"Yes. Everything in its place." He starts organizing my station as he talks. Knives get wiped and racked. Spoons gathered. Spices swept into the trash.
"Not just ingredients. Not just tools. Your mind needs to be in its place, too.Your intentions, your control." He takes the towel from his apron and dabs up the lemon oil. "Chaos in your station means chaos in your head. And chaos in your head means chaos on the plate. And chaos on the plate is not
acceptable. Not in my restaurant."
He steps back, and suddenly, my station looks manageable once more.
"You think excellence means doing everything at once," he continues. "But
that is not excellence. Excellence is derived from order." He hands me a clean towel, folded sharp as origami. "You cannot create beauty from chaos, Andrew. First, you create order. Then—and only then—can you
create something worthwhile. Mise en place. Remember it."
The memory releases me, and I'm back in my penthouse with Carl and Chase staring at me like I've grown a second head.
"Andre…?" Carl's voice is concerned now. "You okay?"
I set down my glass. "First, you create order," I recite. "Then—and only —then—can you create something worthwhile."
I turn away from them as my phone vibrates in my pocket. It's a text from Jose, one of the managers at the test kitchen. They're running a small pilot test of one of our menus tonight, a quasi-soft opening, and I assigned him to give me updates. It shouldn't have been an issue. But his text says otherwise.
JOSE TREJO
Emergency, boss. Rubio sliced her hand bad—needs stitches.
Samuel's having a panic attack. Kitchen's in fkn chaos.
I'm halfway to the door before I finish reading. "I have to go. Emergency."
"What kind of emergency?" Chase is on his feet, too, always ready to help.
"Rubio's hurt, Samuel's melting down, and dinner service is falling apart." I pause at the elevator. "You coming?"He's shrugging on his jacket. "Obviously."
Carl rolls forward to join us. "I want to come, too."
"Absolutely not. You have homework."
"I had calculus homework that I finished three hours ago because I'm not an idiot, and I haven't been out in weeks. Come on, Andrew. I promise to stay out of the way."
I want to say no. A restaurant during a crisis is no place for a sixteen-year- old, especially one in a wheelchair. Too many sharp corners, too much chaos, too many ways for things to go wrong. But the look on his face stops me.
"Fine. But if things get too crazy—"
"I'll call my Uber and come home," he promises. "I know the drill. Now, can we please go? We're gonna miss all the fun."
"Remind me to never get in a car with you during an actual emergency," Chase mutters as I whip the Range Rover into a turn that's technically legal but morally questionable.
————
The test kitchen staff is running the soft opening out of one of our brick-and-mortar locations, Quail's Egg. It occupies the ground floor of a converted warehouse in River North. Red brick, steel beams, Edison bulbs casting warm light over tables that are booked months in advance. Very Casmire.
It's where everything started. The first brick in my empire. It's also, currently, a disaster.
I can hear the chaos before we even reach the kitchen. Voices are raised in frustration over the clack and clatter of pans. Someone is shouting orders that no one seems to be following. The dining room staff look out of sorts,too.
"Jesus," Chase breathes. "How long has Rubio been gone?"
"Half an hour," replies Jose, appearing at my elbow with the hangdog expression of a man watching his career burn down in real time.
"Samuel tried to take over expo, but he's never run a full service. I think he might be
having some kind of fuckin' mental breakdown. I don't know, man."
Through the pass window, I can see Samuel standing frozen in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by hanging tickets and plates that aren't moving.
He's twenty-four, brilliant with flavors and technique, but he's never had to coordinate an entire service under pressure. His hands are shaking.
I don't hesitate.
"Chase, you're CDC. Check the tickets and start firing." I'm stripping off my suit jacket, rolling up my sleeves, snatching an apron out of Jose's hands and pulling it over my head. "Carl, go check with the bar team. Run them ice if they're low."
The kitchen falls silent when I walk through the doors. Twelve pairs of eyes turn to me—some relieved, most terrified, all waiting to see what I'm going to do.
"Report," I request calmly as I scrub my hands at the nearest station.
"We're twenty minutes behind on apps," Samuel stammers. "The duck breast keeps coming out overcooked, table six is still waiting on their amuse-bouche, and I can't find the plating notes for the lamb special."
I scan the mayhem. It's a mess, but it's not unsalvageable. Everything in its place.
First, you create order. Then—and only then—can you create something worthwhile.
"Deep breath," I tell Samuel, stepping up to the expo station. "The food doesn't care that you're nervous. It only cares that you know what you're doing. And you do know what you're doing."His breathing starts to slow.
"Garcia, fire two more duck breasts—medium rare, not leather. Becker, where is the amuse-bouche for six? Do the crème-fraîche first, then the caviar." My voice carries across the kitchen without shouting. "Samuel, the lamb notes are in the folder under the pass. Always check there first."
For the next three hours, I run the kitchen like I never left it. My hands remember the weight of the pans, the rhythm of service, the precise choreography that turns individual cooks into a unified team.
It feels fucking good.
"Behind!" I call as I slide past Maria with a pan full of perfectly seared scallops.
"Samuel, taste this sauce—what's missing?"
He takes the spoon, considers. "Acid?"
"Good. How much?"
"Just a splash of lemon. Maybe half a tablespoon."
"Perfect. Trust your palate. It's better than you think it is."