Chapter 3
SAM
Ilike to be the first one. The kitchen smells different before the day starts—clean steel, faint lemon, a whisper of roasted coffee drifting from the café next door.
Outside, Montreal is still dark, the streets slick with last night’s rain.
Summer air clings heavy and warm, the kind that sticks to your skin before sunrise.
I cradle a steaming mug of coffee and lean against the counter, watching the sky pale through the narrow windows, soft light bleeding into the humid dawn.
By seven, the prep team will arrive. By noon, the phone will start its constant hum. And by dinner, I’ll be running between two kitchens, answering texts, smoothing egos, making sure a hundred moving parts never collide.
But right now, it’s quiet. My favorite time of the day. Just me, the hum of the fridge, and the buttery scent of lemon pastries fresh from the oven.
Okay, maybe that’s not true. There are a couple times of the day that I like to bask in the moment of it all.
I love the charged intensity of the kitchen when in service—the way everything narrows to instinct and precision, to motion and trust. There’s no time to overthink, no space for doubt. Just the pulse of the room and the certainty that what we do matters.
That we matter.
That I matter.
The rush of heat, the rhythm of knives on cutting boards, the pulse of adrenaline that keeps everyone sharp.
It’s loud and hot and unrelenting, but it’s also alive—like the whole room is breathing in sync.
Both exhausting and exhilarating, chaos stitched together by control.
It reminds me who I am, what I’ve built, and why I keep coming back for more.
There’s nothing quite like it.
But right now, it’s special for the complete opposite reason. It is the only time of day that I can truly think. Dissect my thoughts and find solutions to the bigger picture problems of my business.
I sip my coffee, grimace—it’s too hot—and set it down.
It’s been two years since Beaulieu’s opened, five since my first restaurant, Mon Petit Chou. People like to call me a “success story.” Thirty years old, two restaurants, a cooking show, two cookbooks in the works, and a waitlist that makes my reservation manager curse daily.
On paper, I’ve made it.
But sometimes I wonder what “it” actually means.
“Bonjour, Chef.” Anton, my sous-chef, strolls in, a light sheen to his forehead.
“You’re early.” I don’t expect him in with the prep crew since he stays well after the patrons are gone, the staff has cleared out, and the kitchen is sparkling clean.
He pours himself a coffee. “You’re early.”
Touché.
“Just want to get a head start on the day.” He ambles toward the walk-in to start inventory while I check the produce deliveries.
I lift the lid on a crate of produce—sun-warmed tomatoes from the South Shore, glossy eggplants, and bunches of basil so fragrant their aroma clings to my fingers.
Summer’s peak, ripe and unapologetic. Next to them, corn still dusted with field soil and crates of blueberries that stain everything they touch.
Summer cooking is alive—bright, wild, and honest.
Anton joins me, clipboard in hand. “Uh-oh, I know that face.”
Glancing up from the fresh summer harvest, I stare at him, one brow arched. “What are you talking about?”
“That’s your deep-in-thought face.” He chuckles. “Is it the investor call at nine?”
“Hmm.” I nod. “Aureum Capital Alliance.”
“Right. They’re the global investment group.”
I grunt, setting a crate aside. Aureum wouldn’t be my first choice, but they’re known for backing restaurateurs with much success. Expanding again means risk—more money, more pressure, more long nights. But saying no means stagnation.
Anton and I have worked together for nearly three years now.
When I opened Beaulieu’s, he was my first and only choice to be my second-in-command.
In one short year at Mon Petit Chou, he’d grown so much that I knew I wanted him at the helm of my next restaurant before the idea had even begun to simmer.
So of course, he knows how to read me as proven by his next question. “You think you’ll go for it? Sign on with them?”
“Depends on if they believe in what I’m selling.”
He flashes me a crooked grin. “And what’s that, Chef?”
I glance around the quiet kitchen. “Perfection, I guess.”
He laughs, but I don’t.
We work quietly alongside each other, and not too long after, the prep crew trickle in. Within minutes, the kitchen comes to life.
By nine, I’m upstairs in the private dining room we use for special events. I open the laptop, sign in, and take one final glimpse at myself in the mirrored wall. White chef’s coat, crisp and spotless. It’s go time.
