With only three weeks go to before the wedding, I’m a little nervous to hear Raven say that Chef’s going to need all hands on deck for the foreseeable future.

“We’re starting to ramp up for the holidays,” she explains to me at the end of the night as we’re taking a quick break in the back alley. I’ve stopped looking for rats, though I still jump a little when the wind blows a lone black plastic bag. “Between now and January, it’s a looooong stretch. Be warned.”

I didn’t realize the grueling hours I’ve been working could get any longer, but I have noticed the change in the air. Luz is in the swing of things at school, the wedding plans are pretty much sorted, pumpkins are everywhere, and Halloween decorations have taken over the streets. It’s like I’ve gone through five different versions of New York already, and I’ve been here just over two months.

“Chef’s finalizing the holiday menu and his investors are coming by soon.”

“To do what?” I say, curious. Maman definitely doesn’t have investors for Chez l’ami Janou, no one to answer to. She just makes good food and people like it enough to come back. The end.

Raven shrugs. It seems like everything rolls off her back, which might be the best way to survive when you work so closely with Chef Boyd. “They like to check that the place is in order, that their money is well spent. It’s about their investment, of course, but many of them want to back a restaurant that has a certain cachet, too. They couldn’t trim an asparagus to save their lives, but they want to be able to say that they have a hand in Nutrio’s success, that our artichoke purée wouldn’t exist without them.”

“They sound like no fun.” I’m teasing, but Raven just nods.

“We don’t need them to be fun, just to keep giving us money. And that is where you come in.”

“Me?” No doubt I look surprised. Money is not exactly my forte. I’ve been able to save since moving here, but only because I’m getting free room and board, which is clearly the ultimate privilege in New York. All in all, my savings don’t amount to much. I understand why Ben’s dad gets on his case about that.

“You and all the other cooks,” Raven says, an eyebrow raised. “Chef’s doing tryouts of the new menu during the day, before the dinner service.” My eyes light up, and Raven smiles. “I thought you’d like that. So can I count on you tomorrow, around twelve?”

I was supposed to be off then, but I can’t miss an opportunity to cook with Chef.

When I come in the next day, I learn that he’s planned to work with two cooks at a time to perfect the menu until it’s ready. I’m both terrified and delighted to discover that I’m paired with Ben for the afternoon.

It’s been a couple of weeks since the night of the onion soup, and we don’t really talk anymore. I’ve wanted to suggest we hang out once or twice, but then I overheard Ben tell another cook about a franchise that is opening a few more outposts in the city soon. I know that’s part of his plans, the next item on his list. I’ve also seen him buried in a celebrity chef’s memoir at every break, so it’s obvious that he’s focusing on his career right now, the logical next steps. It makes me sad, honestly. I can’t believe Ben really wants to work at a restaurant like that.

“All right,” Chef says when the three of us gather in one corner of the kitchen, while the others prepare for the dinner service at their respective stations. “Here are the two items we’re working on.” He turns to Ben. “A green pasta with peas, kale, lemon, and ricotta,” and then, to me, “and a beautiful crispy ratatouille.”

Now I understand why he wanted the French girl on the job. Ratatouille is one of Maman’s specialties—but unfortunately, I can’t just text her for tips. Chef has a policy that we’re not allowed to bring our phones inside the kitchen: not only are they covered in germs, but people get so easily distracted trying to sneak a glance at their screens.

He puts down the list of ingredients in front of us, written in an indecipherable scrawl, but I don’t need to read it to know what goes into a ratatouille. Ben and I waste no time heading to the walk-in to retrieve what we need.

Him: fresh rigatoni, handmade on site by one of the prep cooks; green peas; long leaves of kale, still on the stem; a few lemons; and a container of fresh ricotta.

Me: lots and lots of vegetables, including tomatoes, eggplants, zucchinis, red peppers, and yellow squash; a jug of olive oil; and a handful of garlic cloves.

We prep things in silence next to each other, while Chef goes to talk with Bertrand. It never ceases to amaze me how little cooking he actually does day to day. Maman is not just the chef at Chez l’ami Janou, she’s the main cook, the person behind every dish, start to finish.

But in a big restaurant like this, chefs spend much of their time doing, well, pretty much anything else. Meeting with suppliers, checking stock, refining the menu, interviewing staff, schmoozing investors. And while every dish does pass his hands before it’s served up, often that might just mean that Chef is the one brushing on the sauce au vin, or checking that the onion confit has the right amount of sweetness to it.

While Ben snaps off the kale stems and puts water to boil on the stove, I get on with the business of chopping all the vegetables in neat little cubes.

I came to New York for something new and different, but there’s only one way to make ratatouille: Maman’s. I can practically hear her coach me, like she used to. In ratatouille, the most important ingredient is patience, she’d always say. I’d roll my eyes, but she was right. You could try cooking the vegetables all together, saving yourself gobs of time in the process. But then you’d end up with mushy zucchini or underdone eggplant. Each of these need their own special attention, and a precise cooking time. That, and an ungodly amount of olive oil.

