3. Callum
CHAPTER THREE
Callum
The best part of my day happens before anyone else shows up to ruin it.
Five-thirty a.m., and the restaurant is mine.
Just mine. No staff asking questions I don’t have answers to.
No suppliers calling about late payments.
And no investors breathing down my neck about quarterly projections.
Just me, the kitchen, and the smell of coffee that’s probably too strong, but fuck it, I’m tired.
I’m already on my third cup.
My hands wrap around the mug and the ceramic is hot enough to hurt a little, but I hold it there anyway, letting the heat wake me up.
I didn’t sleep last night. Again. I spent the whole night staring at the ceiling of my apartment and running numbers in my head that don’t add up no matter how many times I rearrange them.
My shoulders ache in a deep, bone-tired way that comes from years of standing over a stove, and my back is filled with tension I can’t shake from carrying the weight of this place for so long I’ve forgotten what it feels like to stand up straight.
I roll my neck, and something cracks loudly.
It doesn’t help.
I take the stairs down from my apartment above the restaurant, dumping me out into the back hallway of Neap & Spring. It’s the same routine every morning, but the repetition keeps me sane. Or at least keeps me from completely losing it.
I unlock the back door first. The heavy steel one that opens to the alley where deliveries come in.
The lock sticks a little, like it always does, and I have to jiggle the key, putting my shoulder into it.
I make a mental note to fix it, but I’ll probably forget about it by lunch.
The door finally gives and swings open, and the salt air hits me immediately, cutting through the stale heat of the hallway.
It’s still dark out, but I can hear the waves hitting the rocks below the restaurant, rhythmic and relentless. For just a second, I close my eyes and let the sound of the water wash over me.
Then I get back to work.
I leave the door propped open and move through the space, my hand trailing along the wall out of habit.
The dry storage is first in my routine. I flip the light switch, and the fluorescents flicker to life, buzzing in that annoying way that means I need to replace them soon.
I look over the shelves stocked with oils and vinegars from a supplier in Oregon who actually gives a shit about quality.
I double-check everything else is in its place, carefully running my hand along one of the shelves as I pass, fingers catching on a label that’s peeling up.
I press it back down, smoothing it flat.
I turn down the hallway to the walk-in and pull the heavy door open. Cold air spills out, and I breathe it in like it’s the first real breath I’ve taken all morning. I step inside and just stand there for a second, letting the cold seep into my skin.
The produce came in yesterday. I reach out and run my fingers over the carrots, still dirty from the farm.
The fennel has its fronds still attached.
There are beets the size of my fist. A flat of strawberries that smell like summer sit by the door.
I grab one and turn it over in my palm before popping it in my mouth.
It’s sweet, a little tart, and the juice bursts on my tongue.
Perfect.
My brother’s catch is here too.
Wesley owns a fishing boat — The Daily Catch — and he’s been supplying the restaurant with fish since I opened.
He’s the best fisherman in Westerly Point, though he’d punch me if I said that out loud.
He dropped this catch off last night after his run, probably still smelling like fish guts.
He texted me at midnight — Got you the good stuff.
Left it in the cooler. You’re welcome — even though I haven’t been able to pay him for the last three deliveries.
I crouch down and open the cooler, my knees protesting.
The halibut is laid out on ice. Four perfect fillets, skin still on with flesh so white it almost glows in the fluorescent light.
I run my finger along one, feeling the firmness of it and the way it springs back when I press down. It’s fresh. Really fresh.
I close the cooler carefully and push myself back to standing, one hand braced on the metal shelf, my knees cracking again. I’m thirty-two and my body already feels old, worn down by too many years of this.
I head back out, letting the walk-in door seal shut behind me with a satisfying thunk.
The dining room is next.
I push through the swinging door from the kitchen and hit the lights.
They come up slowly — dimmers set low because I’m not a monster — and the space reveals itself in pieces.
The tables, the chairs, the bar with the brass fixtures I spent way too much money on.
The windows that look out over the water.
In an hour or so, they’ll be catching the sunrise and it’ll look like the whole place is on fire.
