Page 34 of We Can Do
My vision narrows as I move through the bakery like a man possessed. I scrub the already-clean prep surfaces until they shine. Check every refrigerator thermometer, documenting the readings in the log. Verify that all the staff are wearing their aprons.
The memory of Street Cucina’s inspection crashes over me. The inspector’s frown when she found the water temperature offby two degrees. The way she’d marked her clipboard when she spotted that open flour bag on the floor. It wasn’t the only reason my restaurant failed, but it was part of the avalanche that buried my dreams.
“Hey, man, it’s okay.” Lawrence appears at my elbow as I attack the back counter with antiseptic spray. “The place looks good.”
“There’s always something that could be wrong.” My voice comes out tight, strained. I yank open the walk-in cooler, checking the thermometer for the third time in ten minutes. Exactly thirty-eight degrees. Perfect. But what if it fluctuates? What if?—
Lawrence doesn’t argue. Instead, he starts helping, understanding that nothing he says will calm me down right now. Together, we verify the hand soap dispensers are full, the sanitizer stations are stocked, the first aid kit is complete and accessible. We check dates on everything, toss anything questionable, reorganize the dry storage so everything sits six inches off the floor.
The current score posted on our wall reads 99. One point off perfect, and even that single point feels like failure. If we score anything less this time, I might as well pack up and leave town. The food world is small, gossip travels fast, and people remember. They remember everything.
Fifteen minutes before closing, she walks in.
The health inspector doesn’t look like much—medium height, brown hair in a ponytail, clipboard in hand. But she might as well be holding my future in that manila folder. She flashes her badge with the practiced motion of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
“Health inspection,” she announces, though everyone in the bakery has already figured that out from the way I’ve gone rigid behind the counter.
For the next thirty minutes, I try to breathe normally while watching her every move from the corner of my eye. She checks the refrigerator temperatures—I watch her nod approval. She inspects the hand-washing station—water temperature perfect. She examines our food storage, our labeling system, the cleanliness of our equipment. She even checks behind the mixer, the spot I’d obsessed over this morning.
My hands won’t stop shaking. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool air. Every time she makes a note on her clipboard, my heart stops. Is that good or bad? What did she find?
Lawrence keeps the front running smoothly while I hover, trying not to look like I’m hovering, failing miserably at appearing casual.
Finally—finally—she finishes her inspection and starts filling out paperwork. The scratch of her pen on paper sounds like thunder in my ears.
“Nice job.” She tears off a certificate and hands it to me.
I stare at the paper, unable to process what I’m seeing at first. Then the number comes into focus.
“One hundred,” I read out loud, my voice cracking like a teenager’s.
“The place looks good.” She smiles, and it transforms her face from stern inspector to regular person. “Tastes good, too. My husband brought home a loaf last week. Best sourdough I’ve ever had.”
“Thank you.” The words come out as barely more than a whisper. Relief floods through me so intensely my knees actually wobble. “I hope to see you in sometime yourself. Here. Take some home.”
I grab a bag and start filling it with every remaining loaf from today—rosemary might be gone, but there’s classic, wholewheat, and a sesame seed. I push the bag across the counter to her.
She laughs, a warm sound. “We can’t eat all this, but my chickens will love it. Thanks.”
“Tell your chickens thank you,” I say, immediately realizing how insane that sounds. But I don’t care. We got a perfect score.
The moment the door closes behind her, I spin toward Lawrence, who’s methodically counting down the register.
“One hundred,” I say again, like I need to make it real.
“I know!” He abandons the cash and claps me on the back hard enough to knock me forward a step. “We should celebrate.”
I shrug, suddenly unsure what celebrating even looks like anymore. These days, my whole life revolves around flour and water and heat. Wake up, bake bread, sell bread, prep for tomorrow’s bread, sleep, repeat. Anything outside that cycle feels foreign.
But Lawrence has his own idea of celebration. After the last employee leaves and we lock up, he jogs down to the liquor store on the corner and returns with a six-pack of local beer. Nothing fancy, just something cold and congratulatory. We crack open two bottles right there in the kitchen, surrounded by tomorrow’s rising dough.
“To an auspicious beginning.” He raises his bottle in a toast, the amber glass catching the overhead lights.
“Hopefully.” I clink my bottle against his and take a long pull. The beer is crisp, slightly bitter, perfect after the stress of the day.
“Not hopefully. I know for sure.” He leans back against the stainless steel counter, completely at ease in this space that still sometimes feels surreal to me. “Hey, what is the dough that’s resting in fridge B for?”
“Oh.” The question catches me off guard, and butterflies suddenly flutter through my chest. “For Alexis. I’m teaching her to bake.”
