9. Mia
MIA
The food magazine wants behind-the-scenes content, which sounds reasonable until the editor explains what that actually means.
"We're thinking intimate," Mimi Reynolds says over the phone. She's the features editor at Plate, a glossy quarterly that takes itself very seriously. "Your partner joins you for Saturday brunch service. We capture the dynamic and the chemistry. Readers eat that stuff up."
I'm in my apartment folding laundry when she calls. I drop a dish towel.
"My partner."
"Ethan, right? We saw the Plaza photos. Gorgeous couple, by the way."
"He's not a chef. He doesn't know anything about kitchen operations."
"Even better. We love the contrast. High-powered attorney meets culinary genius. Very aspirational."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Our fake wedding is scheduled for next Friday, a quick City Hall ceremony with minimal witnesses. This brunch thing would be days before that, which means maximum visibility right when we need it.
That also means I have to let Ethan Evans into my kitchen for an entire service.
"When were you thinking?" I ask.
"This Saturday? I know it's short notice, but our photographer's only available then."
"Fine. Saturday."
I text Ethan after I hang up. "Food magazine wants you at brunch service this weekend. Behind the scenes piece."
His response comes within a minute. "What time?"
"10 AM. Wear something casual. You're going to get dirty."
"Looking forward to it."
I stare at the message. Looking forward to it. Like he's genuinely excited to spend four hours watching me work instead of viewing it as another performance obligation.
It’s probably just good acting.
Saturday morning breaks gray and humid, the type of weather that makes my hair frizz the second I step outside. I arrive at Sable at seven to start prep, earlier than usual because brunch service requires different timing than dinner.
Jamal's already in when I walk through the door, setting up his station.
"Heard we're having a VIP today," he says without looking up from the cutting board.
"He's not a VIP. He's my fake fiancé doing a publicity stunt."
"Right. That's definitely what I'm calling him." Jamal grins. "Does he know how to work a line?"
"Absolutely not."
"Well, this is going to be entertaining."
I tie on my apron and get to work. Brioche needs slicing for French toast, bacon goes in the oven, eggs get cracked into prep bowls. The hollandaise requires my full attention, tempering yolks over simmering water until they reach that perfect creamy consistency without scrambling.
By nine-thirty the kitchen smells like butter and maple syrup and rendered pork fat.
Tanya pokes her head through the pass. "Your attorney's here. So is the photographer."
I wipe my hands and head to the dining room.
Ethan stands near the windows wearing dark jeans and a gray henley that fits him in a way that should be illegal. His hair is slightly mussed, probably from the humidity, and he's holding two cups of coffee from the place down the block.
He hands me one when I approach. "Thought you might need this."
I take it. The cup is still hot, exactly the right temperature. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know."
The photographer is setting up near the bar, a woman in her forties with close-cropped natural hair and an equipment bag that probably weighs forty pounds. Mimi Reynolds stands beside her, tablet in hand, already directing.
"Mia, perfect timing." Mimi waves me over. "This is Ramona Higgins, our photographer. We're thinking we start with some candid shots of you prepping, then bring Ethan into the kitchen for interaction shots. You know, teaching him something, working together. Couple energy."
Couple energy. Right.
I glance at Ethan. He's watching me with an expression that might be amusement or sympathy, hard to tell.
"Let's just get through service first," I say.
Mimi nods enthusiastically. "Of course. We'll stay out of your way. Pretend we're not here."
That's impossible when Ramona follows me into the kitchen with a camera the size of a small child, but I try. Back at my station, I return to the hollandaise. The sauce needs constant attention, whisking in clarified butter drop by drop until it emulsifies.
The shutter clicks behind me. Once, twice, a dozen times.
I ignore it and focus on the butter stream, the way the yolks thicken and pale. When it's finished I taste it, adjust the lemon juice, and taste again. Perfect.
"That's gorgeous," Ramona murmurs from somewhere to my left. "The concentration on your face."
I set down the whisk. "You're making me self-conscious."
"Good. Self-consciousness reads as intensity."
Ethan appears at the pass, leaning against the counter as if he belongs there. He's still holding his coffee, watching me with that assessing look he uses everywhere.
"Can I help?" he asks.
Jamal snorts from his station. "You know how to brunoise a shallot?"
"I barely know what that means."
