There’s no doubt in my mind it’s a great idea, but how does one go about executing it? After Dahlia left, I spent the rest of the night taping a bunch of cardboard over my missing window and thinking about The Art of War. Someone has left a large ladle in the break room. I don’t even want to begin to think about why it’s in there in the first place. Instead, I tuck it under my arm to take it with me as I head for the kitchen, making a mental note to hand it to one of the dishwashers for a thorough cleaning before it’s rotated back into service. As I come out of the break room, I’ve got the ladle clamped under one arm, and I’m tying a fresh apron around my waist. Paolo looks up from where he’s chopping vegetables at one of the prep stations. “Ah, Suzannah. The boss, he want to see you,” he informs me. I’m not exactly sure which boss he’s talking about. “Mr. Winchell?” I ask. Paolo gives me one of those Italian looks of minor exasperation as if what he’s said was perfectly clear and he doesn’t understand my need for further explanation.
