"It's both." He sets the plate down, crosses his arms. "You can't tell me this doesn't taste better because the plating's bold."
"I can absolutely tell you that." I grasp a fork, spear one of the radishes, take a bite. The flavor is still there, still good, but now I'm distracted by the visual chaos. "The dish is fighting itself."
"You're impossible."
"I'm practical." I set down the fork. "If you serve this to the critic, she's going to think you're trying too hard."
Rogan stares at the plate, jaw tight. Then, surprisingly, he laughs. "Okay. Fair. What would you do?"
I scoot the plate toward me, scrape off the excess sauce with the side of a spoon. Remove two of the three dots. Rearrange the greens so they're not competing with the radishes. When I'm done, it's simpler. Cleaner. The radishes are the star, not the decoration.
"There." I step back, smoothing my hands against my apron. The plate sits between us now with clean lines, deliberate placement, everything balanced so the eye knows exactly where to land first.
Rogan studies it with his head tilted slightly, that scar along his jaw catching the kitchen light. His fingers drum once on the countertop before he exhales sharply through his nose. "Huh."
"Huh what?" I brace for another argument, already reaching for my notebook out of habit.
He shrugs, but there's a grudging respect in the way his shoulders loosen. "It's better."
Maya leans over from her station, wiping her hands on her apron before peering at the plate. A slow grin spreads across her face. "Yeah," she says, nudging Rogan with her elbow. "Less chaotic. Almost like Ivy knows what she's doing."
Rogan rolls his eyes, but he doesn't argue.
"I do chaos well," Rogan mutters, but he's smiling.
"You do flavor well," I correct. "Let the ingredients speak. You don't need to shout over them."
He picks up a fork, takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "Okay. Point taken. But I'm keeping one dot."
"One dot is acceptable."
"Good. Because I'm not serving boring food to anyone, critic or not."
I close my notebook, tuck it back in my satchel. "Then we'd better make sure your ingredients can handle your ambition. I'll send you my supplier list. Farmers who can meet food safety standards and actually deliver on time."
"Controlling much?"
"Keeping you out of jail." I head toward the door, pause. "And Rogan? Fix the storage before I come back. I'm not risking my reputation on your interpretation of 'fine.'"
He gives me a mock salute, still grinning. "Yes, ma'am."
Maya walks me out, wiping her hands on her apron. "Thanks for not eviscerating him completely."
"The day's young."
She laughs. "He means well. He's just...a lot."
"I noticed."
"But he's good. The food, I mean. When he's not drowning it in unnecessary dots." She glances back toward the kitchen. "He's got a shot at this. If he doesn't self-destruct first."
"That's what I'm here to prevent."
"Good." Maya grins. "Because honestly? I like this job. And I'd really prefer not to be unemployed in two weeks."
I smile despite myself. "I'll do my best."
I step outside, the morning air cool and clean after the heat of the kitchen. My notebook feels heavier, full of new notes and observations and a growing sense that this might actually work.
