Page 71 of Until August
“He ordered all the menu items thatyoucame up with. Tuna tataki. Yellowtail ceviche. The pork belly. Your prawn and clam risotto.Yoursea bass—”
He let out an aggravated sigh. “Cut the bullshit, Nic. It’s notmine. This is your restaurant, and we worked on the menu together.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “But still. Do you really believe this is a coincidence?”
He let out a short laugh. “What else would it be? I’m not responsible for what he ordered. Stop letting him mess with your head. Breathe in. Breathe out,” he coached.
I rolled out my shoulders and did as he said, trying to expel all my petty insecurities. I knew I was being irrational, but I couldn’t stop myself from voicing my suspicions. “Jonathan Kessler is here for you, isn’t he?”
“Why would he be here for me? He doesn’t even know I work here.”
“Actually, he does,” Ari piped up, appearing from nowhere. “I would have tagged you, but I couldn’t find you on social media.”
“You put me on social media?” That didn’t make August happy. He made it sound like Ari had tossed him into shark-infested waters.
Ari shrugged. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I? Don’t worry. It was a flattering photo. You looked hot.” I scowled at her, but she didn’t notice. “I handle all the social media for the restaurant. How else would people find us?” Ari’s gaze swung to me. “I reached out to Jonathan Kessler via email to let him know we had a new menu,” she explained. “I didn’t mention it because I didn’t know if he’d come, but here he is. So you can thank me later.” She bestowed me with a big smile and gave herself a pat on the back for her good deed.
Whether I would thank her remained to be seen. “Make sure the restrooms are sparkling clean. They always check. And if they order wine—”
“Make sure he sees the bottle we’re pouring from,” Ari said. “I know, I know. And don’t worry. Our restrooms are spotless, as always. We’ve got everything under control in the dining room. Courtney is their server, and she’s the best we have. So just concentrate on the food.”
Ari was good at her job, and I knew she had things under control. Which meant I had to do the same.
Stay calm, focused, and in control,I reminded myself.
“One review won’t make or break you,” August said after I’d called out the order, stressing that we were dealing with a VIP. “Stop worrying about his opinion. Every customer who comes through those doors is a VIP,” he reminded me, giving me a much-needed dose of reality.
“I know. You’re right. I’m good now,” I assured him with a smile.
Now I felt silly for going into full-blown panic mode and vowed not to let it happen again.
Until Luca chimed in, nearly destroying my newfound Zen. “If you’re talking about Jonathan Kessler’s review, we can’t afford to fuck this up a second time. He’s the one who decides which restaurants get on the list and which ones die a slow, painful death.”
I shot him dagger eyes. “Thanks for the helpful advice. Don’t be surprised if you find all your crap on my front lawn when you get home.”
He snorted, knowing my threats were empty. As tempting as it was to evict my brother, sharing my house with him wasn't so terrible. He had his own life, but it was nice having him around when we were both at home.
But since I had orders to call out, sauces to taste, and food to garnish, I focused on my job while August helped Miguel at the fish station and oversaw Hannah. I knew he was doing it for me. It was his way of ensuring that every dish would be prepared to his exacting standards.
A little while later, I watched August plating fresh shellfish on a bed of shaved ice and seaweed. Raw oysters, plump and juicy. Sea urchins with clusters of orange roe. Lobster, shrimp, and king crab legs.
Sex on the half-shell.
When he finished, he took a step back and cast a critical eye over it. It was a work of art. Pure perfection. But August frowned like something was off, then made a few adjustments until satisfied.
I smirked. Pot, meet kettle. August could deny it all he wanted, but he was the textbook definition of a perfectionist.
I shoved thoughts of Jonathon Kessler out of my head and lavished each dish with the same care and attention as August did before sending them out.
A few minutes later, August delivered table two's plated food. “Here you go, chef.”
I garnished the sea bass with cilantro and fresh chilis. Then bent my head over the prawns and clams and dotted the plate with lemon jam and pistachio oil. Finally, when the dishes were as close to perfection as we could achieve, I wiped the rims and set them on the pass for Courtney.
I had to trust that we’d done all we could.
When the dishes left the kitchen, I turned to August with a rueful smile. “I’m sorry for acting like an idiot.”
He just shrugged like it was no big deal. “It happens. Kitchens are high-pressure zones on the best of days. We did our best. If he doesn’t like it, then fuck him.”
