The interruption stops me cold.
“How many assistants have you gone through this year?” Sage presses. “How many people have quit without notice? How many times has Zeke had to talk you out of firing someone for not reading your mind?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because… ” I stop, realizing I don’t have a good answer. The whiskey is making everything feel slightly unmoored.
“Because how?” Sage repeats, but his voice sounds distant now, muffled by the memory that’s suddenly flooding back.
I’m not in my apartment anymore, drinking whiskey and facing down the Inquisition from my best friend and brother. Instead, I’m twenty years old again, three weeks into my externship at Le Bernardin, and I’m fuckingdrowning.
My station is a disaster—sauces reducing too fast, garnishes scattered, tickets piling up every-fucking-where. The pass is backed up because of me, and I can feel Chef Ripert’s eyes on mefrom across the kitchen. My hands are shaking as I try to plate three dishes at once, and I knock over a squeeze bottle of lemon oil that leaks across my cutting board like liquid shame.
“Stop.”
Chef’s voice cuts through the chaos. The entire kitchen goes silent. He stalks to my station. Pauses over my shoulder. Gazes at my mayhem and sighs.
“Look at this,” he says, quiet enough that the other cooks have to strain to hear. “What do you see?”
“I’m sorry, Chef. I’m trying to?—”
“I didn’t ask what you’re trying to do. I asked what you see.”
I force myself to look at my station through his eyes. A drop of the lemon oil gathers up like a tear on the edge of the cutting board. As I watch, it falls to plink on the tile at my feet.
“I see a mess, Chef.”
“A mess. Yes.” He picks up one of my towels, folds it neatly, and sets it back down. “Do you know what ‘mise en place’means, Bastian?”
“‘Everything in its place,’ Chef.”
“Yes. Everything in its place.” He starts organizing my station as he talks. Knives get wiped and racked. Spoons gathered. Spices swept into the trash. “Not just ingredients. Not just tools. Yourmindneeds to be in its place, too. Your intentions, your control.” He takes the towel from his apron and dabs up the lemon oil. “Chaos in your station means chaos in your head. And chaos in your head means chaos on the plate. And chaos on the plate is not acceptable. Not in my restaurant.”
He steps back, and suddenly, my station looks manageable once more.
“You think excellence means doing everything at once,” he continues. “But that is not excellence. Excellence is derived from order.” He hands me a clean towel, folded sharp as origami. “You cannot create beauty from chaos, Bastian. First, you create order. Then—andonlythen—can you create something worthwhile.Mise en place.Remember it.”
The memory releases me, and I’m back in my penthouse with Sage and Zeke staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“Basti…?” Sage’s voice is concerned now. “You okay?”
I set down my glass. “First, you create order,” I recite. “Then—andonlythen—can you create something worthwhile.”
I turn away from them as my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text from Jose, one of the managers at the test kitchen. They’re running a small pilot test of one of our menus tonight, a quasi-soft opening, and I assigned him to give me updates. It shouldn’t have been an issue.
But his text says otherwise.
Jose Trejo
Emergency, boss. Rubio sliced her hand bad—needs stitches. Samuel’s having a panic attack. Kitchen’s in fkn chaos.
I’m halfway to the door before I finish reading. “I have to go. Emergency.”
“What kind of emergency?” Zeke is on his feet, too, always ready to help.
“Rubio’s hurt, Samuel’s melting down, and dinner service is falling apart.” I pause at the elevator. “You coming?”
