I didn’t know about other people, but I was certainly impressed. Even though he grew up miles away, across the pond, our life stories were very similar. His mother died when he was ten. “What brings you to New York? Why didn’t you just stay in Atlanta and work in the family business?”

“I’ll make it short and simple. I am not a cook. My father had a philosophy that women did not belong in his kitchen. I never learned to cook the way he or my brother do. I visualize and design for restaurants. After college, Julian Palmer offered me a job here in New York. I’ve worked for him for five years. Ironically, I spent a great deal of time back in Atlanta because he was working on my brother’s and Griffin’s restaurants. Working with him has been a great experience. I’ve overseen several solo projects over the last years. In addition to the boys’ projects, I’ve built a solid reputation of my own.”

“Julian is a pretty heavy hitter. So, you want to be the next Julian Palmer?”

“Not exactly. I just want to be me. Establish my own reputation, my brand. I don’t want to be my brother’s baby sister—or Julian’s assistant.” What I didn’t say was I didn’t want my life to be defined by commas. Hank Edgeworth’s daughter, Henry’s sister, Julian’s assistant, and whatever the hell I was to Griffin. I wanted to be Bailey Edgeworth, visionary. But that’s the thing about commas, sometimes you get to choose them. Other times they choose you.

For a few minutes, we kept company with our own thoughts, and I realized my initial question had gone unanswered. “Elliott, why the big fat question mark?”

“I could be suave and say to lure beautiful young women like yourself to come inside, or I could give you the real answer, the unsexy version, and say it is simply because I don’t have a vision nor do I have a name for my restaurant. I could use someone like you.”

Was he offering me a job? I hadn’t looked around enough to even begin to offer him a vision.

“That’s pretty good publicity. I don’t even know what kind of food you specialize in.” And that opened the door for another few hours of very easy conversation. He loved simple French food with a twist of American.

“Are you any good?” I asked. “The English aren’t exactly known for turning out premier chefs.”

“I don’t like to brag, but yes, I think I could be, given the right atmosphere. But don’t take my word for it. Let me cook for you sometime.”

“Are you asking me out or offering me a job?” He threw his head back and laughed. He found me amusing.

“A job, maybe.” He cocked his head. “But who knows? Why limit ourselves? Maybe we can help each other in our quest to make names for ourselves. Why don’t you come by Tuesday in two weeks and bring your résumé? We can have a proper interview. By then I should have the coffee maker working and can prepare you a little something so you can sample my talent.”