"Then no, you can't help."
I should send Ethan back to the dining room. Keep him out of the way where he can't break anything or slow down service. Instead I hear myself say, "You can prep vegetables."
Jamal's head snaps up. "Chef, are you serious?"
"He said he wants to help. Let him help."
Ethan straightens, sets down his coffee. "Where do I start?"
I point to the walk-in. "Grab two pounds of cremini mushrooms. They need cleaning and quartering."
He disappears into the cooler. Jamal looks at me like I've lost my mind.
"He's going to be terrible at this," he whispers.
"I know."
"So why?—"
"Because it'll make good photos and get them out of here faster."
That's what I tell Jamal. But the truth is something else, something I haven't examined too closely. Ethan asked if he could help and I want to see him try. I want to watch this man who commands courtrooms with intense precision attempt something he's completely unqualified for.
He returns with the mushrooms, sets them on my station.
I hand him a damp towel. "Clean them first. Don't wash them, they'll absorb water. Just wipe off any dirt."
"Like this?" He picks up a mushroom, rubs it gently with the towel.
"More pressure. They're not made of glass."
He adjusts, works through three mushrooms while Ramona circles us with her camera. The shutter clicks constantly now, capturing this absurd tableau: me standing beside Ethan Evans while he learns basic knife skills.
"Now quarter them," I say, handing him a paring knife. "Stem side down, cut through the center, then cut each half again."
He takes the knife, examines the mushroom like its evidence in a deposition.
"Just cut it," I say.
"I'm assessing it."
"It's a mushroom, not a crime scene."
That gets a smile. He makes the first cut, surprisingly clean. The second cut is less successful, the mushroom rolling sideways, the quarters uneven.
"Like this?" he asks.
"No. Watch." I take a mushroom, demonstrate the cuts. Quick, efficient, each quarter roughly the same size. "See? Consistent pieces cook evenly."
"You make it look easy."
"Twenty years of practice."
I hand him another mushroom. He tries again, better this time, but still clumsy. The quarters are vaguely similar in size, which is progress.
Ramona moves closer, angling for a shot of our hands near each other on the cutting board.
"Perfect," she murmurs. "Keep going."
We work through the mushrooms together. Ethan improves gradually, his cuts getting cleaner as he finds a rhythm. He's focused, brow furrowed, taking this ridiculous task seriously in a way that's somehow endearing.
"You're not hopeless," I say after a few minutes.
"That's amazing praise from Chef Holland."
"Don't let it go to your head."
He glances at me, something warm flickering through his expression. Our hands brush reaching for the same mushroom, and we both pull back too quickly.
Ramona captures it. I hear the shutter click, rapid-fire.
"Beautiful," she says. "That's exactly what we need."
Jamal calls for backup on the egg station. I leave Ethan with the mushrooms and move to help, cracking eggs into skillets, monitoring temperatures, plating benedicts with the hollandaise I made earlier.
Service builds gradually. The dining room fills, orders start stacking on the rail. I fall into the familiar rhythm: call the ticket, plate the dish, send it out. Muscle memory takes over, everything else fading.
Except I'm aware of Ethan behind me at my station, still working through those mushrooms with more care than they probably deserve. Aware of how he glances up every few minutes, watching me work.
An hour into service, one of my line cooks calls in sick. Nathaniel, who handles sauté station on weekends. My phone buzzes with his text: "Food poisoning. Can't come in. Sorry Chef."
I close my eyes, breathe slowly through my nose.
We're already behind. Brunch is our busiest service and we're down a body. Tanya's seating people faster than we can keep up, tickets piling up.
"Problem?" Ethan asks quietly from behind me.
"Nathaniel called out. We're short a station."
"What does that station do?"
"Sauté. Omelets, scrambles, anything egg-based that isn't poached or fried."
He sets down the paring knife. "Show me."
I turn around fully. "You don't know how to work a line."
"I can follow instructions. What do I need to do?"
Jamal looks over, raises an eyebrow.
"This is insane," I mutter.
"Duh," Ethan agrees. "But you need help and I'm here. Use me."
The professional part of my brain knows this is a bad idea. He'll slow us down, screw up orders, and create more problems than he solves. But the desperate part, the part that's watching tickets stack while we fall further behind, considers it.
