24. Callum #2
The dining room goes quiet when the food arrives. I can see Vivienne from here, standing near the hostess stand with Frannie. She’s watching the tables, her eyes tracking the reactions. When someone at table three takes their first bite and their eyes close in pleasure, I see her smile.
“How’s it looking out there?” I ask Becca when she comes back for the next round.
“They’re losing their minds.” She’s flushed and excited, her hair escaping from its ponytail. “Table seven — the investors — just asked for the recipe. I told them absolutely not.”
“Good.”
“Table twelve wants to know if we do this every Saturday.” She grabs three more plates, balancing them expertly. “I told them to follow our Instagram.”
Roman catches my eye from his station and grins. “Told you.”
The crudo course clears in twenty minutes. Every plate comes back to the kitchen clean, not a drop of tamarind left behind.
“First course down,” Amara announces, already pivoting to her next station. “How are we on timing for the scallops?”
“Ready when you are,” I tell her.
The second course is mine.
My pan-seared scallops with brown butter emulsion, preserved lemon, and capers.
I finally perfected the ratio. It’s simple and classic, but lives or dies on execution.
The scallops have to be perfect — golden crust, barely translucent center, seasoned precisely.
The sauce has to be the color of honey, bright with citrus, the capers cutting through the richness of the butter.
I’ve made this dish a thousand times by now. I could make it in my sleep.
And tonight, with everyone watching, my hands are steadier than they’ve been in months.
Roman works beside me, moving with practiced efficiency. We don’t talk. We don’t need to. He knows when to hand me the next pan, when to start plating the sauce, when to step back and let me work. We’ve done this dance so many times it’s muscle memory.
Cora appears at my elbow with a small bowl of herb oil, still fragrant from the blender. “How many?”
“Start with twelve.”
She nods and disappears.
Marcus is on garnish, adding the micro herbs with the same precise attention he gave the first course, his tweezers moving with surgical precision. Amara supervises, calling out times and keeping everyone moving.
The plates start going out. Becca and Morgan are in constant motion now, the rhythm of service kicking in. Frannie comes to stand at the pass, calling out table numbers and making sure nothing gets crossed.
Through the window, I watch my dad take his first bite of the scallop. He closes his eyes, sets down his fork, and just sits there for a second. When he opens them again, he’s looking toward the kitchen, looking for me.
I meet his eyes, and he nods once.
“Second course is killing,” Roman says, checking the tickets. “We’re at eighty-three plates and counting.”
“How’s the timing?”
“Perfect. We’re exactly where we need to be. Ahead, even.”
Vivienne appears in the kitchen doorway, and she’s glowing. “Callum. Table seven wants to talk to you. I told them they could wait!”
“The investors?”
“They want to tell you in person how incredible this is.” She’s trying to stay professional but I can see the excitement vibrating through her. “And table nineteen — the woman from Portland Magazine — just asked if she could interview you next week.”
“Tell them I’ll come out after the final course.”
“Okay.” She starts to leave, then turns back. “You’re doing it. You’re really doing it.”
“We’re doing it.” I correct.
She smiles, then she’s gone again, back into the dining room.
Third course is a collaboration between me and Amara.
Halibut with a turmeric coconut broth, crispy lentils, charred leeks, and a finishing spoon of Amara’s black mustard and curry leaf butter that blooms across the surface of the bowl the moment it hits the heat.
It’s delicate and technical and requires perfect timing between our stations.
“Okay,” Amara says, positioning herself at her station. “Marcus, you’re on the leeks. I’ll handle the broth. Callum, you’ve got the fish.”
“Heard.”
“Roman, you’re plating the lentils.”
“Heard, Chef.”
We move into position. The kitchen gets quiet in that way it does when everyone’s locked in. No unnecessary talking. Just the sound of pans hitting burners, knives on boards, and the controlled chaos of a team that knows exactly what they’re doing.
I start the halibut. Six filets at a time, skin side down, the sound of the sear filling the kitchen. The fish is pristine — Wesley brought it fresh this morning, still cold from the ocean. It cooks fast and needs constant attention. It can go from perfect to overcooked in thirty seconds.
Roman is beside me, spooning crispy lentils into the base of each bowl in perfect circles. His hands move fast, reaching for the next plate without looking.
“First six up,” I call out.
“Leeks ready,” Marcus responds.
“Broth in thirty seconds,” Amara says.
The timing has to be perfect. The fish can’t sit. The broth has to be hot. Everything has to come together in the same ten-second window or the dish doesn’t work.
