“Those are functional.”
“So is this.”
I take the prep list from the pass and scan it because looking at Julien while he is correct is bad for discipline.
“Claire can have one paragraph,” I say.
Julien’s expression remains carefully neutral. “Good.”
“She cannot use the word intimate.”
“I will tell her.”
“She cannot use the word journey.”
“I would resign before allowing it.”
“She cannot use the phrase long-awaited.”
“She has already tried.”
“Then she is on thin ice.”
“She knows.”
I hand him the prep list. “Check the fish delivery again before portioning.”
Julien stares at me for a second.
Then he smiles.
It is brief, narrow, and deeply annoying because it contains victory.
“Of course, Chef,” Julien says.
“There it is,” I say.
“What?”
“The smugness you were pretending was concern.”
“It can be both.”
“No.”
“It often is.”
“Fish,” I say.
He takes the prep list and turns toward the walk-in.
The crew moves faster now, the kitchen warming by degrees, the empty restaurant giving way to the machinery of the day. Claire will arrive in less than three hours with folders, questions, controlled irritation, and probably a coat too elegant for the receiving area. Julien will enjoy that. He enjoys any moment when my life becomes fractionally less convenient.
I pick up my phone, open Claire’s thread, and type one sentence.
Damien: You may have one paragraph. No adjectives that suggest emotional growth.
I send it before I can improve it.
