Page 8 of Neap & Spring

I let myself have thirty seconds of that before I shove it down and turn back to the kitchen.

I flip on the rest of the lights. The overhead floods, the heat lamps, the little LED strips under the shelves that make everything look like a professional kitchen instead of a money pit. The stove is a six-burner beast that I bought used from a restaurant in Portland that went under. I had to replace half the parts myself, but it runs like a dream.

I set my coffee down on the stainless-steel counter and pull out my cutting board. I grab my favorite knife from the block, a ten-inch Wüsthof that I’ve had since culinary school and test the edge against my thumb.

The halibut is calling me.

I pull the fillets from the walk-in and set them on the counter. I’m thinking pan-seared, crispy skin, served over a fennel and citrus salad. Maybe a brown butter sauce, something nutty to cut through the richness of the fish. We’ll do it as a special this month if I can get my sous to stop arguing with me about the plating of every dish.

I start with the fennel, trimming the stalks with quick, precise cuts, then dropping the pieces into ice water so they stay crisp. The rhythm of it is automatic. Slice, drop, slice, drop. My brain goes quiet and my shoulders start to loosen.

This is the part I still enjoy. The part they can’t take from me, no matter how bad the numbers get or how many times the investors call. The quiet and the way a piece of fish can turn into something worth remembering if you just pay attention and don’t fuck it up.

I’m segmenting an orange, cutting between the membranes with the tip of my knife and letting the bright little pieces fall into a bowl, when I hear the back door open.

“You’re here early,” Roman calls out before he even rounds the corner.

My sous chef appears in the doorway, already in his whites, looking annoyingly awake for five forty-five in the morning. Roman’s got wild blonde hair that he’s supposed to keep tied back but never does until service actually starts, a gold chain visible above his chef’s coat, and small silver hoops in both ears. He looks more like he should be waxing a surfboard than running a professional kitchen, but the guy can cook his ass off. He’s got a travel mug of coffee in one hand and his knife roll slung over his shoulder.

“I’m here the same time every day,” I say, not looking up from the orange.

“Yeah, but most people would still call five-thirty ‘early.’”

“Yeah, well, most people don’t run a restaurant.”

“Most people also don’t look like they haven’t slept in a week.” Roman drops his knife roll on the counter with a thud and leans against it, eyeing me. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Roman. Really feeling the love today.”

He grins, that easy smile that makes him popular with the front-of-house staff and also makes me want to throw something at him. “Just keeping it real, chef.”

I finish the orange and wipe my hands on a towel, gripping it maybe a little too hard. “The consultant’s coming today.”

The grin disappears. He straightens off the counter. “Shit. I forgot. What time?”

“Ten.”

“You know who it is yet?”

“No idea. I didn’t look.”

Roman stares at me. “You didn’t look at the file?”

“Nope.”

“Cal —”

“I don’t want to know.” I set the knife down carefully, forcing myself not to slam it. “It doesn’t really matter who it is. They’re going to come in here and tell me everything I’m doing is wrong then try to turn my restaurant into something it’s not. And I’m going to smile and nod because the investors are paying them a stupid amount of money to ‘save’ our asses.”

I make air quotes around the word “save” because fuck all of this.

Roman is quiet for a second. “You know we need help, right?”

“I know.”