Page 34 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“Based on what?”
“Based on the fact that I’m standing here having this conversation instead of cutting my losses and walking away.”
She studies me for another long moment. Then she walks back to the kitchen area, this time moving with more purpose.
“I’d want to change some things about the layout,” she says finally.
“Like what?”
“The prep station should be here, not there. Better sight lines to the dining room. And this space...” Shegestures to a corner I hadn’t really considered. “This could be a small bakery station. Fresh bread, desserts made in-house.”
I’m nodding along, but mostly I’m watching her. Watching the way she moves through the room like she’s already claiming it. Watching her hands gesture as she talks, confident and sure.
There’s something about seeing her in this space that makes my chest tight. Like watching a piece of a puzzle click into place.
“What about staffing?” she asks. “It’s hard to find good line cooks around here.”
“We’ll figure it out. Maybe we start with a smaller menu, see what we can handle, build from there.”
“Smart.” She’s quiet again, thinking. “The permit process alone will take months.”
“Already started. Had the preliminary meetings with the health department, the fire marshal, zoning board. Things are moving forward.”
She turns to look at me. “You were pretty confident I’d say yes.”
“No. I was hoping you would, but confident? Not even close.”
“Then why start the process?”
Because I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. Because watching you fight with broken equipment and impossible owners made me want to give you a spaceworthy of your talent. Because you deserve better than settling for other people’s limitations.
“Because someone needs to,” I say instead. “This town’s been letting places like this rot for too long. Figured it was time someone tried to fix it.”
She nods, but I can see the wheels still turning. Still evaluating, still weighing risks against possibilities.
“Walk me through a typical service,” she says suddenly. “Friday night, seven o’clock. Forty covers on the books.”
I blink. “What?”
“Humor me. You’re expediting. I’m on the line. Order comes in—two sea bass, one steak, three appetizers. What happens?”
And just like that, we’re playing restaurant. She’s moving around the imaginary kitchen, calling out tickets, timing courses. I’m trying to keep up, learning the rhythm of how she thinks, how she works.
“Behind!” she calls out, stepping around me to reach an imaginary burner.
“Fire the appetizers!” I respond, getting into it.
“Two minutes on the bass!” She spins to face me, hair coming loose from its ponytail, eyes bright with concentration and something that looks suspiciously like joy.
And that’s when it hits me. Watching her move through this space, seeing her face light up when shetalks about food—this isn’t just about giving her an opportunity anymore. This is about her. About the way she makes even an empty, gutted building feel alive just by being in it.
Which is exactly the kind of thinking that gets people into trouble.
“Order up!” she announces, pretending to slide plates across the nonexistent pass-through.
“Nice service,” I say.
“Not bad for a disaster movie set.” She’s breathing a little hard from all the moving around, cheeks flushed, that stubborn piece of hair falling across her face again.
