running his hands through it. “They’re going to want to know when all this happens.”

“Social media starts immediately. Like, this week. Today, even. Website redesign, four to six weeks. Special event …” I think about it. “Two months out gives us time to plan it properly, market it, build excitement.”

“And the debt?”

I look at the numbers again. Even with all these changes and optimistic projections —

“The debt is going to take years, Cal. There’s no way around that.”

“So what do I tell them?”

“You tell them the truth. That you’re committed to making it work. And you’re implementing immediate changes to increase revenue and reduce costs. And you’re willing to do whatever it takes.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Whatever it takes. Right.”

I glance at my watch. 4:17.

Thirteen minutes.

“Okay.” I grab a USB drive from my bag and start copying files. “I’m going to print these. You should —” I gesture at his chef’s whites, which have acquired a coffee stain at some point in the last hour. “Maybe change?”

“Right. Yeah.” He stands up, already moving toward the back. “I’ll be fast.”

“Callum?”

He pauses and looks back.