"The fiddler's here," Maya says. "Want me to tell him to set up?"
"Yeah. Background music, nothing fancy. We need atmosphere not a concert."
She disappears. Ivy's already at the vegetable station, testing the heat on a cast-iron skillet.
"Oil?"
"Neutral. Canola's fine. Don't crowd the pan." I move to the protein station, start heating my own pans. The kitchen feels smaller without the oven's reliable warmth. More immediate. Every burner matters now.
The door chimes. Voices filter back. The fiddler starts tuning.
"First order coming in," Maya calls. "Two chicken, one vegetarian plate, one kid's portion."
Here we go.
I drop chicken breasts into screaming-hot pans. The sear is immediate, satisfying. Fat renders. Skin crisps. The smell fills the kitchen, rich and promising.
"Vegetables in," Ivy says. Her voice is calm. Measured. I glance over and she's working methodically, stirring in careful intervals.
"More heat. Get them moving faster."
"They'll burn."
"They'll caramelize. Trust me."
She cranks the burner. The vegetables start to sing, sugars breaking down, edges browning.
"See?"
"I see you being reckless with root vegetables."
"It's called cooking."
"It's called controlled fire and luck."
The chicken needs flipping. I work three pans simultaneously, adjusting temperatures by instinct. One pan too hot, I slide it off the burner for thirty seconds. Another needs more color, I add a touch of butter for flavor and heat.
"Two more orders," Maya calls. "We're filling up fast."
The fiddler starts playing. It's a gentle folk tune. Instead it's loud, jaunty, completely wrong for the intimate atmosphere I wanted.
"Maya, can you?—"
"On it." She's already moving toward the fiddler, her smile diplomatic.
The kitchen falls into rhythm. Not smooth, not perfect, but functional. I plate the first chicken, add Ivy's vegetables, drizzle sauce. It's not the composed presentation I planned. It's messier, more rustic.
It's honest.
"First plates up," I call.
Maya swoops in, balances two plates, disappears into the dining room.
"Four more orders," she calls back. "We just sat another six-top."
Ivy's working three skillets now. Her movements are precise but she's gaining confidence. Vegetables hit the plates golden and gleaming.
"You're actually pretty good at this," I say, watching her plate another perfect portion.
