CHAPTER 2: ALEX
The kitchen of my family’s Michelin-starred flagship in Vancouver is chaos. Steam rises in thick waves, utensils flash, pans clang—but none of it touches me. I’m standing at the center of it all, a statue of control: apron crisp, sleeves rolled up to my elbows, eyes sharper than any knife you’ve ever seen.
I move along the pass like the calm center of a storm, scanning the dishes with surgical precision. Every plate is a judgment. Every garnish, a potential failure. I bend forward, eyeing the set of dishes before me, not missing the subpar presentation.
It’s close.
But close isn’t good enough atPrism.
“Potato puree,” I snap, voice low but cutting. “Ridges are uneven. Again.” A sous chef to my left freezes mid-garnish, brow furrowed, hands trembling.
“Chef,” he stammers, fumbling the garnish again.
I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath. The air is a robust mix of seared meat and reduction sauces—butter browning to a nutty edge, garlic just shy of burning. Every aroma layers into the next, culminating in a perfect, ideal balance.
Even the smoke smells intentional.
Letting everything that’s going well temper my irritation, I exhale slowly and keep my voice low, controlled. “I refuse to let this service fail because of sloppy, amateur work. Do. It. Again.”
He mutters something under his breath.
A single, careless word reaches me:Bastard.
My jaw tightens at those two syllables.
Unbelievable.
I don’t have to raise my voice to command the room. “Out,” I say without raising my eyes from the botched presentation in front of me. “Pack your knives. Leave. Now.”
The entire line freezes on the spot. Fear? Yes. But respect, too. They know this is the standard, or it’s the door. There will never be an exception.
My ex-sous chef gives a curt nod of understanding. He had to have known this could be the outcome, and he risked his position here anyway. He doesn’t put up a fight, just rapidly gathers his knives and retreats to the back of the kitchen, out of my line of sight.
I grab my father’s set of knives from under the pass and move to the now vacant station. All thoughts hone in on my new mission while I wipe down the station with speed and precision as a reset. Clean. Correct. Perfect.
Julian, my cousin, meets my gaze. “Expo,” I bark. “Now.”
He steps in, breath steady, and takes inventory of the ticket line-up.Good. At least someone else here understands that this is serious.
Taking over the first plate, I inspect and adjust for perfection. Every sauce flick, every microgreen:flawless. If it’s not immaculate, I fix it myself.
I feel no satisfaction in firing the sous chef.
I feel…nothing.
Passion was trained out of me a long time ago, replaced by precision, by legacy, and by expectation. Everything here is to be executed without error. Anything to the contrary is unacceptable.
Falling into the rhythm of a station is second nature. Muscle memory overtakes any thought I might have, and I’m lost in the ebb and flow of service.
Eyes always scanning; hands always moving.
“Hot line!” Julian’s order cracks the commotion. “Four short rib, three chicken, two octo, three lobster, and four pork!”
“HEARD!” Every voice, including mine, resounds in unison. Synchronized movement erupts across the kitchen as each line cook springs into their designated actions.
My heart rattles hard in my chest, but my face is the picture of careful stoicism. The pace is quick, but I’m quicker.
“Hot line, six out!” Terri yells from the back of the kitchen. She is the best damn grill cook I’ve ever seen, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have to not watch her precise, methodical movements.