This is the moment. Right here. When the lights come up and the restaurant is clean and quiet and full of possibility. Before service and its chaos. Before I have to think about how many reservations we have tonight or whether we’ll make enough to cover payroll this week.
Right now, in this moment, Neap & Spring is just a restaurant. My restaurant. And it’s beautiful.
I let myself have thirty seconds of that before I shove it down and turn back to the kitchen.
I flip on the rest of the lights. The overhead floods, the heat lamps, the little LED strips under the shelves that make everything look like a professional kitchen instead of a money pit.
The stove is a six-burner beast that I bought used from a restaurant in Portland that went under.
I had to replace half the parts myself, but it runs like a dream.
I set my coffee down on the stainless-steel counter and pull out my cutting board. I grab my favorite knife from the block, a ten-inch Wüsthof that I’ve had since culinary school and test the edge against my thumb.
The halibut is calling me.
I pull the fillets from the walk-in and set them on the counter.
I’m thinking pan-seared, crispy skin, served over a fennel and citrus salad.
Maybe a brown butter sauce, something nutty to cut through the richness of the fish.
We’ll do it as a special this month if I can get my sous to stop arguing with me about the plating of every dish.
I start with the fennel, trimming the stalks with quick, precise cuts, then dropping the pieces into ice water so they stay crisp. The rhythm of it is automatic. Slice, drop, slice, drop. My brain goes quiet and my shoulders start to loosen.
This is the part I still enjoy. The part they can’t take from me, no matter how bad the numbers get or how many times the investors call. The quiet and the way a piece of fish can turn into something worth remembering if you just pay attention and don’t fuck it up.
I’m segmenting an orange, cutting between the membranes with the tip of my knife and letting the bright little pieces fall into a bowl, when I hear the back door open.
“You’re here early,” Roman calls out before he even rounds the corner.
My sous chef appears in the doorway, already in his whites, looking annoyingly awake for five forty-five in the morning.
Roman’s got wild blonde hair that he’s supposed to keep tied back but never does until service actually starts, a gold chain visible above his chef’s coat, and small silver hoops in both ears.
He looks more like he should be waxing a surfboard than running a professional kitchen, but the guy can cook his ass off.
He’s got a travel mug of coffee in one hand and his knife roll slung over his shoulder.
“I’m here the same time every day,” I say, not looking up from the orange.
“Yeah, but most people would still call five-thirty ‘early.’”
“Yeah, well, most people don’t run a restaurant.”
“Most people also don’t look like they haven’t slept in a week.” Roman drops his knife roll on the counter with a thud and leans against it, eyeing me. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks, Roman. Really feeling the love today.”
He grins, that easy smile that makes him popular with the front-of-house staff and also makes me want to throw something at him. “Just keeping it real, chef.”
I finish the orange and wipe my hands on a towel, gripping it maybe a little too hard. “The consultant’s coming today.”
The grin disappears. He straightens off the counter. “Shit. I forgot. What time?”
“Ten.”
“You know who it is yet?”
“No idea. I didn’t look.”
Roman stares at me. “You didn’t look at the file?”
“Nope.”
“Cal —”
“I don’t want to know.” I set the knife down carefully, forcing myself not to slam it.
“It doesn’t really matter who it is. They’re going to come in here and tell me everything I’m doing is wrong then try to turn my restaurant into something it’s not.
And I’m going to smile and nod because the investors are paying them a stupid amount of money to ‘save’ our asses. ”
I make air quotes around the word “save” because fuck all of this.
Roman is quiet for a second. “You know we need help, right?”
“I know.”
“And you know this might actually work?”
“I know that too.”
“So maybe —”
“I’ll deal with it when they get here,” I pick the knife back up. “Until then, I’ve got halibut to prep and a dining room that needs to make rent this month. So let’s just … cook. Okay?”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see him deciding whether to push. He doesn’t. “Okay, Chef.”
“Good. Now grab an apron and help me with this fennel before you start getting philosophical on me.”
He laughs and reaches for his apron.