Chapter 118: An Executive Chef Needs A Team

Olden paused for a brief second, wiping down his chef’s knife before sheathing it in his leather roll. "Yeah. Durev booked me six months ago," he replied, shaking his head with a slight scowl. "He paid a hefty deposit to headline his venue’s anniversary. Annoying guy, honestly. Full of himself and knows next to nothing about real food. But business is business, so I’m obligated to do the service."

Durev. Hearing Patricia’s ex-boss named out loud just made the whole setup feel even sweeter.

"Durev, huh?" I smiled smoothly, not letting a single trace of my real plan leak into my expression. "Just making sure your schedule is clear after our three weeks are up. Wouldn’t want anything overlapping."

"Don’t worry," Olden said sternly. "When my three weeks with Patricia are done, my focus shifts to preparing Durev’s menu. I don’t break commitments."

Oh, you won’t have to break a thing, I thought to myself, the satisfaction bubbling up inside me. Because by the time I’m done setting the board, Durev won’t even have a kitchen for you to step into.

Patricia glided past us to clear her station, completely oblivious to the war I was orchestrating behind the scenes. She was focused purely on mastering her craft, which was exactly how I needed it.

Durev was sitting in his oceanfront office right now, smugly counting down the days until Olden Mante put his restaurant on the map, thinking his $1.08 million settlement was the end of the line. He had no idea that the very chef he spent a fortune booking was currently across town, hand-crafting his total destruction.

Olden stepped forward, his expression instantly shifting back to cold, unyielding military discipline. He slammed his hand down on the marble island, making the metal utensils rattle.

"Enough small talk," Olden barked, pulling out a thick timer and setting it to fifteen minutes. "Phase Two of today’s evaluation starts now. Patricia, take your station."

Patricia’s posture straightened instantly. The relaxed air in the room evaporated, replaced by raw, electric tension.

"This is your multi-ticket pressure test," Olden declared, his voice cutting through the quiet kitchen like a whip. "You have four high-complexity orders coming onto the pass simultaneously.

Ticket One: Pan-seared sea bass with a delicate saffron beurre blanc—skin crisp, fish translucent in the center.

Ticket Two: Medium-rare rack of lamb with a red wine reduction, requiring precise oven timing.

Ticket Three: A delicate, temperature-sensitive wild mushroom soufflé that will collapse if you look at it wrong.

Ticket Four: Hand-rolled truffle agnolotti with an emulsion that splits if it sits for more than ten seconds."

He slammed three physical order tickets onto the stainless steel rail.

"Fifteen minutes. Every plate hits the pass hot, flawless, and perfectly timed. If one dish waits on another, the entire ticket fails. Timer starts in three... two... GO!"

The kitchen exploded into motion.

Patricia became a blur of controlled, high-adrenaline movement. Flames roared as she brought her heavy copper pans to heat, her hands moving with terrifying precision. She was monitoring four distinct heat zones at once: searing the fish skin-side down, watching the soufflé rise through the oven glass, basting the lamb in foaming butter, and dropping fresh pasta into rolling boiling water.

Olden stood right at her shoulder, relentless, barking time checks into her ear to test her nerve.

"Eight minutes left! Soufflé is rising—don’t lose focus on that sea bass! Your butter is browning too fast on burner two! Adjust, Patricia! Adjust!"

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t panic. The sweat beaded on her forehead, but her hand stayed rock-steady as she tilted the pan, spooning rich, glossy butter over the lamb with rhythmic, fluid grace. She flipped the sea bass at the exact micro-second the skin hit golden-brown perfection, pulled the soufflé at its maximum rise, and tossed the agnolotti into the emulsion, binding it into a velvet-smooth sauce.

"Plating in ten seconds!" Patricia shouted, her voice booming with total, absolute command of her space.

With surgical speed, she wiped four white rimmed plates, placing each element with artistic precision.

Ding!

She slammed the final pass bell with two seconds left on the clock. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ

Four immaculate, steaming, world-class dishes sat in a pristine line across the marble counter.

Olden leaned over the pass, inspecting every angle, checking the sear on the bass, testing the internal temp of the lamb, and dipping a spoon into the soufflé. The room went dead silent for five agonizing seconds.

Slowly, Olden stood up straight. He looked at the plates, then looked up at Patricia, a rare, genuine spark of pride flashing in his sharp eyes.

"Flawless execution under pressure," Olden said quietly. "You didn’t just survive the adrenaline, Patricia... you ran the line like a true Executive Chef."

I pulled out a chair and sat at the dining table, looking over at Patricia as she caught her breath, still riding the high of Olden’s praise.

"You crushed that," I said, leaning forward. "Olden’s right—your technique and control under pressure are elite now. You’re ready to command a kitchen."

I paused, letting the moment settle before bringing down the next critical piece of the puzzle.

"But a general can’t win a war without an army," I continued smoothly. "You can’t run a top-tier oceanfront showroom on your own. If we’re going to completely outclass Durev on opening night, we need a powerhouse brigade behind you."

Patricia wiped her brow with a towel, nodding intently as she leaned against the counter. "You’re right. A kitchen at that level needs absolute synchronization. I need a solid sous chef I can trust with my life, line cooks who don’t panic under volume, and a pastry chef who treats desserts like fine art."

"Exactly," I replied with a subtle smile. "So let’s build your dream team. I don’t want average line cooks looking for a paycheck. I want hungry talent—chefs who feel held back in their current kitchens or poached straight from top-tier spots who want to be part of something legendary."

I reached into my jacket and tossed a fresh leather notebook onto the table.

"We have two weeks left before the grand opening. I want you to outline your ideal kitchen hierarchy and draft a list of key positions. Money is no object—if there’s a head sous or a pastry genius you’ve always wanted to work with, give me the names. I’ll buy out their contracts by the end of the week."

Patricia’s eyes lit up with a mix of excitement and determination. "I already have a few names in mind... people Durev overlooked or pushed out because of his massive ego."

"Even better," I said, my grin sharpening. "Poaching talent right out from under his nose—or hiring the very people he mistreated—will make opening night hit him twice as hard."