"Fine," I say. "But you do exactly what I tell you. No improvising."
"Yes, Chef."
The words sound strange in his mouth, formal and slightly teasing. I grab a clean apron, toss it to him.
"Tie that on. You're about to learn what a real kitchen feels like."
He ties the apron, rolls up his sleeves. Ramona has moved to the far corner, camera trained on us. I ignore her.
"Station's here," I say, gesturing to the range beside Jamal. "Three burners, one flattop. Omelets are your primary responsibility. Simple build: eggs, fillings, fold, plate. Can you crack an egg?"
"I'm not completely incompetent."
"We'll see."
The next ticket comes up. Two omelets, one with mushrooms and gruyere, one with spinach and feta. I walk Ethan through each step. Crack three eggs per omelet into a bowl, whisk until smooth, pour into a hot pan with butter. Let it set for thirty seconds, add fillings, fold.
He follows instructions precisely, his lawyer brain treating this like a deposition outline. The first omelet comes out ugly, edges too brown, the fold breaking open. But it's edible.
"Plate it," I say. "We don't have time for perfection."
He plates it. The presentation is rough but functional. I garnish it with parsley, send it out.
The next ticket arrives before the first one's through the pass. Then another. We're fully slammed now, every station firing, the kitchen loud with callouts and the clatter of pans.
Ethan keeps pace. Barely. His omelets improve incrementally, each one slightly less disastrous than the last. He burns one, under-salts another, but he doesn't stop. Just keeps working, asking questions when he's unsure, taking direction without argument.
Jamal glances over once, catches my eye, mouths: He's actually doing it.
I nod. He is. Somehow.
An hour later, the rush starts to ease. Tickets slow, orders spread out. My shoulders ache, my feet hurt, but we made it through service without completely imploding.
I lean against the pass, exhale slowly.
Ethan's still at his station, wiping down the range. His apron is splattered with egg and butter, his hair damp with sweat. He looks exhausted and slightly shell-shocked.
"You survived," I say.
"Barely." He tosses the towel into the laundry bin. "That was the hardest thing I've done in months."
"Welcome to restaurants."
"How do you do that every day?"
"Masochism, I think."
He laughs. It's a real laugh, transforming his face completely. For a second he doesn't look like a ruthless attorney or a carefully managed public image. Just a man who worked hard at something unfamiliar and somehow enjoyed it.
Ramona approaches, camera lowered. "That was incredible. The energy, the teamwork. We got amazing shots."
Mimi appears behind her, beaming. "This is exactly what we wanted. The chemistry between you two is palpable."
I glance at Ethan. He's watching me with an expression I can't decipher, something softer than his usual sharp assessment.
"Glad it worked out," I say to Mimi. "Are we done?"
"Almost. Can we get a few staged shots? Something intimate, maybe Mia showing Ethan how to plate?"
We do three more setups. Me demonstrating garnish technique while Ethan watches. Us side by side at the pass, shoulders almost touching. A final shot of him wiping flour off my cheek, which didn't actually happen but photographs beautifully according to Ramona.
By the time they leave, it's past two and the kitchen staff is breaking down stations for the night. I'm exhausted, wrung out, my chef's coat damp with sweat.
Ethan's still here, leaning against the counter near my office.
"You didn't have to stay," I tell him.
"I wanted to make sure you were alright."
"I'm fine. Tired, but fine."
He pushes off the counter. "Thank you for letting me help. I know I was terrible at it."
"You weren't terrible. Just inexperienced."
"High praise again."
We stand there in the quiet kitchen, the lunch rush over, just the two of us and the lingering smell of butter and eggs. The afternoon light coming through the windows is soft, golden.
"You're really talented," Ethan says quietly. "The way you move in here, the way you think about food. It's impressive."
The compliment somewhat moves me. I'm used to professional praise, critics dissecting my technique and flavor profiles. But this feels different. He watched me work for hours, saw the chaos and pressure and how I navigate it, and he's naming something true.
"Thank you," I say, and mean it.
He nods, starting to leave. Then, he pauses at the door.
"City Hall on Friday," he says. "You nervous?"
"Petrified."
"Me too."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone in my kitchen with the strange awareness that something shifted today. That for four hours we worked together without performing, without calculating angles or managing optics.
And it felt real in a way nothing else between us has.