Chapter 3
mei
I wake with a start, a single word already forming in my throat: “Fire!”
It’s the chef’s instinct. The eternal fear of leaving a burner on or an oven running while you sleep.
But the room around me is cold and dark and entirely, startlingly unfamiliar.
The ceiling stretches impossibly high above me, and the bed beneath my back feels like it was built for a family of four. Or one very large orc.
Right. I’m at The Drunken Dragon now. Not my kitchen, not my home, not even my bed. Just a woman with a knife roll, a debt she can’t name without hyperventilating, and exactly one week to turn things around.
I sit up, tugging the oversized blanket around my shoulders.
The windows are uncovered, letting in a dull rectangle of pre-dawn light.
The room is spartan. A bed, a dresser, a single chair in the corner.
The walls are painted a faded blue that might have once been cheerful but now just looks like it’s given up entirely.
My phone, plugged into the wall across the room, shows 5:17. Early by normal person standards, practically midday by chef time. My body doesn’t care that I went to bed at 2 AM after an emergency planning session with Tovek. It’s awake now, and there’s no point fighting it.
I slide out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor with a shock.
The ancient heating system is clearly designed for someone with the blood volume and metabolism of a large orc rather than a perpetually cold human chef.
I grab the hoodie I left draped over the chair and pull it on, then make my way to the window.
The view is exactly what you’d expect from the spare room above a dive bar in New Vegas.
An alley that smells like old beer and stale cigarette smoke, the brick wall of the pawn shop next door, and, if I press my face to the glass and look just right, a sliver of neon sign from the casino three blocks over.
I stretch, feeling each vertebra pop. One night in Tovek’s guest bed has left me with the kind of full-body ache that usually comes from working a double shift. The mattress is too firm, the pillows too flat, and the whole setup clearly designed for someone with a completely different physiology.
But it’s free. And right now, free is the only box I need ticked.
My stomach growls. I change into the cleanest clothes from my backpack and make my way downstairs.
The bar is silent, empty glasses and damp coasters the only evidence of last night’s business. The jukebox is off, the lights are dimmed, and the whole place has the particular quiet of a space designed for noise that’s currently taking a break.
From the kitchen, though, comes the muffled sound of movement. Cupboards opening and closing, the hiss of a coffee maker, the soft scrape of a spoon against ceramic. I pause at the doorway, watching Tovek with his back to me, reaching for mugs on a shelf that’s easily eight feet off the ground.
He’s dressed in black jeans and a gray henley with the sleeves pushed up. His hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to curl against his neck.
“Morning,” I say, and he turns, not startled but with a slight widening of his eyes that suggests he didn’t hear me approach.
“Hey.” He’s holding two mugs, steam rising from them in thin curls. “I was just about to bring this up. Figured you might want some coffee before we get started.”
He extends one of the mugs toward me, and I take it automatically. It’s only when I bring it to my lips that I realize what I’m drinking. Black coffee, sweetened with exactly three sugars.
My favorite. The way I’ve taken it since culinary school, when my roommate introduced me to the concept of sugar as a coping mechanism.
The way I mentioned exactly once in a video two years ago, during a 3 AM livestream when I was making mooncakes for the mid-autumn festival and half-delirious from sleep deprivation.
Tovek is watching me over the rim of his own mug, his expression carefully neutral. “Is it okay? I can make another pot if—”
“It’s perfect,” I say, and take another sip to cover the sudden tightness in my throat. “Thanks.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied, and turns back to the counter where a tablet is displaying what looks like an order form. “I put in a delivery for the basics this morning. Eggs, flour, butter, the stuff you mentioned last night. Should be here by nine.”
I lean against the counter, cradling the mug between my palms. The coffee is exactly right. Strong enough to stand up to the sugar, with a hint of chocolatey bitterness that suggests decent beans. Not the kind of thing you’d expect from a dive bar’s kitchen.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “I could have handled the ordering.”
