Chapter 7
ROGAN
Three temps show up Monday morning. One's late. One's wearing sneakers instead of non-slip shoes. The third keeps checking his phone.
"Names," I say.
"Derek."
"Samantha."
"Uh, Josh."
"Great. Derek, you're on prep. Samantha, salads and cold assembly. Josh, put the phone away or leave."
Josh pockets the phone. Looks offended but complies.
Maya hands me the training checklist she stayed up until two making. Color-coded sections. Laminated instruction cards. Emergency contact numbers and allergen protocols highlighted in yellow.
"You're terrifying," I tell her.
"I'm thorough. There's a difference."
The Foundation contract requires we deliver forty plated entrees, sixty appetizers, and thirty desserts to their annual donor dinner. Friday night. Black tie. High stakes. Exactly the kind of event that can make or break a reputation.
Also exactly the kind that makes me want to light something on fire and run away.
But I don't run anymore. Learned that lesson. So instead I'm here, teaching Derek how to brunoise carrots while trying not to imagine all the ways this can go spectacularly wrong.
"Smaller," I tell him. "We're aiming for precision, not rustic charm."
"They're pretty small."
"They're medium. We need tiny. Uniform. Imagine you're impressing someone who measures things with calipers."
Ivy would approve of the caliper reference. She's not here right now but her influence is everywhere. Her supplier spreadsheet. Her seasonal availability chart. Her handwritten notes about which farmers can handle rush orders and which need three weeks' notice.
She's at the seed co-op doing damage control on the Purple Cherokee situation. Meanwhile I'm training people who've never worked a fine-dining service to execute dishes that require timing down to the minute.
"How fast can you plate?" I ask Samantha.
"Um. I haven't really plated before."
Perfect.
"Okay. Watch." I pull ingredients from the mise. Build a salad in forty-five seconds. Greens, radish, edible flowers, dressing, microgreens for garnish. "Your turn."
She tries. Takes three minutes. The radishes aren't sliced evenly. The flowers are clumped instead of scattered.
"Again," I say.
Maya says, "You're going to give her a complex."
"I'm going to give her a skill. Again, Samantha."
She rebuilds the salad. Two and a half minutes this time. Better distribution but the plating's timid. Apologetic.
"Stop treating the plate like it's fragile. Be decisive. The greens go here because you decided they go here. Own it."
"That's very chef-y," Josh mutters.
"You have a problem?"
"No, chef."
Smart kid.
By noon they've improved. Not great but functional. Derek's knife work is passable. Samantha's plating has actual composition now. Josh stopped checking his phone and started asking decent questions about timing.
Maya's orchestrating the whole operation from her laptop throne at the corner table. Confirming deliveries. Double-checking quantities. Emailing suppliers about Friday's load-in schedule.
"We're short on frisée," she announces.
"How short?"
"Twelve heads."
"That's half the salad course."
"I'm aware. Our usual supplier had crop failure. Aphids."
I pat my hands on my apron. Think through alternatives. Frisée isn't just garnish, it's structure. The bitter note that balances the dressing. Swapping it means reworking the whole dish.
"Can we get it elsewhere?" I ask.
"Yes. There's a distributor in the city who can overnight it. Conventional. Not local."
There it is. The trap I knew was coming.
Conventional means cheaper. Faster. Reliable. Means calling a warehouse and having perfect, uniform heads arrive tomorrow morning in refrigerated packaging.
Also means breaking the promise I made to Ivy. To the town. To myself.
"What about local options?"
Maya scrolls through her spreadsheet. "Farmer June grows frisée but she's already maxed out on our other orders. Same with the cooperative garden. Everyone's stretched."
"So our choice is conventional city greens or redesigning the salad course three days before service."
"Essentially."
The temps are watching me. Waiting to see what the chef does when logistics collide with principles.
I think about my aunt. About the way she'd source everything within fifty miles even when it cost more and took longer. About the handwritten note in her recipe book: Local isn't convenient. That's why it matters.
I also think about the debt. About the critics who'll attend Friday. About the Foundation representatives who'll decide if we're worth future contracts.
About Ivy, who drove forty-five minutes in the dark to rescue seeds because she keeps her promises.
"Find me another option," I say.
Maya looks up. "Rogan, I just told you there isn't one."
"Then we make one. Who else grows bitter greens this time of year?"
