Chapter 4
Isabelle
I set my notebook on the center island and wait for the room to settle. My team is assembled at their stations: eight cooks of varying experience levels, all borrowed from Solstice's regular kitchen staff and promised back unharmed at the end of the pop-up.
They're watching me with expressions ranging from curious to skeptical to carefully neutral, the way kitchen staff always watch a new chef on day one. Sizing me up. Deciding if I'm worth following or just another entitled brat with a famous last name who'll flame out by week two.
I know exactly what they see. Jean-Pierre Beaumont's daughter, twenty-six years old, Le Cordon Bleu trained, here to play restaurant in wine country before going back to daddy's empire in New York.
Another nepo baby with a knife kit she's never properly broken in and a fragrance collection that costs more than their rent.
I've seen that look my entire career, in every kitchen I've ever walked into.
It doesn't bother me anymore. I stopped caring about their assumptions somewhere around year three of culinary school, when I realized I could either waste energy trying to convince people I was serious or I could just show them with my food. And my food has never let me down.
What bothers me is the man leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching me like this is dinner theater and he's got front row seats to opening night.
Alex Midnight. My father's spy. The babysitter I didn't ask for and absolutely do not need.
He's wearing a fitted gray t-shirt that does genuinely unreasonable things to his shoulders, forearms tan and distractingly well-defined in a way that suggests he spends time doing things outdoors.
There's an ease to the way he holds himself that I find deeply irritating, the kind of comfort in his own skin that makes my own rigid posture feel like a character flaw I should be working on in therapy.
He catches me looking and gives me a little wave, fingers wiggling, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that infuriating way he has.
I look away immediately and flip open my notebook, pretending to review notes I have memorized.
When I glance back at my team, I catch Sofia near the pastry station sneaking a look toward the doorframe where Alex is still standing, and she's not the only one.
Lucy is also looking, trying to be subtle about it and failing completely.
Wonderful. My first day running this kitchen and half my staff is more interested in my father's oversight project than in the menu I've spent three months developing. This is exactly what I need. I clear my throat with more force than necessary.
"We have a sold-out house every single night of the pop-up.
" I tap my pen against the notebook, scanning the room until I have everyone's full attention.
"Industry insiders, food critics, people who flew in from New York and Los Angeles specifically to stay at Solstice Estates and eat the food we’re going to create.
Which means we are performing at the highest level from night one. "
I move around the island to where I've laid out the tasting menu, each course photographed and annotated in plastic sleeves.
I spent three hours on these last week, and looking at them now I feel the familiar calm that comes from knowing exactly what needs to happen and when.
My father taught me that meticulous preparation is what separates the good from the great.
I lay out the photographs across the center island so everyone can see the plating. "This is a seven-course tasting menu, and I expect every single plate that leaves this kitchen to look exactly like these photographs."
The cooks lean in to examine the photos, passing them between stations. I glance back at Alex, who hasn't moved from the doorframe, still watching me with that half-smile on his face.
"One more thing," I say, because I might as well acknowledge the elephant in the room before he starts causing problems. "This is Alex Midnight.
He's here as a consultant, courtesy of my father.
Alex, I believe there's a lovely corner over there where you can observe without getting in anyone's way. "
He pushes off the doorframe and ambles over, hands in his pockets, seemingly completely unbothered by my tone. "Corner. Got it. I'll just be over here not touching anything."
To my annoyance, this gets a few laughs out of the cooks, and Sofia laughs louder than I really think is necessary, like he just said the funniest thing she's heard all week. I suppress an eye roll. He's not that funny.
"Perfect." I smile at him, sweet as arsenic, then turn back to my team. "Now. Let's walk through the menu."
I work through the assignments, writing each name next to their station, making notes about timing and cross-training.
This is the part I love, the part that feels like solving a puzzle, fitting people into roles, figuring out how to make a group of individuals function as a single unit.
It's like conducting an orchestra, except the instruments are knives and sauté pans and the music is a seven-course tasting menu.
The next six hours pass in a blur of demonstrations and refinements.
I walk them through the halibut course, adjusting ratios until the color is exactly right, until it tastes like the sea and summer and the faintest trace of floral underneath.
I drill them on the timing for the egg course, the one that has to hit the table within ninety seconds of plating or the yolk sets too firmly and the whole thing falls apart.
Every now and then I catch Alex nodding at a technique or tilting his head during an explanation. I can practically see the opinions forming behind his eyes. But thankfully he keeps them to himself.
By the time I dismiss the team for a break, my feet are aching and my shoulders have locked into a permanent hunch. The kitchen empties, cooks heading for coffee and fresh air. Sofia lingers for a moment, glancing toward Alex's corner, but he has already slipped out through the side door.
I stay at the center island, reviewing my notes, adding reminders about things I forgot to mention.
I finally pull out my phone, which displays multiple texts from my father, wishing me luck, hoping I will come around to seeing the value in his little arrangement.
His last text in particular makes my jaw clench.
Isabelle, you have to trust that I have been in this business for a very long time and I know better than you what you need right now.
"It is my fucking pop-up," I mutter at my phone, “you do not get to decide what I need." I stab out a reply and then delete it before I can send something I will regret.
"Bad time?"
