Chapter 45 Fleur De Sel
Fleur De Sel
Jack
The first wave of diners come in right at five.
My mouth quirks upward as I peer out at the dining room. Old people. A full seating at five in the evening is pretty much
guaranteed this time of year in South Florida.
Poppy moves amongst the tables like a sleek fish, greeting diners with a wide smile. She went to change before service and
came back in low heels and a navy dress with silver buttons at the throat. Her hair flows over her shoulders in loose waves;
she braided thin pieces around her temples like a crown. Normally I can’t tear my eyes away from her hair, but tonight, I’m
focused on her lips. She’s wearing bright red lipstick, glossy and perfect like apple skin. Her mouth looks good enough to
nibble on. If she kissed me, she’d leave marks.
I’d very much like to earn those temporary tattoos.
I shake my head slightly. Now isn’t the time to get distracted. In just a few minutes, appetizer orders will roll in, and
we’ll be off to the races. I stretch a little, adjusting my mise en place yet again. I resharpened my knives earlier. We’re
fully stocked and prepped. The battlefield is set, and there’s nothing left to do but conquer.
Despite what she told me earlier, it feels impossible that Poppy would actually choose Florida over New York.
Then again, I’ve underestimated her from the beginning, and she’s proven me wrong every step of the way. There’s a fire inside her that refuses to be doused. In the deepest, most honest part of my heart, I know I want to make my home beside it.
I just don’t know if I deserve to.
I give the crew a nod as the first orders come in. At Hazel’s suggestion, we’re doing timed seatings to make things neater.
Appetizers, main courses, desserts, rinse and repeat. Hazel and the guys fall into their work like it’s a form of meditation.
I’m far jumpier, my attention caught between the mountain of tasks ahead of me and the weight of the deal with Douglas.
The truth nearly spilled out of me, the night of the pop-up, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell Poppy. Not after hearing
what Jessica shared with her. I should’ve done it earlier, but all the wrong things came out of my mouth the moment she mentioned
keeping the restaurant.
I’m telling her tonight. After service.
She thinks she wants me now, wants a future in a place like this, but I know better. This was never meant to last. She belongs
back in New York. I don’t know where I belong, but I know it’s not with her.
She deserves the truth. And I deserve what follows.
“Chef.” Owen spits out the word like he’s said it several times in a row. “What the fuck’s going on?”
I startle, rushing to turn down the stove so I won’t burn the food cooking on it. “Fuck. Sorry.”
“Get your head in the groove, man. Are you running expo or what?”
“Yes.” I clear my throat. I press my sleeve to my forehead to blot the sweat threatening to spill into my eyes. I need to
stop thinking about Poppy. Nothing matters right now but the dishes we’re putting out. That’s the beauty of the kitchen; a
busy service demands every ounce of your attention and then some. There isn’t room for anything else, not unless you want
to drown. “Five duck all day, three scallops all day, fire it all, let’s catch up, let’s hustle.”
We all fall into a quiet rhythm punctuated only by the clatter of equipment and my expediting. Cook, plate. Cook, plate. The
servers come to take dish after perfect dish away.
Every second of experimenting, developing, and tasting has come down to this, a lean but varied menu, just a touch seafood-heavy in a nod to the locale, each dish plated like museum artwork.
My cut finger throbs from the heat as I sauté and sear.
Memory after memory crowds my mind, threatening to pull away my focus.
I think of each barb Poppy and I traded in this kitchen, and every bite of food I gave her to taste.
I think of Sal, and how he commanded this space like his own personal pirate ship, and how small it seemed when I had the entire world waiting.
I call out another slew of dupes, arranging them over the pass. An entire table of scallops is the most pressing; I fire them
all at once, the smell of butter and herbs mingling with smoke from Owen’s grill and the earthiness from Hazel’s pasta station.
Chef de cuisine is one thing.
Owning a restaurant is another.
I used to be able to list endless reasons why I didn’t want a thing to do with the Sailfish. Now . . .
“Hands!” I shout. A server slides into the kitchen, picking up the dishes I’ve laid out on the pass. She takes two of them.
I fiddle with the third and fourth until she returns, rearranging herb garnishes and adding another few dashes of pepper,
mentally counting down the seconds before it’s time to turn the scallops.
As I’m plating the scallops—four orders of four, plump and glistening in the brown butter sauce, the bright pea purée underneath—the
door opens again, and I catch a glimpse of the dining room.
Of Poppy, seating her father, mother, sister, and her sister’s wife. My chest swells with pride at the sight of her.
She looks radiant. Confident.
I hope Douglas sees that. I hope they all do.
I cradle the scallops like unhatched eggs. Wipe the edges of each shallow bowl. The server comes back for them. She’s the
best of the kids we hired; like I asked her to, she murmurs that Douglas is in the dining room, and at another table, Bret
Whittaker has just been seated.
The dishes so far were a warm-up. We’ve kicked into high gear. I grin at Owen and Hazel, who grin right back. They love this
intensity just as much as me. The constant push-and-pull. The frenzied improvising. The repetition of skills, demanding but
never boring.
Ignore the rest. Push it to the side.
This is the chance I’ve been waiting for.