Once my first batch of vegetables is sautéing on the stove, I head back to the walk-in to rummage through the herbs we have in stock: fresh oregano calls to me first, though I’m always partial to basil. And then there are herbes de Provence, which enhance pretty much any dish. I bring back a few jars and stems, then lay them out onto the counter.

“I need an opinion,” I say to Ben. His corner is covered in squeezed lemon halves, the acidic smell filling the air between us. Next to him, the blender—packed with cooked kale and toasted garlic—is going full force. “Herbes de Provence is the right move here, oui ou non?”

Chef simply wrote herbs on his list, and I wonder if he was being vague on purpose, to test me.

“Absolument,” Ben says. He lowers his voice, like he’s about to tell me a secret. “But if I were you, I’d add some red pepper flakes for a little kick.”

I nod, considering it. Ratatouille can be subtle in taste, once the tomato sauce is mixed in. A little something extra can’t hurt. In fact, it might be just the thing to make it sing.

The blender stops, and Ben removes the lid. “Will you taste this for me?” He hands me a spoon. “How much lemon is too much lemon?”

I dip my spoon in and put the sauce on the top of my tongue so my taste buds can decide. “I think you could add just a touch more.”

Chef checks in on us a few times. He asks several questions, but his expression remains neutral as we answer. Now I’m worried. Was it too risky to make this dish the old-fashioned way? It’s not really Nutrio’s style. I feel like I’m on one of those cooking shows. I won’t know if I’ve succeeded until it’s too late to change the course of action.

Finally, Ben and I are ready. His pasta and my vegetables are cooked. Our respective sauces are smooth and done. We don’t need to worry about presentation; that will be Chef’s job, once the dish has been perfected.

Chef grabs a fork and digs into my creation first. After bringing it to his mouth, he chews for a few seconds, his eyes narrowing as he focuses on the flavors.

The wait is excruciating, but finally the verdict comes. “Your onions aren’t soft enough. I think they could have used a few more minutes.”

“Got it,” I say, cursing myself. Undercooked onions? Rookie mistake.

He takes a few more bites, during which I hold my breath. Ben, too, is very still next to me. I don’t know if he’s worried about me or himself, but the pressure is on.

Finally Chef nods as he puts his fork back down, his lips pinched. “Okay, Margot. Now I know why I put you on the line.”

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. This is clearly the best compliment I’ll ever get. I consider giving him a hug, but that would be so very not French of me, not to mention unprofessional. Still, I can’t help it, I turn to Ben, my face frozen in a silly grin. He smiles brightly, the look of a friend who’s genuinely happy for me. His tan skin glows against the white of his jacket, the light stubble on his chin giving him a bit of an edge. For a moment, it feels like everything is good between us again.

Chef makes a few comments about his dish too—even more lemon, is his verdict, but slightly less ricotta so the dish doesn’t feel too heavy—and then Ben and I are off the hook.

“I’m happy for you!” Ben says as soon as Chef leaves us.

Everyone else is gone, too; it’s family mealtime. We can hear them talking in the background, but here, in the kitchen, we’re on our own.

I want to celebrate, I really do, but there’s something more pressing. This is the only alone time I’ve had with Ben for a while, and I have to tell him what’s on my mind. “I’m sad that we don’t hang out anymore. I miss you.”

My throat catches at the end, my confession coming out raspy and weird.

Ben avoids my gaze as he grabs onto discarded kale stems before throwing them in the compost pile. “I’ve been busy.”

I let out a sigh, which comes out louder than I intended. The truth is, I know he’s been busy. I don’t blame him for not having time to indulge my fantasies of finding Zach. But Ben was my friend, and then he wasn’t and that just…doesn’t work for me.

Ben studies me, pursing his lips. A few seconds pass before he speaks. “I missed you, too.”

“I really didn’t mean to leave you there that night. It was shitty of me.”

“It’s not that.” His voice is soft, measured. “You thought you saw Zach…. I don’t blame you for running after him.”

But there’s hurt in his eyes and it makes my heart twist. “Ben…”

I wonder if he’s seen the posters around his neighborhood, if he thinks I’ve gone too far.

“No, wait. Let me just say this.” He wipes his hands on his apron and turns to me. “I think you’re great, Margot, and I really admire you for going after your dreams. I wish I were as brave as you.”

“You are brave,” I say. “You’re working so hard and helping everyone around you. Plus, I know your dad’s putting pressure on you and—”

Ben grunts, and I drop it. Silence hangs in the air between us.

“Hey,” I finally say. “I want to ask…” I trail off, gathering the courage to continue. It’s weird how nervous I am. Ben is the first friend I made in New York. I want him in my life. “Can we hang out again? Just for fun.” I’m not sure how to say, not for Zach. “I know you have a lot going on, and my dad’s wedding is coming up, but maybe we could find some time? If you want to, I mean.”

Ben nods slowly. For one excruciating moment I think he might say no, and I’m not sure how I’ll be able to keep a straight face. “I want to.”

I smile in response. No, I beam. I don’t think I’ve felt this happy since I saw Zach on the other side of the platform.

“Let’s have a classic New York night,” he adds.

“That sounds absolutely parfait.”

I may not know what a classic New York night entails, but I can’t wait to find out.