Within seconds, the Aureum team logs in. To my one, there’s a grid of polished smiles and expensive suits. I count eight of them, and that right there is my first hesitation in doing business with them.
Too much. Too many. Too impersonal.
But I don’t want to prejudge. I’ve got to go into this with a clear mind and open to anything. For all I know, they could be the perfect fit.
“Chef Beaulieu.” Laurent, the man in charge, smiles at me. “We’ve reviewed your proposal. Very impressive.”
“Thank you.” I fold my hands on the dining table.
“Beaulieu’s has been a labor of love, and Mon Petit Chou practically runs itself.
” It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but unlike Anton who’s still perfecting my standards, Manon, my sous-chef there, runs the place single-handedly.
Even when I do go in during service, it’s like I’m in the way.
“I think the timing’s right for growth.”
After pleasantries, we get into the discussion of my vision, which parts of my plan they are interested in backing, and where they may want to go in another direction. It’s all very high-level and hypothetical at this point.
Then we shift the focus onto the concrete, and their team leads the conversation, talking numbers and metrics while I nod, answering questions and promising returns. It’s a language I’ve learned to speak fluently, even when it leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
At one stage, Laurent pauses—I guess for effect or because he can read me—sensing my hesitation or distaste for some of the discussion.
He studies me before uttering a word. “You’ve built something special. Don’t let comfort make you cautious.”
“I won’t.”
I mean it. I just don’t know what ambition will cost this time.
My first restaurant was a steady climb to success compared to Beaulieu’s, which took off like a rocket in what seemed like seconds. Soon after opening her doors came the cookbooks, TV show, and here I am, now seeking my next challenge.
Okay, so obviously, Laurent and the rest of the team sense my need to control things and perhaps that’s what he’s referring to.
Without directly saying it, I can’t shake the feeling they want me to trust them in every sense of the word, including the creation of something that would have my name on it.
As much as I am ambitious and want to grow, I’m not so sure I can just hand over my brand and go along for the ride.
To me, control isn’t only comfort, it is smart.
When the call ends, I close the laptop and stare at my reflection in the window.
The morning light flares off the glass, harsh and white, bouncing from the wet asphalt below.
Outside, the air shimmers—heavy, humid, alive with the buzz of traffic and the distant whine of construction.
Montreal in summer doesn’t breathe; it swelters.
Rubbing at my forehead, I should be proud. Aureum is interested. We’re not that far apart even if there are a few things I’m not willing to give up.
Instead, I’m…restless.
The phone vibrates against the table, skittering across the wood like it’s got somewhere to be. I glance at the display and see Papa Alec flashing on the screen. Midmorning calls from him aren’t unusual, but something in my gut tightens before I even swipe to answer.
“Hey, Papa.” I force casual as I unfurl my fingers that have formed into fists. “We still good for me to bring lunch?”
There’s a pause, the kind that stretches too long. I’m going over there after my next meeting to have lunch with my fathers.
He clears his throat, and the low hum of worry in his voice punches straight through me. “Actually, don’t come for lunch, Sam. Bas had a rough night. He’s finally resting. I gave him something for the pain, and I’d rather he sleep as long as he can.”
I press my hand to the cool, smooth surface of the dining table, grounding myself. “How bad?”
The question is rhetorical. I already know the answer. It’s there, in the weary edges of his sigh.
“He’s just…tired. The meds help, but the pain…it’s more frequent. He tries to hide it, but he’s been hurting more lately. I’m sorry—” His voice cracks and so does something inside me.
“Hey, it’s all right. I get that fucking helpless feeling.” I don’t usually swear around him, but I’m too raw now to filter.
“Yes.” His voice is low, solemn. “I’ll call when he wakes up, okay? Come by later.”
Something eases a bit within my chest. Even though I’ve been living on my own for many years now, I’ve always seen my dads at least four or five times a week. But since Bas’s diagnosis, it’s been daily. No question. I’m relieved to hear he isn’t asking me to stay away all day.
“Yeah, I will.”
When I hang up, the chime of my phone alarm fills the short-lived silence.
The noise seems distant like I’m underwater.
