My staff had the kitchen under control, but I still triple-checked everything myself. Everyone I loved was here tonight. If the food wasn’t perfect, and they got sick, I’d never forgive myself.
A familiar worm of anxiety scuttled through my chest before I quashed it. I forced a slow breath of air through my nose and exhaled. I didn’t think I’d ever truly shake the fear of hurting someone with my food, but the fear was no longer debilitating. That was the important part. It hovered at the back of my mind as a reminder, but it didn’t control me.
After another calming breath, I refocused on my inspection. I saved the most important dish for last: the scallops. The star of tonight’s menu.
I’d spent the past year tinkering with the recipe. I’d experimented with dozens of ingredients before Ifinally, almost by accident, stumbled upon the magic one.
I’d tested and retested the recipe so often I could whip ittogether in my sleep, but I had to taste it one last time. Just in case.
I picked up a scallop from the test plate, put it in my mouth, and chewed.
The bright pop of strawberry basil salsa paired beautifully with the savory seared scallops.
Perfect.
In hindsight, it was so simple. Strawberries provided the same acidity as the lemon beurre blanc sauce in my previous recipe, but their sweetness made the dish fresher and more dynamic. I would’ve never thought to pair them with scallops if it weren’t for Maya’s obsession with strawberries. We had so many cartons of them in our fridge that I was constantly using them in different recipes, and I’d inadvertently struck gold.
Thankfully, the diners seemed to agree. Service started soon after I finished my walkthrough. Judging by the exclamations and murmurs of appreciation throughout the night, the food was a huge hit.
“Do me a favor.” I handed my maître d’hôtel a folded note halfway through the night. “Give this to table eight.” That was Maya’s table.
She immediately understood. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”
I sank back into the rhythm of the kitchen. The controlled chaos felt familiar and almost comforting. The noise, the activity, the medley of smells—they were the marks of a kitchen that wasalive. When service was in full swing, it was no longer tethered to reality. It was its own world, one where time compressed into tiny pockets of action and reaction. The sous-chef calling out orders. The sizzle of meat in a pan. The ping of a timer going off. Adrenaline and muscle memory took over, making the hours fly by at warp speed.
One minute, I was checking the scallops. Then I blinked, and service was over. My friends and family congratulated me andtrickled out of the restaurant. Soon, Maya was the only person left seated in the dining room.
Her eyes sparkled as I sank into the chair opposite hers.
“Open your own restaurant, check. Blow everyone’s minds at the soft opening, check. Next on the list, a Michelin star,” she said. She paused. “Sorry. I meantthreeMichelin stars.”
I smiled, my body exhausted but my heart full. “You liked the food, then.”
“Is that a real question? Of course I did.” Her face shimmered with pride. “It was incredible. Congratulations, Seb. I know how hard you’ve worked for this, and I’m so fucking proud of you.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I said. “Thank you for waiting. I know how much you love your dessert.”
My note had asked her to hold off on eating dessert so we could enjoy it together.
“Don’t thank me too much. I stole a piece of Neha’s pie when she wasn’t looking,” she said, making me laugh.
“You earned it. Consider that part of your reward for winning Gastronomic Event of the Year,” I said.
To Maya’s surprise and delight, our second launch received the prestigious honor at the most recent World Marketing Awards. She hadn’t thought we’d win since the event had been so simple, but we’d earned extra points for pulling it off in such a short period of time. Plus, we’d received special consideration for Whitaker’s sabotage of our first event.
“Weearned it,” she corrected me.
“It was more you than me. I was only in charge of the food.”
“Right. Because that’s not important or anything.”
Another laugh escaped me.
We conversed lightly for a while, catching each other up on our nights before I motioned for the server to bring out our dessert.
My smile faded beneath a churn of nerves, but I tried not tolet my anxiety show.
The restaurant wasn’t the only thing I’d spent the past year preparing. I’d agonized over how to do it and when, but after scrapping dozens of ideas, I’d opted for the simplest one. It was the one that meant the most. Hopefully, Maya agreed.