I spin around. Alex has come back into the kitchen and is standing a few feet away, watching me with an expression between curiosity and amusement. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks immediately.
"Just my father," I say, shoving my phone into my back pocket and waving my hand like I can dismiss the whole thing. "He is driving me up the wall."
Alex nods. "Well, this might not be the right time then, but do you have a second? I noticed something on the calendar and wanted to check with you before you finalized things with the vendors."
He holds up the delivery calendar that I had left on the prep table earlier, the one with all my careful color-coding and margin notes.
"Sure, what is it?" I ask, setting my pen down on the counter.
"Your lamb delivery." He walks over and stops next to me, leaning one hip against the edge of the prep station and laying the calendar flat between us.
"You’ve got it scheduled for Friday morning, but the soft preview is Thursday night.
That means you would be serving lamb that has not even arrived yet. "
He points at the date, and my stomach drops. He’s right. I would be standing in the kitchen on Thursday night with a lamb course on the menu and no lamb in the walk-in. It is a rookie mistake, and the fact that he is the one who caught it makes it worse.
"Thursday afternoon," I say, pulling the calendar back toward me and grabbing my pen. "I will move it up. Thanks."
"No problem." He straightens up from the prep station. "I mean, you are dealing with a ton right now."
He is being kind about it, which somehow makes me feel worse.
My father would not have made a mistake like that nor let it go so easily.
But I do not say that out loud. I just scribble the note in the margin and make a reminder to call the vendor first thing in the morning to adjust the delivery window.
I open my mouth to thank him, to say something gracious and professional and appropriately appreciative, but nothing comes out. The words stick somewhere between my pride and my throat.
"If you notice anything else, please always tell me directly," I say. "Not the team. And not my father. Please."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts. "I'm the worst spy ever hired, remember?"
"Hmm.” I cross my arms because I don't know what else to do with them. “Well, thank you."
He nods, then tilts his head at me. "Also, I tried that halibut crudo tester you left out for the team earlier. The one with the Espelette and the shallot confit. It was incredible, really."
I narrow my eyes at him immediately, suspicious. "Are you making fun of me? Because I worked really hard on that dish and if you're being sarcastic I will throw this pen at you."
He looks surprised and laughs. "What? No. God no, I'm being completely serious. Does that happen a lot? People making fun of your food?"
"No," I admit. "But I still don’t completely trust you."
"Fair," he says, still smiling. "But I mean it. The Espelette with the shallot confit and the roe, using that slow-building warmth instead of going the obvious route with chili oil or fresh pepper. It's very smart. Where did the pairing come from, if you don't mind me asking?"
Despite myself, I feel a flicker of warmth at the question. It’s actually a perceptive observation about a menu item that I spent weeks thinking about and that nobody else has commented on.
"A stage I did in San Sebastián," I say, leaning against the opposite counter.
"There was a pintxo bar that used Espelette in everything, and I started thinking about how it behaves differently than other peppers.
You get the warmth without the sharpness, so it doesn't fight delicate proteins the way fresh chili does.
And the shallot confit gives you this low, sweet undertone that the Espelette can build on. "
"That's incredible," he says, and he's nodding slowly in a way that makes me think he actually means it.
"I do a scallop crudo at Harbor & Ash that works a similar principle but from a completely different angle.
Passionfruit gel with ají amarillo, so you're using tropical acid to cut the sweetness of the scallop instead of citrus, and the ají gives you this fruity heat that sneaks up on you after the first bite. "
"Passionfruit and ají amarillo?" I say. "Those are both such big flavors. How do you keep the scallop from disappearing?"
"That's the whole trick." His face lights up when he talks about food, the same way mine probably does, and for a second I forget I'm supposed to be keeping him at arm's length.
"The passionfruit is barely there, so you get these little pockets of acid that hit your palate between bites instead of sitting on the protein.
And the ají is in a thin vinaigrette underneath, so the scallop is resting on it but not swimming in it.
You taste the heat after the sweetness, not during. "
I nod slowly. The layering of that dish is quite clever. I need to look more into his Harbor & Ash menus when I get a chance, because if the rest of his food is at this level, my father's assessment of his talent was not exaggerated.
"That actually sounds really good," I say, and I'm annoyed at how much I mean it.
He smiles, looking pleased. "We could come up with some really interesting things if we put our heads together. Two different culinary backgrounds, different training, different approaches. Could be fun."
"Don't push it."
"As you wish, Princess." He holds up his hands in surrender, that dimple appearing again.
I raise an eyebrow. "Alright Westley, just because we had one conversation about technique doesn't mean we're bonding here."
"Ah, a fellow Princess Bride fan. See, even more common ground." He grins wider.
"Well unfortunately for you, I'm in more of a Buttercup-in-the-fire-swamp kind of mood.” I cross my arms. “Surrounded by rodents of unusual size and deeply unimpressed."
He laughs at that. "Fair enough. I'll let you get back to work, chef."
He pushes through the door back out into the afternoon light, and I stand there staring at nothing for a moment before returning to my prep schedule.
The kitchen is quiet again, just the hum of the walk-in and the distant sound of laughter from the terrace where my team is taking their break. I pull out my phone and look at my father's text one more time. I know better than you what you need right now.
I put the phone face-down on the counter and get back to work.