“We’ll not get anything better. Not from that supplier,” Gloria answers, grimacing in agreement.
“There’s no excuse for lousy bread nowadays,” Susan declares, setting the roll aside.
“I’ve suggested other places to try, but Dan says most customers don’t know the difference.”
“Well, he’s wrong about that,” says Susan, crossing her arms and leaning against the prep table, mentally preparing herself for an argument with her chef.
“Preaching to the choir, you are,” Gloria singsongs. “Everybody’s starting sourdough cultures and watching Paul Hollywood wail about gluten structure on The Bake-Off. They know their bloody bread.”
“They know a lot more than that.” Susan shakes her head. There’s a hot spurt of anger building in her chest. “Right—I’ll be back.” She straightens her shoulders and strides to the chef’s office, reminding herself that, while she wants this relationship to be a partnership, ultimately she owns this place and Dan is her employee. She tries to ignore the fact that the rain has left her hair stringy and her top a bit more clingy than she’d like.
“Have a nice weekend?” Dan asks, hastily closing a browser window on the computer as she enters his office.
“I did, thank you. And you? I’m looking forward to seeing the receipts from the last three nights. You told me on Thursday the weekends tend to be busier.”
“Riiiight. Yeah, it was busier.” He’s looking everywhere but at her.
“Was it really?”
“Yeah. A bit.” He’s toying with a fake cactus on his desk now.
“May I see the receipts?”
He takes his time, fussing around with various paperwork, but finally hands them over. It takes Susan all of a minute to go through them and discover that “busier” means “we had ten tables on Saturday night.” That hot spurt builds to an actual flame, fueled by his indifference.
Susan sets the receipts aside. “Dan, this isn’t enough, and you know it. How’s the new menu coming along?”
“Paul and I are talking about it.”
“And when can I expect to see some ideas? When do you plan to start testing new recipes?”
“Soon.”
She wants to scream. And cram that stupid fake cactus right down his throat. Instead, through tight lips, she says, “We really have to talk about some changes, and that starts with the running of the kitchen.”
She can see his protest gathering in a deep frown and blazing eyes. At least now she knows what it takes to light some kind of fire under him. Before he can form an argument and try to drown her out, she continues, “I realize the running of the kitchen is meant to be your department, but it’s all part of the overall running of the business, and that’s my job. And I have to say, I’m a bit disappointed with what I’ve been seeing. Gloria should not be checking in all the supplies; that’s your job or the sous chef’s job. And why isn’t Paul in yet? It’s nearly ten and there’s a lunch service to prep for.”
“We did a lot of our prep last night,” he explains, getting to his feet so he can stand above her.
Susan stiffens her spine but keeps her tone even. He won’t provoke her. “Even so, he should be here to organize the supplies. It’s not Gloria’s job. If you want it to be her job, since she’s doing so well with it, then promote her to sous chef and send Paul packing.”
“I can’t do that!”
“Then make him do his job! You’re chef de cuisine, so get out of this office and run your kitchen!
His glower actually seems to be giving off heat. She imagines he’s trying to sear her with it, force her to give up, tuck tail, and run.
She won’t run.
“Dan,” she says, switching to a different tone. Conciliatory. “I really don’t want to tread on your toes, but surely you agree that changes need to be made.” She gestures to the receipts. “We’re simply not breaking even, and it’s not because it’s the off-season, because there isn’t really an off-season in Edinburgh anymore. There are always people around who need feeding, and we simply can’t afford to slack off and just hope they wander through the door. The restaurant scene in this city is competitive, and we need to compete. If we don’t”—she takes a deep breath, remembering those blank faces at Regent Street, staring up at her as she stumbled through her speech—“then we’ll have to let people go.” Starting with you, she doesn’t add.
“Maybe we should just convert to a chippie,” Dan sniffs. “The students and the Americans will love it, and all we’ll need is a fry cook.”
“Let’s not be dramatic, please; it won’t help,” says Susan, barely suppressing an eye roll. “Change will. And on that subject, we’re going to be closing down the restaurant for a little while and refurbishing.”
He blinks at her. “What? When? You’re shutting the place down without consulting me? All that nonsense about this being a partnership! I knew you were full of shit!”
Stand firm, stand firm. “I’m sorry to blindside you, but it needs to be done, and ultimately it’s my decision. You see to the running of the kitchen—there’s clearly plenty of work to be done there. I mean, my own family didn’t even think to come to us for food. Something’s going wrong here, and we need to fix it quickly, and the only way to do that is a complete overhaul.”
“I thought you said dramatics wouldn’t help,” he spits out.
“It’s not dramatics; it’s plain fact. And I don’t have the time or the capacity right now to coddle a kitchen diva, so you need to get on board or we’ll have to consider a change.” They stare each other down for a few long, silent moments. “Now,” Susan says, “do you want to tell the rest of the staff what’s happening, or shall I?”
“You may as well do it,” he answers. “You’re dying to be in charge.”
“I am in charge,” she informs him. “We’ll be closing down and announcing the refurbishment by the end of the week. And I want you and Paul to have a new menu proposal by then as well, so you can start testing recipes. Oh, and Dan? If I see Gloria doing the inventory again, I’m going to assume it means Paul no longer works here.”
* * *
“Feeding Tories!” Calum Walsh punctuates this exclamation by sinking a butcher’s knife deep into the side of a half pig lying on the butcher-block table in front of him. “I know we were bound to sell out, mate, but did we have to do it before we even opened?”
Chris is focusing on a delicate sauce that’s in danger of breaking, and takes his time answering. “I was on television,” he says at last. “Selling out is second nature to me now. And I hate to break it to you, but the prices we’re charging, we’re going to be feeding a lot of Tories.”
Calum laughs and, with another whack of his knife, separates the pig’s shoulder from the rest of the body.
“Besides, they can be our guinea pigs,” Chris reminds him. “We’ll try out some of our ideas on them, and if they boak, we’ll know not to serve ’em to anyone else.”