We’ve been known to watch countless episodes from season one ofGame of Thronesto get our fix. It’s the actor as much as the character we love, and we know our favorite scenes word for word.
Her dark brows rise. “What kind of question is that? Hells yeah. I’ll make popcorn.”
She likes me—for now. My heart swells with joy. And it’s times like these that make all the tears, bumps, and bruises bearable.
We curl up on the couch, her head on my shoulder, popcorn in her lap. We’re not where we used to be, but for now we’re no longer where we were.
And next weekend?
Three days, no clients, no demands. Just girlfriends, wine, and Montreal.
Life is good.
3
SAM
Ilike to be the first one. The kitchen smells different before the day starts—clean steel, faint lemon, a whisper of roasted coffee drifting from the café next door.
Outside, Montreal is still dark, the streets slick with last night’s rain. Summer air clings heavy and warm, the kind that sticks to your skin before sunrise. I cradle a steaming mug of coffee and lean against the counter, watching the sky pale through the narrow windows, soft light bleeding into the humid dawn.
By seven, the prep team will arrive. By noon, the phone will start its constant hum. And by dinner, I’ll be running between two kitchens, answering texts, smoothing egos, making sure a hundred moving parts never collide.
But right now, it’s quiet. My favorite time of the day. Just me, the hum of the fridge, and the buttery scent of lemon pastries fresh from the oven.
Okay, maybe that’s not true. There are a couple times of the day that I like to bask in the moment of it all.
I love the charged intensity of the kitchen when in service—the way everything narrows to instinct and precision, to motion and trust. There’s no time to overthink, no space for doubt. Just the pulse of the room and the certainty that what we do matters.
That we matter.
ThatImatter.
The rush of heat, the rhythm of knives on cutting boards, the pulse of adrenaline that keeps everyone sharp. It’s loud and hot and unrelenting, but it’s also alive—like the whole room is breathing in sync. Both exhausting and exhilarating, chaos stitched together by control. It reminds me who I am, what I’ve built, and why I keep coming back for more.
There’s nothing quite like it.
But right now, it’s special for the complete opposite reason. It is the only time of day that I can truly think. Dissect my thoughts and find solutions to the bigger picture problems of my business.
I sip my coffee, grimace—it’s too hot—and set it down.
It’s been two years since Beaulieu’s opened, five since my first restaurant, Mon Petit Chou. People like to call me a “success story.” Thirty years old, two restaurants, a cooking show, two cookbooks in the works, and a waitlist that makes my reservation manager curse daily.
On paper, I’ve made it.
But sometimes I wonder what “it” actually means.
“Bonjour, Chef.” Anton, my sous-chef, strolls in, a light sheen to his forehead.
“You’re early.” I don’t expect him in with the prep crew since he stays well after the patrons are gone, the staff has cleared out, and the kitchen is sparkling clean.
He pours himself a coffee. “You’re early.”
Touché.
“Just want to get a head start on the day.” He ambles toward the walk-in to start inventory while I check the produce deliveries.
I lift the lid on a crate of produce—sun-warmed tomatoes from the South Shore, glossy eggplants, and bunches of basil so fragrant their aroma clings to my fingers. Summer’s peak, ripe and unapologetic. Next to them, corn still dusted with field soil and crates of blueberries that stain everything they touch. Summer cooking is alive—bright, wild, and honest.
