“Yes,” I say.
Julien stops at the opening between the dining room and the kitchen. He’s thirty-eight, lean, dark-haired, and built with the particular economy of a chef who has spent half his life standing through twelve-hour services and calling that normal. His face is narrow, his mouth usually set in a line that suggests he has already disapproved of what you are about to say. His beard is trimmed close, more practical than styled. His eyes miss very little, which is why he is useful and occasionally irritating.
He looks at table twelve through the archway.
“It’s better now,” Julien says.
“I know.”
“You could pretend to value confirmation.”
“I could also hire a magician. Neither would improve service.”
Julien’s mouth twitches but it’s not quite a smile. He is parsimonious with those, which is one of his better qualities. He steps into the kitchen and sets his bag on the lower shelf near garde-manger.
“You tasted the stock.”
“Yes.”
“Thomas pulled the bones early.”
“Yes.”
“I told him.”
“Then he had two opportunities not to disappoint us,” I say.
Julien washes his hands. “He is twenty-four.”
“That’s not a diagnosis.”
“It is sometimes an explanation.”
“Not in my kitchen.”
Julien dries his hands, reaches for the marked container, and reads my label.
“Roast longer. Thomas.”
“I considered adding punctuation.”
“That would have seemed emotional.”
“Exactly why I restrained myself.”
He places the container back in the lowboy and looks at me across the kitchen. There’s something in his face now, something measured and unpleasantly knowing.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re here early.”
“I own the restaurant.”
“You’re always early. This is different.”
“There are categories of early now?”
“With you, yes.”