I stare at the screen a second longer, ignoring the alarm and waiting for it to light up again, for Alec to call back and tell me he overreacted.
To tell me to come for lunch after all. But it stays dark.
Bas has been sick for months, and yet every time there’s a new bad night, it still knocks the air out of me.
He’s the one who taught me how to hold a knife, how to taste a sauce instead of just eat it.
The man could make a roast chicken feel like a fête, even on a Tuesday.
The idea of a world without him—without his laugh, his impossible standards, his steady warmth—is wrong.
I drag a hand over my face, trying to swallow the ache in my throat.
I should be dialing into my next meeting, but all I can think about is the house across town, blinds drawn, my fathers’ lives shrinking down to the quiet rhythm of rest and waiting.
And for the first time all morning, the restaurant and the daily obligations of my business are too loud, too alive, when the person who taught me to love it all might be slipping away.
The laptop rings and it’s my next meeting, an interview for a lifestyle piece—“The Man Behind Montreal’s Most Romantic Kitchen.”
I had laughed when I saw the draft headline next to a photo of me in Beaulieu’s kitchen, both of which could be part of the final article. And not in a funny way, more resigned and sardonic. Romantic, sure, if you ignore the burns, the hours, and the caffeine dependency.
Of course, I get the angle they’re going for. Not to brag, but I’m an attractive man and my looks have definitely played into what draws people to both my dining rooms and on-screen kitchen.
Straightening my posture, I join the meeting and slip on my most charming smile. The reporter is young, bright-eyed, and determined to get a quote she hasn’t heard before.
After introductions, she gets down to business with a question I get most often. “What inspired you to cook?”
“My fathers.” The answer is automatic and loaded with both pride and pain.
“They taught me everything—discipline, patience, balance. How to cook, how to run a restaurant.” I lean in close as if I’m about to spill my secrets, and she mirrors my move, eager for any morsel I’m willing to divulge.
“And that food is supposed to mean something.”
It’s true. Maybe it sounds simple and obvious, but in their home, every meal still is a celebration—a way of saying we’re here, together. The table’s always crowded with stories and laughter, arguments and teasing, the kind of noise that makes a house come alive.
Food has always been our language, our love letter, our peace offering.
Even an ordinary Tuesday dinner becomes something worth lingering over, because it’s never just about the food.
It’s about belonging. Most days, I’m still at their table for at least one meal, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Hmm, that’s interesting.” She leans back in her chair. “Tell me more. How has this influenced how you run your restaurant?”
“Well, that’s what I try to bring into my kitchen—the same heartbeat.
I want every dish, every plate that leaves the pass, to carry a piece of that warmth.
Because when people taste it, I want them to feel what I believe in my very bones.
That food, done right, connects us. It’s another form of love. ”
Neck tense and shoulders climbing to my ears the second I finish talking, I’m raw and likely too honest right now. Especially right after the call with Alec. My big mouth may have landed me in the very last place I want to be.
My childhood.
While I was waxing poetic about my family and approach to my business—heck, my life—I unwittingly opened the proverbial door. All this reporter has to do is walk right in.
She pauses, a funny expression skating over her features, and I prepare for her question to be about my past. My mother.
To note how my focus and importance on equating food to family and love conflicts with the very reality of my childhood—or more specifically, how I came to be and my teenage years.
Finally, she smiles. “I love that.”
The tension eases as I offer a smile of my own.
Then, head down, she types a few notes into her phone before moving on to questions about the success of my TV show and the guest appearances I’ve made on other shows.
After easily another ten minutes, I’m anxious to wrap things up, and as a keen observer, she catches on. “Final question, what’s next? Another restaurant?”
“Maybe.” For now, I’m tight-lipped, not willing to hint at anything. “Or maybe a nap.”
She laughs, jotting it down like it’s profound.
When she leaves the meeting, I shut down the laptop and saunter downstairs into the kitchen.
Anton’s plating a trial dish. He calls me over. “Maple glaze or strawberry?”
“Strawberry.” I grab my water bottle on the way to his station. “It’s July. Québec berries are at their best. You can’t not use strawberry.”
He grins. “You and your seasons, Chef.”
“Of course. It’s what keeps food honest.”