“And now?”
The question was simple, but it reached into places Paul rarely examined. “Now I think I’m ready to listen.”
Susan searched his face. “What made you want to work with me? There are plenty of well-known chefs in Montana who would love to work on your menu.”
Paul paused, choosing his next words carefully. “I’ve tasted the food you’ve prepared for community events and read the reviews of your Georgia business. But more than that, I’ve listened to you and a few of your students talk about your cooking classes. You think about food in the same way I did before…” He stopped, surprised by how close he was to saying too much.
“Before what?” Susan asked softly.
Paul looked down at his coffee cup, at the dark surface reflecting overhead lights like tiny stars. “Before I forgot why I started. Before success became more important than why I was cooking. I spent every waking moment in my kitchens. My ex-wife told me I should have married my restaurants instead of her. Even my brother thought I’d disappeared into a black hole.”
“I know what you mean,” Susan said with a sigh. “My last year in Georgia was really hard. Even though my business was making more money than it ever had, I wasn’t enjoying what I was doing. That’s when I realized I needed to make some big changes in my life.” Susan paused, then smiled. “If we’re both excited and terrified, maybe that means we’re onto something.”
Paul cleared his throat. “Maybe it does.” Before he told her more about his life, he looked at the notes he’d saved on his phone. “Let me tell you about the restaurant. Apart from seasonal variations, the Grill’s menu has stayed almost the same for three years. My regular customers love the consistency, but I’m losing tourists who’ve eaten here before. They want novelty.”
Susan pulled out her notebook and pen. “What’s your timeline for the new menu?”
“I’d like to introduce the changes from early December, before the Christmas rush hits. That should give us enough time to develop the recipes, test them, train Harry on prep work, and do a soft launch with my regular customers.”
Susan wrote something in her notebook. “How many new items?”
“I’d like nine. Three appetizers, three mains, and three desserts. I’ll keep the top performers in each course and rotate the others out.”
Susan looked up from her notebook. “Do you have specific requirements? Dietary restrictions to accommodate?”
They spent the next thirty minutes discussing the details—seasonal ingredients available in December, local suppliers Paul worked with, and the flavor profiles his customers responded to the best. Susan asked smart questions about his kitchen equipment, the prep space, and Harry’s skill level. She didn’t assume anything or try to impress him with complicated techniques. She simply listened, noted, and asked what she needed to know.
It was the most productive, comfortable, and professional conversation Paul had experienced in years. Maybe ever.
“Can I ask you something?” Paul said when they’d covered the basics.
“Of course.”
“Why did you say yes? To this project, I mean.” He’d been wondering since her text message. “You could be enjoying your retirement instead of working extra hours.”
Susan set down her pen and met his gaze. “Because I miss the challenge of building menus that matter and, when you talk about your restaurant, I hear something I recognize.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“You care about feeding people well, not about impressing them or chasing accolades.”
Paul nodded. “I wish it had always been that way.”
Susan nodded. “Who taught you how to cook?”
“My grandmother,” Paul told her. “She lived in a tiny house in Fresno, and every Sunday, the whole family would crowd into her kitchen. She made elaborate French meals—my grandfather emigrated from Lyon—and everyone would eat and talk and laugh for hours.”
Susan smiled. “Food as love.”
“Exactly. She taught me that cooking is the best way to show people they matter.” Paul felt the old ache of loss. “She died when I was fifteen, but by then, I’d decided I wanted to cook professionally. I wanted to create that feeling of being cared for, just like she did.”
Susan picked up her cup of coffee. “The restaurant world doesn’t always value that philosophy.”
“No, it doesn’t. For years, I convinced myself that excellence and caring for people were the same thing. If I made perfect food, I was honoring my grandmother’s memory.” Paul shook his head. “But perfect food served to stressed-out diners who can barely taste it because they’re worried about the bill? That’s not what she taught me.”
Susan took another sip of coffee. “So you came to Sapphire Bay.”
Paul nodded. “That was about three years ago. I sold my stake in my last restaurant and walked away from everything I’d built. When I opened the Lakeside Grill, I swore I’d do it differently this time.”
