Chloe
La Cucina di Rosasmells of heat and intent, of a kitchen awake before service, all purpose and restraint.
Ovens hum. Knives knock against boards in steady, unshowy rhythms. Someone swears loudly, apologises, then swears again when a crate of tomatoes nearly commits suicide off a prep table.
I step fully inside and pause, notebook tucked under my arm, taking it all in. This is the part diners never see. No charm. No plating flourishes. Just people getting ready to be judged.
“Chloe.”
Tom’s voice cuts through the noise without effort. Not loud. Certain. This is his domain and he knows he is in charge.
He’s already in chef's whites, sleeves rolled up, short dark hair neat in a way that suggests he does not own a hairdryer and has never once worried about it. He looks settled. Rooted. Like this room would sulk if he left.
His gaze travels with purpose. Not lingering. Not careless. Just thorough.
“You’re early,” he says.
“I thought I'll arrive before service starts,” I reply. “It gives me time to warm up.”
His mouth twitches. “Come in properly. You’re blocking a walkway.”
I move further into the kitchen and feel the shift immediately. This is not the place to hide behind my notebook. I am in the battle zone.
Tom gestures towards an empty prep table. “Right. Before we start, we need to be clear about what today looks like.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I was hoping for a tour and a free lunch.”
“You’ll get fed later,” he says. “You’re here to assess the restaurant,” he continues plainly. No defensiveness. No apology. “I understand that. I’m not pretending otherwise.”
That lands. Unexpectedly.
“But you’re not doing it from a corner table with a notebook and a glass of wine,” he goes on. “You’re doing it here. With me. You see prep, service, clean down. You see how decisions get made, not just how they land on a plate.”
I glance around again. The coordination. The quiet intensity. “So full access.”
“Within reason,” he says. “You watch. You ask questions. You don’t interfere. And when you eat later, you do it with context.”
“And what do you get out of this arrangement?” I ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Accuracy.”
Not praise. Not redemption. Accuracy. Interesting.
“All right,” I say. “That’s reasonable.”
“Good,” he says, then his gaze drops in a way that is noticeably less philosophical. “Which brings us to a practical issue.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Health and safety.”
“Yes,” he replies, already reaching for a hook. “You can’t be in here dressed like that.”
I look down at myself. Black yoga pants. Soft. Forgiving. Built for long days. A loose T shirt that says NOTHING CLEVER, which feels slightly confrontational in context.
“I’m dressed for observing,” I say.
“You’re dressed for stretching,” he says. “This is a working kitchen.”
“I’m not juggling knives.”