She sighs. Starts scrolling again. "Potentially, there's a farm about an hour north. They do microgreens and specialty lettuces. But they're small-scale. Unproven."
"Call them."
"They might not have the capacity."
"Call them anyway."
She does. Puts it on speaker while I walk Derek through proper stock reduction.
"Hello?" A woman's voice. Wary.
"Hi, this is Maya Chen calling from Thorn's Bistro in Pine Hollow. We're looking for a frisée supplier for a Friday event. Do you have availability?"
Pause. "How much do you need?"
"Twelve heads. Pristine condition. Delivered by Thursday evening."
Longer pause. "That's cutting it close."
"We're aware. Can you do it?"
"Maybe. But I'd need payment up front. And I can't guarantee uniformity. We're a small operation."
Maya looks at me. Raises an eyebrow.
Non-uniform means more prep work. Means sorting through leaves and building around imperfection instead of relying on cookie-cutter consistency.
Also means keeping the chain local. Means honoring what this place is.
"What's your price?" I ask.
She names it. Thirty percent higher than the conventional option.
"Deal," I say. "Maya will send payment details."
Maya ends the call. Looks at me like I've lost my mind.
"That just cost us most of the margin on the salad course."
"I know."
"And we still have to make it work with inconsistent greens."
"I know that too."
"So why?"
I think about Ivy's face when I asked about heirloom varieties at the market. The way she tested me with that seed packet. The way she's slowly, grudgingly started trusting that I mean what I say.
"Because if we compromise now, we compromise everything. The whole point of this place is that we don't take the easy way when it matters."
"The easy way would save us money and time."
"And cost us something harder to get back."
Maya studies me. Then nods slowly. "Okay. You're the chef."
"I'm the chef."
She goes back to her spreadsheet. Marks the frisée as confirmed and moves to the next line item.
The temps are staring.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," Samantha says quickly. "Just... that was cool."
"It was expensive and impractical."
"Still cool."
I don't tell her that my palms are sweating. That I just made a decision that might tank our profits and complicate our prep timeline.
Instead I go back to teaching Derek how to brunoise. How to make every cut count.
By four o'clock we've run through the full menu twice. The temps are exhausted. Josh has blisters from the practice plating. Samantha keeps mixing up the garnish order.
"Again," I say.
"Chef, we've done this fourteen times."
"And you'll do it fifteen. Muscle memory doesn't come from getting it right once. It comes from repetition until your hands know what to do when your brain's overwhelmed."
They groan but they do it.
Maya's on her third coffee. She's been on the phone for the past hour confirming Friday's logistics. Load-in time, parking permits, equipment rental, backup supplies.
"We need to talk about the mushrooms," she says when she hangs up.
"What about them?"
"Our forager can't deliver the full quantity. He found a contaminated patch and had to scrap half his harvest."
Another hiccup. Another test.
"How short are we?"
"Two pounds."
"That's the entire mushroom course."
"Again, aware."
I lean against the counter. Try to think through alternatives while my brain's already fried from six hours of training.
Mushrooms aren't something you can substitute easily. They're the star of the third course. Earthy, savory, meant to showcase local foraging and seasonal availability.
Going conventional means losing that narrative. Means serving something generic when the whole point is to celebrate what's here.
"Can he get more from a different location?" I ask.
"He tried. Says the season's tapering off and what's left is too young or too sparse."
"So we're stuck."
"Unless you want to redesign the third course."
I think about the menu we've been practicing. The flow from light to rich. The way the mushroom bridges the salad and the protein. Pulling it means restructuring everything.
Also means showing the Foundation we can't handle pressure.
"What if we adjust the portions?" I ask. "Serve smaller but concentrate the flavor. Make it an amuse instead of a full course."
Maya considers. "That could work. But it changes the pacing."
"Everything about this week changes the pacing. We adapt."
She makes a note. "I'll revise the service timeline. You'll need to rework the plating."
"I'll rework the plating."
Derek raises his hand. "Chef? Should we keep practicing the mushroom course or wait for the new specs?"
"Keep practicing. You need the technique even if the application changes."
The door chimes. Ivy walks in carrying a crate of something green and a slightly manic expression.
"I brought kale," she announces.
"We didn't order kale."
"I know. But Farmer June had a surplus and I thought maybe you could use it for family meal or backup mise or just general kitchen flexibility."
She sets the crate down. The kale is beautiful. Deep green, ruffly leaves, still damp from washing.