Chapter 9 Bastian
BASTIAN
ex·po: /?ekspō/: noun
“Remind me to never get in a car with you during an actual emergency,” Zeke mutters as I whip the Range Rover into a turn that’s technically legal but morally questionable.
The test kitchen staff is running the soft opening out of one of our brick-and-mortar locations, Quail’s Egg. It occupies the ground floor of a converted warehouse in River North. Red brick, steel beams, Edison bulbs casting warm light over tables that are booked months in advance. Very Chicago.
It’s where everything started. The first brick in my empire.
It’s also, currently, a disaster.
I can hear the chaos before we even reach the kitchen. Voices are raised in frustration over the clack and clatter of pans. Someone is shouting orders that no one seems to be following. The dining room staff look out of sorts, too.
“Jesus,” Zeke breathes. “How long has Rubio been gone?”
“Half an hour,” replies Jose, appearing at my elbow with the hangdog expression of a man watching his career burn down in real time. “Samuel tried to take over expo, but he’s never run a full service. I think he might be having some kind of fuckin’ mental breakdown. I don’t know, man.”
Through the pass window, I can see Samuel standing frozen in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by hanging tickets and plates that aren’t moving. He’s twenty-four, brilliant with flavors and technique, but he’s never had to coordinate an entire service under pressure. His hands are shaking.
I don’t hesitate.
“Zeke, you’re CDC. Check the tickets and start firing.” I’m stripping off my suit jacket, rolling up my sleeves, snatching an apron out of Jose’s hands and pulling it over my head. “Sage, go check with the bar team. Run them ice if they’re low.”
The kitchen falls silent when I walk through the doors. Twelve pairs of eyes turn to me—some relieved, most terrified, all waiting to see what I’m going to do.
“Report,” I request calmly as I scrub my hands at the nearest station.
“We’re twenty minutes behind on apps,” Samuel stammers. “The duck breast keeps coming out overcooked, table six is still waiting on their amuse-bouche, and I can’t find the plating notes for the lamb special.”
I scan the mayhem. It’s a mess, but it’s not unsalvageable.
Everything in its place.
First, you create order. Then—and only then—can you create something worthwhile.
“Deep breath,” I tell Samuel, stepping up to the expo station. “The food doesn’t care that you’re nervous. It only cares that you know what you’re doing. And you do know what you’re doing.”
His breathing starts to slow.
“Garcia, fire two more duck breasts—medium rare, not leather. Becker, where is the amuse-bouche for six? Do the crème-fra?che first, then the caviar.” My voice carries across the kitchen without shouting. “Samuel, the lamb notes are in the folder under the pass. Always check there first.”
For the next three hours, I run the kitchen like I never left it. My hands remember the weight of the pans, the rhythm of service, the precise choreography that turns individual cooks into a unified team.
It feels fucking good.
“Behind!” I call as I slide past Maria with a pan full of perfectly seared scallops. “Samuel, taste this sauce—what’s missing?”
He takes the spoon, considers. “Acid?”
“Good. How much?”
“Just a splash of lemon. Maybe half a tablespoon.”
“Perfect. Trust your palate. It’s better than you think it is.”
By the time we push the last plate at 10:45, the kitchen is running like clockwork. I stand back and watch the relentless parade of perfect dishes hitting the pass, the ballet of chefs weaving around each other without missing a beat.
The staff looks at me with something approaching awe, like they’re seeing me for the first time.
In a way, they are. Most of them have only known me as the CEO who shows up for tastings and meetings. They’ve never seen me work a line, never watched me plate a dish or call out a service.
They don’t know I was born for this shit.
“Not bad for a hoity-toity executive,” Zeke says, appearing at my elbow with a grin. He’s sweat-slicked and tired, but the light in his eyes matches mine.
Like him, I’m exhausted but oddly energized. “There was a time when this was all I knew how to do.”
“You miss it.”
It’s not a question, not really. Zeke knows me well enough to read the expression on my face. His eyes fall to my hands. He sees that, even now, these scarred, burned, tattooed fingers of mine are reluctant to let go of the towel I’ve been using to wipe down stations.
“Sometimes.” I look around the kitchen—my kitchen, really, even if I don’t run it anymore. “It’s simpler here. Either the dish works or it doesn’t. Either the service runs smoothly or it falls apart. No politics, no board meetings, no investors second-guessing every decision.”
“No Eliana Hunters quitting over pastries.”
I cringe inwardly. I’d managed to forget about that.
“I need to run by the office,” I say instead of responding to him. “Gotta check on some things before tomorrow. You good to get Sage home?”
Zeke looks suspicious. “You could delegate, you know. Send someone else to handle whatever urgent and definitely-not-made-up crisis is requiring your immediate attention at eleven o’clock at night.”
I turn away so he can’t see my face. “It’s fine. It won’t be long. Just a quick—”
“Can I ask you something?” he interrupts.
“I really wish you wouldn’t.”
But he barrels ahead anyway. “When’s the last time you were happy, man? Because I gotta say, it’s been a long time since you looked as alive as you looked in there tonight.”
Happy. Christ. When was the last time I was happy? Really, genuinely happy?
I think about Eliana’s hands on my chest two nights ago, and I know that there is an answer in there somewhere I’m nowhere close to acknowledging.
“I don’t remember,” I admit.
Zeke nods like he expected that answer. “Yeah. ‘Bout what I thought.”
Sage wheels up a moment later. He’s tired from acting as a barback for the night, but it’s good to see him feel useful.
For far too long, he was furious at the world for stripping away his independence.
He wanted it back so badly, even as I longed to do things for him, to make his life easier.
It’s taken me a long time to see that sometimes the best gift we can give others is the gift of letting them live without our help.
He’s the reason I built all this. The restaurant group, the empire, all of it. But looking at him now, I wonder if I’ve been building the wrong things for the wrong reasons.
“Good work tonight, you two,” I tell them. “Sage, Z is gonna take you home. I’ll see you later.”
I leave them behind and go get the car. The drive to the office is quiet and still, but my veins are still surging with adrenaline from the work. I raise a finger to my lip and taste lemon from the sauce.
The office building is mostly dark when I arrive.
Just security lights and the red glow of exit signs.
My floor is empty except for the cleaning crew, who nod respectfully as I pass.
They know me by now—the CEO who works late enough to overlap with the night shift, who always says good morning in Russian to Jovanni because she mentioned once that her grandson refused to speak anything but English to her and it was nice to hear her own language for a change.
My office door is closed, but I can see light seeping around the edges.
I stop, key card in hand, suddenly uncertain. It could be Patricia, working late. It could be building maintenance. It could be anyone.
But somehow, I know it’s not.
I slide the key card through the reader and push the door open.