"I'm not 'good at this.' I'm simply following the system you established." She doesn't look up from her work, vegetables landing in precise arrangements.
"Sometimes that's genuinely all cooking is—a good system, repeated until it becomes muscle memory."
"That's a lie and you know it." Now she does glance at me, one eyebrow raised. "You don't follow systems. You barely acknowledge they exist."
I grin, flipping another chicken with more flair than strictly necessary. "I create organized chaos. It's a skill."
"That's not a real thing."
"It absolutely is tonight."
The temp staff arrive, two gangly teenagers who look terrified and eager. Maya puts them on dishes immediately. Water runs. Plates clatter. The kitchen fills with steam and noise and the fiddler switches to something even louder.
"What is he playing?" Ivy asks, her voice cutting through the noise as another wobbly note careens through the dining room.
I glance toward the archway where I can just make out the fiddler's silhouette. "No idea. Some kind of jig? Maybe a reel gone wrong?"
"We're serving dinner, not hosting a barn dance." She punctuates this by flipping three zucchini slices in perfect unison, each one landing with identical char marks facing up.
"Maybe people like barn dances," I offer, reaching for the thyme oil.
"Maybe people like eating in peace." Her tone is dry as dust, but there's the tiniest quirk at the corner of her mouth.
I flip another chicken breast, check the temp with a quick knife-press. The resistance is perfect, just firm enough. "You're very opinionated for someone who's been cooking for, what, twenty minutes?"
"You're very defensive for someone who invited criticism." She doesn't even pause in her vegetable rotation, moving the skillets in sequence like some kind of botanical conductor.
"I didn't invite criticism. I invited help." I plate the chicken, adding greens with perhaps more force than necessary.
"Same thing."
"Not even close."
"If you say so."
Maya reappears at the pass, notebook in hand, a strand of hair escaping her usually perfect bun. "Table four wants to know if the chicken is organic. The guy's very insistent. He's got that look."
I don't need to ask what look. Every restaurant has that customer. "It's local. From Farmer Hank, literally three miles down the road. Tell them it's better than organic. It's neighbors raising food right."
She grins, already pivoting back toward the dining room. "Oh, I like that. Definitely using it."
More orders flood in. The line outside isn't shrinking. If anything, it's growing. I catch a glimpse through the window and my chest tightens.
The entire town is here.
"Rogan, I need vegetables for three plates." Maya's voice cuts through my panic.
Right. Focus. One plate at a time.
Ivy's already plating. Her portions are exact, measured. I add the proteins, sauce, garnish. We're moving faster now, finding rhythm.
The fiddler hits a wrong note. Badly. The whole dining room hears it.
"Should I—" Maya starts.
"Leave him. He's trying." I plate another chicken. "We're all trying."
An hour in and we're drowning. Orders stack up. The temp staff can barely keep up with dishes. Every burner is fired, every pan in rotation.
