Anton joins me, clipboard in hand. “Uh-oh, I know that face.”
Glancing up from the fresh summer harvest, I stare at him, one brow arched. “What are you talking about?”
“That’s your deep-in-thought face.” He chuckles. “Is it the investor call at nine?”
“Hmm.” I nod. “Aureum Capital Alliance.”
“Right. They’re the global investment group.”
I grunt, setting a crate aside. Aureum wouldn’t be my first choice, but they’re known for backing restaurateurs with much success. Expanding again means risk—more money, more pressure, more long nights. But saying no means stagnation.
Anton and I have worked together for nearly three years now. When I opened Beaulieu’s, he was my first and only choice to be my second-in-command. In one short year at Mon Petit Chou, he’d grown so much that I knew I wanted him at the helm of my next restaurant before the idea had even begun to simmer.
So of course, he knows how to read me as proven by his next question. “You think you’ll go for it? Sign on with them?”
“Depends on if they believe in what I’m selling.”
He flashes me a crooked grin. “And what’s that, Chef?”
I glance around the quiet kitchen. “Perfection, I guess.”
He laughs, but I don’t.
We work quietly alongside each other, and not too long after, the prep crew trickle in. Within minutes, the kitchen comes to life.
By nine, I’m upstairs in the private dining room we use for special events. I open the laptop, sign in, and take one final glimpse at myself in the mirrored wall. White chef’s coat, crisp and spotless. It’s go time.
Within seconds, the Aureum team logs in. To my one, there’s a grid of polished smiles and expensive suits. I count eight of them, and that right there is my first hesitation in doing business with them.
Too much. Too many. Too impersonal.
But I don’t want to prejudge. I’ve got to go into this with a clear mind and open to anything. For all I know, they could be the perfect fit.
“Chef Beaulieu.” Laurent, the man in charge, smiles at me. “We’ve reviewed your proposal. Very impressive.”
“Thank you.” I fold my hands on the dining table. “Beaulieu’s has been a labor of love, and Mon Petit Chou practically runs itself.” It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but unlike Anton who’s still perfecting my standards, Manon, my sous-chef there, runs the place single-handedly. Even when I do go in during service, it’s like I’m in the way. “I think the timing’s right for growth.”
After pleasantries, we get into the discussion of my vision, which parts of my plan they are interested in backing, and where they may want to go in another direction. It’s all very high-level and hypothetical at this point.
Then we shift the focus onto the concrete, and their team leads the conversation, talking numbers and metrics while I nod, answering questions and promising returns. It’s a language I’ve learned to speak fluently, even when it leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
At one stage, Laurent pauses—I guess for effect or because he can read me—sensing my hesitation or distaste for some of the discussion.
He studies me before uttering a word. “You’ve built something special. Don’t let comfort make you cautious.”
“I won’t.”
I mean it. I just don’t know what ambition will cost this time.
My first restaurant was a steady climb to success compared to Beaulieu’s, which took off like a rocket in what seemed like seconds. Soon after opening her doors came the cookbooks, TV show, and here I am, now seeking my next challenge.
Okay, so obviously, Laurent and the rest of the team sense my need to control things and perhaps that’s what he’s referring to. Without directly saying it, I can’t shake the feeling they want me to trust them in every sense of the word, including the creation of something that would have my name on it.
As much as I am ambitious and want to grow, I’m not so sure I can just hand over my brand and go along for the ride.
To me, control isn’t only comfort, it is smart.
When the call ends, I close the laptop and stare at my reflection in the window. The morning light flares off the glass, harsh and white, bouncing from the wet asphalt below. Outside, the air shimmers—heavy, humid, alive with the buzz of traffic and the distant whine of construction. Montreal in summer doesn’t breathe; it swelters.