He shrugs, the movement rippling through his shoulders. “Figured I’d get the ball rolling. The suppliers know me. They’re more likely to prioritize the order if it comes from the bar owner.”
There’s a logic to it, but it still leaves me feeling oddly unbalanced.
Tovek has already thought three moves ahead.
Coffee, supplies, the basics covered before I’ve even had a chance to think about them.
It’s either incredibly thoughtful or incredibly manipulative, and I’m not sure which is more disconcerting.
“We should talk about how this is going to work,” I say, setting my mug down. “Lay out some ground rules.”
He nods, reaching for a notepad that’s tucked between the coffee maker and the wall. “I was thinking the same thing.”
For the next twenty minutes, we establish the basics of our arrangement.
The kitchen is mine. Menu, plating, staff (if and when we hire any), all of it falls under my jurisdiction.
The bar remains Tovek’s domain, though we agree to coordinate on drink pairings and themed nights.
The apartment upstairs is communal but with clear boundaries.
His room, my room, shared bathroom and living space.
Rent is covered as part of my compensation, along with a percentage of food sales that increases once the initial debt is paid.
“Oh, and I took care of your payment,” Tovek says, like he’s mentioning the weather. “The one that was due. And I set it up so future payments come out of the restaurant’s account. You won’t have to deal with Vex unless you want to.”
I blink at him. “You what?”
“Paid it off.” He’s still looking at his notepad, scribbling something. “Seemed easier than having goblins show up during service.”
My throat goes tight. “Tovek, that’s—”
“Part of the deal,” he says firmly. “You can’t cook if you’re worried about debt collectors breaking your kneecaps.”
I want to argue. Want to tell him it’s too much, that I can handle my own problems. But the relief flooding through me is so intense it makes my knees weak. “Thank you,” I manage. “Really. I’ll pay you back.”
“You will,” he agrees. “With the best damn food this city’s ever seen.”
It’s straightforward, professional, and exactly the kind of arrangement I should be comfortable with. So why does it feel like we’re negotiating something else entirely?
“You’re sure about the creative control?” I ask, watching his face carefully. “Some owners have pretty strong opinions about their menus.”
“I’m not hiring you for your ability to follow my recipes,” Tovek says, and there’s a note in his voice. Not quite humor, but something adjacent to it. “I’m hiring you because you’re good. The best, actually.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupts. “And I want you to do what you do. No restrictions, no micro-managing. Just...” He hesitates, seeming to search for the right word. “Just make it yours.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes my chest go tight. Earnest, direct, with none of the calculating assessment I’ve come to expect from people offering me opportunities. Either he’s the most genuine person I’ve ever met, or he’s playing a very long game.
“I will,” I promise. “It’ll be good. I’ll make sure of it.”
He smiles then, a quick flash of white teeth and the subtle gleam of a tusk. “I know you will, Chef.”
The title hits me like a physical thing, a warm weight settling between my shoulder blades.
In my old kitchen, “Chef” was just what everyone called everyone else.
A shorthand, a habit, nothing more. But there’s something in the way Tovek says it that makes my skin prickle.
Like it means something. Like he’s been waiting to say it.
We spend the rest of the morning doing a proper inventory of the kitchen.
It’s better than I expected. The six-burner range has four functional elements, not two as Greta claimed.
The walk-in, while noisy, maintains a perfect 38 degrees.
And the prep tables, despite their scuffed surfaces, are solid and well-positioned.
The wok station in the corner is the real prize.
A custom-built setup with its own ventilation and a burner that could probably melt steel.
“You installed this yourself?” I ask, running a hand along the curved metal hood.
Tovek looks up from the clipboard where he’s been making notes. “Yeah. Had to reroute some gas lines, but it wasn’t too complicated.”
“It’s professional grade,” I say. “Better than what I had at the Pharaoh.”
He shrugs, but there’s a pleased set to his shoulders. “Wanted to do it right.”
