Julien says, “She is coming later.”
“That isn’t a threat if I already knew it.”
“It can still be a threat.”
I look at table eight’s plate and point to the left edge.
“The turnip is dead.”
Thomas, who is working beside Marc for the test, blinks.
“Dead, Chef?”
“Yes, Thomas. It lived a full life and has now become visually useless. Replace it.”
Thomas looks at the turnip, sees it, and moves quickly.
“Yes, Chef.”
Julien watches him go.
“You could have said it was overcooked.”
“I could have said many things.”
“You chose death.”
“It was accurate.”
My phone vibrates again. This time Julien picks it up before I can tell him not to.
“Don’t answer that,” I say.
Julien reads the screen.
“She sent the briefing.”
“I don’t care.”
Julien keeps reading. I reach for the phone, but he turns away with the irritating agility of a man who has known me too long to fear immediate consequences.
“Julien,” I say.
He scrolls. “Opening statement. Chef biography. Press positioning. Restaurant narrative.”
“I’m going to fire you.”
“You say that when you’re uncomfortable.”
“I say it when people touch my phone.”
Julien reads aloud, “After years of shaping Parisian fine dining with a rigorous and deeply personal culinary language, Damien Holt returns with Maison Holt, an intimate forty-cover restaurant designed as—”
“No,” I say.
Julien continues, “—a meditation on restraint, seasonality, and the emotional architecture of appetite.”
I close my eyes. The kitchen goes dangerously quiet. Someone coughs near pastry. I open my eyes and look at Julien.
