“That makes eighteen.”
“Seventeen,” I say.
“No. Eighteen.”
“I returned two.”
“That still leaves sixteen.”
“You’ve become invested in arithmetic.”
“You’ve made avoidance measurable.”
I take the phone from his hand. “Don’t touch my phone.”
“Then answer it.”
“That is not how property works.”
Julien steps closer and lowers his voice so the crew doesn’t hear the whole exchange. “You can ignore journalists. You can ignore investors. You can ignore critics until they arrive with fake names and good shoes. You cannot ignore Claire when we hired her to make sure opening week is not a circus.”
“Opening week will be a circus regardless. We serve food in public. The public is the problem.”
“We are part of the public.”
“No, we are the kitchen.”
“That distinction matters only to you.”
“That is why I am in charge.”
Julien looks at me, and this time he doesn’t hide the exasperation.
“You asked me three months ago to tell you when you were using standards as a wall.”
“I regret that.”
“You said it after two glasses of Burgundy, so I took it as legally binding.”
“I should drink less with you.”
“You should listen more.”
The kitchen continues around us, but the air between us tightens.
I could end the conversation. One word would do it. Chef would come back into the room, and Julien would return to work because he knows the boundaries as well as I do. I do not. Not yet.
He has chosen the exact right pressure point.
I hate that.
“I am not afraid of the press,” I say.
Julien’s face does not change. “I did not say you were.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied you are tired of being misread and would rather give no one a sentence than risk giving them one they can twist.”
