He’s shrugging on his jacket. “Obviously.”
Sage rolls forward to join us. “I want to come, too.”
“Absolutely not. You have homework.”
“Ihadcalculus homework that I finished three hours ago because I’m not an idiot, and I haven’t been out in weeks. Come on, Bastian. I promise to stay out of the way.”
I want to say no. A restaurant during a crisis is no place for a sixteen-year-old, especially one in a wheelchair. Too many sharp corners, too much chaos, too many ways for things to go wrong. But the look on his face stops me.
“Fine. But if things get too crazy?—”
“I’ll call my Uber and come home,” he promises. “I know the drill. Now, can we please go? We’re gonna miss all the fun.”
9
BASTIAN
ex·po: /'ekspo/: noun
1: short for “expeditor”; the person who coordinates between kitchen and dining room.
2: caught between two worlds.
“Remind me to never get in a car with you during an actual emergency,” Zeke mutters as I whip the Range Rover into a turn that’s technically legal but morally questionable.
The test kitchen staff is running the soft opening out of one of our brick-and-mortar locations, Quail’s Egg. It occupies the ground floor of a converted warehouse in River North. Red brick, steel beams, Edison bulbs casting warm light over tables that are booked months in advance. Very Chicago.
It’s where everything started. The first brick in my empire.
It’s also, currently, a disaster.
I can hear the chaos before we even reach the kitchen. Voices are raised in frustration over the clack and clatter of pans. Someoneis shouting orders that no one seems to be following. The dining room staff look out of sorts, too.
“Jesus,” Zeke breathes. “How long has Rubio been gone?”
“Half an hour,” replies Jose, appearing at my elbow with the hangdog expression of a man watching his career burn down in real time. “Samuel tried to take over expo, but he’s never run a full service. I think he might be having some kind of fuckin’ mental breakdown. I don’t know, man.”
Through the pass window, I can see Samuel standing frozen in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by hanging tickets and plates that aren’t moving. He’s twenty-four, brilliant with flavors and technique, but he’s never had to coordinate an entire service under pressure. His hands are shaking.
I don’t hesitate.
“Zeke, you’re CDC. Check the tickets and start firing.” I’m stripping off my suit jacket, rolling up my sleeves, snatching an apron out of Jose’s hands and pulling it over my head. “Sage, go check with the bar team. Run them ice if they’re low.”
The kitchen falls silent when I walk through the doors. Twelve pairs of eyes turn to me—some relieved, most terrified, all waiting to see what I’m going to do.
“Report,” I request calmly as I scrub my hands at the nearest station.
“We’re twenty minutes behind on apps,” Samuel stammers. “The duck breast keeps coming out overcooked, table six is still waiting on their amuse-bouche, and I can’t find the plating notes for the lamb special.”
I scan the mayhem. It’s a mess, but it’s not unsalvageable.
Everything in its place.
First, you create order. Then—andonlythen—can you create something worthwhile.
“Deep breath,” I tell Samuel, stepping up to the expo station. “The food doesn’t care that you’re nervous. It only cares that you know what you’re doing. And youdoknow what you’re doing.”
His breathing starts to slow.
