The kitchen staff crowd around me in a loose semicircle, their expressions ranging from mildly curious to actively irritated. At least three of them are holding knives, which feels unnecessarily threatening.
But without Craig hovering behind me, I’m only about 87 percent terrified instead of my usual 96 percent.
Small wins.
IRIS boots up flawlessly, and pride swells in my chest. Months of coding, testing, and caffeine-fueled nights, and there it is, glowing on the screen.
I launch into my spiel, waxing lyrical about IRIS’s predictive analytics and how it can revolutionize ordering.
Blank stares.
Chef MacLeod sighs. “Give us real examples, lass. Not computer bollocks.”
“Of course! Right, so IRIS learns your patterns. Like if you usually need fifteen kilograms of salmon on Fridays, but historical data shows you only need twelve when it’s raining because fewer tourists venture out—”
A sous chef with neck tattoos snorts. “You think we need a fucking computer to tell us when it’s pissing down outside?”
“But IRIS monitors weather forecasts and cross-references them with your historical booking data.” I beam at them and barrel on. “It’s about data-driven decisions. Smart alerts like ‘Your tomatoes expire in two days, promote the Caprese,’ or ‘Excess chicken breast, make it tomorrow’s special.’”
Neck Tattoo’s expression goes from bored to murderous. “That’s my fucking job.”
“We already know our stock,” another chef chimes in. “That’s called experience.”
“It saves time,” I babble, hearing my voice rise into panic pitch. “No more manual inventory tracking that’s prone to inaccuracy—”
“Inaccuracy?” Neck Tattoo steps forward, brandishing his chef’s knife. “You saying I can’t do my fucking job?”
“No!” It comes out as a mouse squeak. “Just—we’re all human! Everyone makes mistakes sometimes—”
“More bullshit from London corporate,” he snaps. “Send some girl up here who’s never worked a day in a kitchen to tell us we’re doing everything wrong. Fuck this.”
And with that charming exit line, he storms out.
My face burns hot.
Every single person in that kitchen stares at me—the silly little girl in her sillyplease-take-me-seriouslyblouse who just told a room full of knife-wielding professionals they’ve been doing their jobs wrong.
“That’s enough!” Chef MacLeod’s voice booms across the kitchen. “Listen, lass. Why don’t we pick this up another time, aye? When things are a bit calmer.”
Somewhere deep inside, a small voice is begging—Come on, Georgie! Salvage this! Stand your ground!
But the words won’t come. Not after a tattooed sous chef just basically told me to fuck off with his eyes and his knife hand.
“Of course. Another time would be... better. I’ll just pack up.”
My laptop snaps shut with trembling hands.
How did I mess this up so badly?
Craig’s voice replays in my head: “First thing tomorrow. Senior kitchen staff need to see the system. Don’t wait around. They’re expecting you.”
Expecting me. Sure. He probably told them they were getting a new blender.
And I walked in there, clutching my briefcase like I was about to revolutionize the kitchen.
What I actually did was imply they were incompetent.
Absolutely fucking brilliant, Georgie. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.
