His jaw thrums, which I’m quickly learning is a telltale sign that there is a tectonic anger brewing inside him. “What kind of question is that? Who bites something perfect and thinks about dollar bills?”
“Project managers do.” I pull up my tablet and start typing notes. “Japanese scallops sound to me like they require pricey plane tickets. White truffle oil from a specific estate in Italy means we’re locked into a single supplier. What happens when there’s a bad harvest? Or when shipping gets delayed? And hand-harvested sea beans that require individual prep?” I look up at him. “You’re talking about, what, fifteen minutes of labor per plate just for one garnish?”
The kitchen has gone deathly quiet. Everyone’s watching us.
“The dish is perfect as designed,” he growls.
“‘Perfect’ doesn’
