Page 16 of The Reaper
“Neither. Charcoal-seared. Light cure. That citrus liqueur we finished blending last week. Micro shiso, pickled mustard seed, and a dot of yuzu foam.”
His brows lifted. “That’s … restrained. For you.”
“It’s clean,” I said. “Sharp. Minimal.”
“Michelin bait.”
Exactly.
We walked further down the dock while the fish were prepped. I watched the men work, listened to the sound of knives on steel and rubber boots on wet planks. There was something satisfying about it. Raw. Unfiltered. Honest.
But it wasn’t enough.
I turned to Finn. “We’re doing everything right. The sourcing. The plates. The story. But none of it matters if they don’t know we exist.”
“They know.”
“They don’t,” I said flatly. “We’re not in a rated city. They’re not sending inspectors. Not officially.”
“Unofficially?”
I paused. “That’s the window. We get them curious enough, and someone will come. Quietly. Anonymous. That’s how it works.”
Finn leaned his elbows on the dock rail, staring out at the water. “So, what? We just start courting journalists now? That’s not your style.”
“It’s not,” I agreed. “But it might have to be.”
He looked over at me, sun catching the green in his eyes. “You can’t stay invisible and get a star, Meg.”
I sighed. “I don’t want press. I want the right people whispering my name.”
“That’s still attention.”
“I know.”
“And attention means vulnerability.”
That was the heart of it, wasn’t it? I wanted the Guide to see me. To recognize my work. But I didn’t want to perform. I didn’t want to open my world to food bloggers or influencers or PR people with curated Instagram aesthetics.
I wanted reverence, not popularity.
“They need to hear about us from insiders,” I said. “Chefs they already trust. Critics who speak the language. Not people who chase likes.”
He nodded slowly. “So, who’s on the list?”
“I’ve got feelers out with Lienhardt. She used to assist an inspector. Now she’s atEsquiredoing trend pieces. She has reach.”
“She also has a grudge.”
“Not against me.”
“You sure?”
I arched a brow. “Are you trying to rattle me or help me?”
Finn raised both hands in mock surrender. “Helping. I swear.”
We walked back toward the bins. The deckhands were loading the halibut into a cooler. I nodded my approval and turned to sign the invoice.