“Plating,” I call, sliding the first halibut onto the lentils.
Marcus adds the leeks. Amara steps in with the broth, her hand steady as she ladles it around the fish, then follows it immediately with a small spoon of the butter, dark with mustard seeds, dropping it onto the surface where it melts and blooms outward in a slow golden ring.
Then Becca is there, lifting the finished plates, gone before I can blink.
We do it again. And again. And again.
The kitchen is a machine now. Everyone is moving in perfect synchronization. Amara calls out times. I respond. Roman plates. Marcus garnishes. Becca and Morgan run the food like their lives depend on it.
Through the window, I catch glimpses of the dining room.
Vivienne moves between tables, stopping to talk to guests, her face animated, hands gesturing as she speaks.
Frannie directs traffic at the hostess stand, her notebook open, taking down reservation requests for next month already.
My family’s table is loud with conversation, everyone talking over each other the way we always do.
It’s working.
Everything is working.
“How many left on third course?” I ask.
“Last twelve,” Roman says. He reaches for his knife, grabbing a lemon for garnish. “We’re flying, Chef. This is —”
The knife slips.
It happens fast. One second he’s reaching for the lemon, the next he’s pulling his hand back, blood already welling from his palm.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
I look down. There’s blood on his cutting board. On the counter. Dripping onto the floor.
“Roman.”
“I’m good, I’m —” He presses his other hand over the cut, but blood is seeping through his fingers, running down his wrist. “It’s not that bad.”
“Let me see.”
He pulls his hand away, and I see the cut. It’s deep and straight across his palm. I think it might need stitches.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
“I can keep going,” he insists, but his face has gone pale.
“No, you can’t.” I grab a clean towel, pressing it firmly against his palm. “You need to go to urgent care. Now.”
“Cal, we’re in the middle of service.”
“I don’t care. You’re bleeding everywhere.” I’m applying pressure to Roman’s hand, watching the towel turn red. “You’re done. You need to go.”
Amara appears beside us, her eyes assessing the situation immediately. “How bad?”
“Bad enough.” I’m still pressing the towel to Roman’s hand. “Pretty sure he needs stitches.”
“I’ll take him,” Marcus says, already pulling off his apron.
“No.” I glance at him before returning my focus to Roman. “The leeks are your station and we still have twelve plates, plus two full courses after.”
“You’re going to need someone on Roman’s station for fourth and fifth,” she points out. Her voice is calm but her eyes are worried.
I look around the kitchen. Cora is already overwhelmed with dessert prep, her station covered in flour and melted chocolate. Becca and Morgan are needed in front of the house. Frannie can’t cook.
“I can cover it,” I hear myself say. “I’ll run both stations.”
“Callum, that’s insane,” Roman protests. His voice is strained now, pain breaking through. “You can’t —”
“Frannie!” I call toward the dining room, cutting him off.
She appears in seconds, quickly taking in the scene. “Oh, Roman, are you okay?”
“He’s fine,” I answer for him. “I need you to grab Wesley or Hayes. Someone who can drive him to urgent care like, right this second.”
“On it.” She’s gone before I can blink.
I turn to Amara. “Can we finish these twelve?”
She looks at me for a long moment, calculating, then nods decisively. “Yes. But after that —”
“After that I’ll figure it out.”
She looks at me with worry etched all over her face before she nods. “Okay, Chef. Let’s finish third course.”
Frannie reappears with Hayes, who takes one look at Roman’s hand and doesn’t ask a single question before jumping into problem solving mode. “Come on,” he says, taking over the towel and grabbing Roman’s elbow to support him. “My truck’s out front.”
“I can keep going,” Roman whines, but he’s swaying slightly now, shock settling in.
“It’s okay.” I squeeze his shoulder. “We’ve got this. I promise.”
Hayes guides him toward the back door and they’re gone.
I grab a clean towel and wipe down Roman’s station. My mind is already three steps ahead, and my hands are just doing what hands do in a kitchen when there’s blood without thinking about it.
We plate the last twelve in near silence, the kitchen suddenly too quiet.
My hands are steady but my mind is racing with what the hell we are going to do for the rest of the event.
Fourth course is the duck breast with cherry gastrique.
Fifth course is Cora’s dessert, but I still have to plate it and coordinate with her.
I still have to oversee the whole rest of the night.
Two courses. Eighty-five covers each. One hundred and seventy plates.
Without Roman.