He’s justBastian.A man doing something he loves. And doing itwell.
I grit my teeth and push through the doors.
He doesn’t look up when I enter, but I know he’s registered my presence. There’s a slight tension in his shoulders, a pause in his movement that says he’s aware of exactly where I am in the room.
“Ms. Hunter.” His voice carries across the kitchen without him raising it. “We start at six. Not six-oh-three.”
I bite back the urge to tell him to eat shit and die. I’m gonna have to do this song-and-dance for the next ninety days, so I’d rather get started on a good foot.
“Sir, yes, sir!” I snap instead, with a sloppy salute and a click of the heels for good measure.
He sighs. “So it’s like that this morning?”
“It’s like thiseverymorning, drill sergeant. I am waiting to jump just as soon as you tell me how high. And if you want push-ups, boy, have I got push-ups! Two to five on a good day, no prob.”
He sighs a second time. Then, as if deciding that ignoring my bullshit is the best way to deal with it—not necessarily a bad instinct on his part, though a decidedly unfun one—he turns away.
“Taste this,” he commands one of the younger chefs, holding out a spoon. The kid—he can’t be more than twenty-two—takes it nervously, his face cycling through concentration, consideration, and finally confusion.
“It’s… good, Chef?”
“‘Good.’” Bastian’s voice is low but taut. “Is that all?”
“No, Chef. I meant?—”
“You meant nothing. Because you tasted nothing. You’re going through the motions without engaging your senses.” He turns to another chef. “Riggs. Same dish. Tell me what’s wrong with it.”
Riggs, older and more experienced, tastes carefully. “The balance is off. Not enough sweetness.”
“Better. But still not complete.” Bastian takes the spoon himself and tastes with his eyes closed. “The sweetness isn’t the problem. It’s the salt. We’re using Maldon when we should be using fleur de sel. The crystal structure is affecting how the emulsion hits the palate.”
He’s right, of course. Even I can see it in the way the other chefs nod.
“Ms. Hunter,” he calls suddenly. “Come here.”
Gulp.
I approach the counter, where he’s standing over a stunning dish. It’s breathtaking—layers of color and texture that look more like abstract art than food. There’s something that might be scallops, a sliver of I’m-almost-positive-that’s black truffle, and tiny green things that may or may not be beans.
“What do you see?” he asks. All eyes are on me.
I pretend the attention isn’t fazing me and I shrug. “Looks good.”
A few are brave enough to chuckle, but most don’t, and Bastian is definitely not one of them. “This,” he says with the kind of pride usually reserved for new parents, “is what will set Olympus apart. Every item on the plate is the best of its kind in the world. The scallops are fished by hand off the cliffs in Okinawa. The white truffle oil is from a family-owned estate in Alba that’s been producing for fourteen generations. The sea beans are hand-harvested from private tide pools in the Pacific Northwest and require individual skinning and prep to remove excess salinity.”
I lean closer, inhaling the complex aroma. It smells… expensive. Unsustainably expensive.
“How much does each plate cost to produce?” I ask.
His jaw thrums, which I’m quickly learning is a telltale sign that there is a tectonic anger brewing inside him. “What kind of question is that? Who bites something perfect and thinks about dollar bills?”
“Project managers do.” I pull up my tablet and start typing notes. “Japanese scallops sound to me like they require pricey plane tickets. White truffle oil from a specific estate in Italy means we’re locked into a single supplier. What happens when there’sa bad harvest? Or when shipping gets delayed? And hand-harvested sea beans that require individual prep?” I look up at him. “You’re talking about, what, fifteen minutes of labor per plate just for one garnish?”
The kitchen has gone deathly quiet. Everyone’s watching us.
“The dish is perfect as designed,” he growls.
“‘Perfect’ doesn’t scale.” I turn my tablet toward him so he can see my hasty calculations. “At twelve locations, assuming even moderate demand—which, let’s hope we do a helluva lot better than ‘moderate’—you’re looking at sourcing issues within the first month alone. By itself, the truffle oil?—”
