Chapter 3 #3
She holds my gaze, searching for something. Then she reaches into her satchel and grasps a small paper envelope, the kind with a wax-paper window. Inside, I can see seeds, dark and irregular.
"Purple Moon radish," she says, setting it on the table between us. "Plant them shallow, keep them watered, and they'll be ready in three weeks. Use them in your soft opening if you want."
I grab the packet, turn it over. Her handwriting's on the back, neat and precise: Raphanus sativus, Purple Moon. Saved 2023.
"This is a test, isn't it?"
"Everything's a test." She slings the satchel over her shoulder. "But yes. I want to see if you actually care enough to grow something yourself. Most chefs wouldn't bother."
"I'm not most chefs," I say again, pocketing the seeds carefully in my apron, the same pocket where I keep the note from my aunt.
"We'll see." She turns to leave, then glances back over her shoulder. "And Rogan? Move the burner before next week. I meant it about the fire hazard."
She walks away before I can answer, her boots crunching over the gravel, her braid swinging.
I stand there holding the seed packet, feeling the promise and the challenge wrapped up in something smaller than my thumb.
Maya reappears, arms full of root vegetables she bartered for with leftover chorizo. "Did she just give you homework?"
"She gave me radish seeds."
"That's definitely homework." Maya dumps the vegetables into a crate, dusting off her hands. "You know you're going to have to actually plant those, right? She'll check."
"I know."
"And you'll have to not kill them."
"I know."
Maya grins, wide and delighted. "This is going to be hilarious."
I tuck the seeds deeper into my pocket and start packing up the burner.
I'm loading the last crate into the truck when a voice stops me.
"Excuse me. Are you Rogan Thorn?"
I turn. The woman standing behind me is maybe fifty, dressed in tailored jeans and a blazer that's too nice for the farmers market.
Her hair's silver and cut sharp, her glasses perched on her head like a headband.
She's holding a small leather notebook and a pen that probably costs more than my skillet.
"That's me."
She extends a hand. "Margot Linden. I write for Clearwater Eats."
My brain stalls for half a second. Clearwater Eats isn't some local food blog. It's the regional magazine. The one that makes or breaks restaurants within a hundred-mile radius. Chefs frame their reviews. Diners plan trips around their recommendations.
I shake her hand, trying to keep my face neutral. "Good to meet you."
"I heard you're opening the bistro," she says, her tone friendly but assessing. "Your aunt ran a wonderful place. I'm curious to see what you'll do with it."
"Trying to honor her work while making it my own," I say, which sounds better than flailing wildly and hoping for the best.
Margot smiles, the kind of smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I'd love to feature you in an upcoming piece. A profile on new chefs revitalizing small-town dining. You'd be perfect."
Every instinct I have is screaming that this is both an incredible opportunity and a potential disaster. "What would that involve?"
"An interview, some photos of the space, and a tasting." She taps her pen against the notebook. "I'd want to see a sample menu using local ingredients. Something that showcases your style and your commitment to the community."
Local ingredients. Of course.
I think of Ivy, of the seed packet in my pocket, of Farmer Hank and his skepticism.
"When would you need this?"
"I'm planning to run the piece in the April issue, which means I'd need to visit in the next two weeks. Before your official opening, ideally." She tilts her head, watching me closely. "Is that doable?"
Two weeks. Before the soft opening. Before I've even finalized the full menu or hired more than Maya and a dishwasher.
"Absolutely," I hear myself say, because apparently my mouth has disconnected from my brain's risk-assessment functions.
Margot's smile warms, just slightly. "Wonderful. I'll email you to set up a date. And Rogan?" She glances at the farmers market around us, at the vendors packing up, at the signs advertising local honey and fresh greens. "Make it authentic. Readers can smell a fake from a mile away."
"Understood."
She nods, tucks the notebook into her bag, and walks away like she didn't just casually hand me the opportunity and the pressure of a lifetime.
I stand there, frozen, until Maya pokes her head out of the truck.
"Who was that?"
"Clearwater Eats."
Her eyes go wide. "The magazine? The one that gave Ember & Oak three pages and a cover photo?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
"She wants a tasting. Local ingredients. Two weeks."
Maya's quiet for exactly three seconds. Then she starts laughing, loud and bright and slightly unhinged.
"We're doomed," she says cheerfully.
"Probably."
"What are you going to serve her?"
I gather the radish seeds from my pocket, hold them up to the light. "No idea. But I've got three weeks to grow part of it."
Maya stops laughing. "Wait. You're actually going to plant those?"
"Ivy gave them to me. I'm not wasting them."
"You've never grown anything in your life."
"First time for everything." I pocket the seeds again, slam the truck gate closed. "Come on. We've got work to do."
Maya climbs into the passenger seat, still grinning. "This is either going to be brilliant or a complete catastrophe."
"Why not both?"
She laughs again, and I start the engine, pulling out of the market lot as the last vendors pack up behind us.
The seed packet feels heavier now, weighted with more than just radishes. It's Ivy's test, Margot's expectation, my aunt's legacy, and my own stubborn need to prove I belong here all folded into something I can hold in one hand.
I drive back toward the bistro, already mentally cataloging what I need. Soil. Containers. A grow light, maybe, if the weather turns. A crash course in not killing plants.
And a plan. A menu that's bold enough to impress a critic, rooted enough to satisfy Ivy, and honest enough to honor the town that's giving me a chance I probably don't deserve yet.
No pressure.
Maya's interrupts my thoughts. "You know she's going to taste those radishes and know immediately if you screwed them up, right?"
"I know."
"And if you screw them up, Ivy's going to hear about it."
"I know."
"And then the whole town's going to hear about it."
"Maya."
"I'm just saying." She grins, utterly unsympathetic. "You've got a critic coming, a botanist watching, and a town waiting to see if you're serious. That's a lot of people to disappoint at once."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
"Anytime, Chef."
I turn onto the main road, the bistro's crooked sign visible in the distance, and I can't help but grin despite the mounting panic.
This is either the best idea I've ever had or the fastest way to crash and burn.
Probably both.
I press my hand to my apron pocket, feeling the outline of the seed packet and my aunt's note folded beneath it.
Keep the door open.
I plan to. Even if it means learning to grow radishes, charming a skeptical farmer, and impressing a food critic who could make or break me with a single paragraph.
The truck rattles over a pothole, Maya yelps and grabs the dashboard, and the radish seeds shift and settle.
Three weeks to grow them. Two weeks to plan a menu. One chance to prove I'm not just another city chef playing farmer.
I grip the steering wheel and floor it toward the bistro, already tasting the menu in my mind.