“Less than you’ll regret asking,” I say.
Julien accepts that with a small nod, which is the closest he ever comes to wisdom during service. I look through the pass again as Serena lowers her gaze to the plate, takes the first bite, and writes.
Now I know her name in two separate lives: One belongs to the woman who argued with me over tarragon. The other belongs to the critic who may decide what Maison Holt becomes in print.
Bothare sitting at the same table. Neither gives me room to pretend. I turn away from the pass before the room can see too much of my face.
“Julien,” I say.
He steps closer. “Chef?”
“I need twelve minutes.”
His eyes flick once toward the dining room, then back to me.
“For what?”
“Something not on the menu.”
Julien’s expression does not change, but I know him well enough to see the calculation begin. He checks the tickets, the line, the timing, the room. He understands instantly what this could do if it goes wrong.
He also understands I am going to do it anyway.
Julien lowers his voice. “For table seventeen?”
“Yes,” I say.
He studies me for one second.
“Is this professional?”
“No,” I say. “That’s why it needs to be technically perfect.”
Julien exhales through his nose. “Of course.”
I move before he can say more.
The dish forms faster than thought because the memory is already built into my hands. Fish, small and clean. Peas. Fennel. Citrus. Butter. The tarragon from Marché d’Aligre, held until the end because if it enters too early, it becomes arrogant.
I will not be arrogant with this.
Not with her.
I work quietly, and the kitchen adjusts around me. Julien covers the pass. Marc watches once, sees enough to know not to ask, then turns back to his sauce. Thomas keeps his head down with the survival instinct of a young man who can feel pressure but cannot yet name it.
The plate is spare when it is finished.
It does not announce itself.
Good.
I set it at the edge of the pass. “Amélie.”
She appears at once. “Yes, Chef?”
“This goes to table seventeen. Additional course. No explanation beyond that.”
Amélie’s eyes flick to the plate, then to me.