By noon, we have a working menu. Six dishes to start, all built around the staples Tovek ordered and the equipment we have available.
Nothing fancy, nothing that requires special ingredients or techniques I can’t execute with one hand tied behind my back.
Just good, solid food with enough heat to make people notice and enough flavor to make them come back.
“We’ll do a soft open tonight,” I decide, writing “SPICY PORK NOODLES” in block letters at the top of the menu board. “No announcements, no social media. Just put the sign in the window and see who shows up.”
Tovek nods, already reaching for his phone. “I’ll let Greta know. She’s got a group text with the regulars.”
“Perfect.” I’m already mentally mapping the prep list, dividing tasks by time and complexity. “I’ll need you on station with me. At least until we figure out the rhythm.”
This gets me a raised eyebrow. “You want me cooking?”
“I want you helping,” I clarify. “I’ll handle the actual cooking. You can do prep, plating, expediting. Basically, whatever I tell you to do.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped. Asking the bar owner to work the line is definitely pushing the boundaries of our professional relationship.
But then he smiles, that same quick flash of teeth. “Yes, Chef.”
There it is again. That little jolt of heat at the base of my spine. I turn away before he can see whatever’s showing on my face. “Great. Let’s get started. We’ve got four hours till service.”
Those four hours pass in a blur. Chopping, measuring, tasting, adjusting.
Tovek proves to be a surprisingly quick study, his massive hands moving with unexpected dexterity as he juliennes carrots and minces garlic.
He asks good questions, the kind that show he’s thinking about the food, not just following instructions.
And he applies corrections immediately, without the defensiveness I’ve come to expect from kitchen newbies.
By five o’clock, we have portioned proteins, prepped vegetables, and sauces resting in squeeze bottles.
The dining room is set. Simple place settings with the bar’s mismatched plates and cutlery, each table topped with a small jar of house-made chili oil.
The menu board is propped in the window, “NOW SERVING” written in my best block letters.
Greta arrives at 5:30, takes one look at the kitchen, and lets out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. It actually looks like a real restaurant in here.”
“It is a real restaurant,” Tovek says, not looking up from the onions he’s dicing. “At least, it will be.”
“Assuming anyone shows up,” I mutter, checking the temperature of the pork belly braising in the oven.
As if on cue, the bell above the door jingles. Then again. And again.
By 6:15, we have a full dining room. Not just the usual bar crowd nursing beers and watching the game, but actual diners, people who’ve come specifically for food.
They’re a mixed group. A table of shifters in their work clothes, still dusty from whatever construction site they came from.
A couple of vampires with their special bottles of synthetic blood wine.
A family of dwarves celebrating what looks like a birthday, complete with paper hats and noisemakers.
And they’re all looking at the menu with genuine interest, not the polite confusion I’ve seen on the faces of people confronted with bar food that’s trying too hard.
“Order in,” Greta calls, sliding a ticket onto the rail. “Table three wants the spicy pork noodles and the dumplings. Table six wants two orders of the mapo tofu, extra spicy. Table one wants the dan dan noodles and the cucumber salad.”
And just like that, we’re in service.
It’s chaos, of course. The first night always is.
Equipment behaving in unexpected ways, tickets coming in faster than expected, the rhythm of the kitchen still finding its feet.
Tovek is everywhere at once, filling water glasses, running food, washing dishes in the tiny sink when we run out of clean plates.
His technique is enthusiastic if occasionally alarming.
I have to stop him twice from using a meat cleaver to open a jar of chili paste, and once from reaching directly into the deep fryer to retrieve a fallen spring roll.
But he listens. Every time I correct him, he nods, says “Yes, Chef,” and does it exactly the way I showed him. No arguing, no defensiveness, just immediate application of the lesson.
It’s refreshing. And weirdly hot, though I refuse to examine that particular reaction too closely.
By 8:30, we’ve hit our stride. The tickets are flowing, the food is going out, and the dining room is buzzing.