“And the tenderloin.” He orders for the whole table but none of them seem to care, sipping their wine and laughing with the kind of smugness that comes with wearing suits that are way too expensive.

“Great. I’ll let the chef know,” I say, inching away from the table.

“We want sides,” he says with a frustrated sigh.

“The tenderloin comes with—”

“Scalloped potatoes,” he says. “Broccolini.”

I shift on my feet, fighting the urge to look away from him and remind myself, I wanted this. A few weeks ago, I was actually pissed that my father had never come here before. What a sweet summer child that Amy was.

“I’ll have to check with the chef about the potatoes,” I say slowly.

We probably have the ingredients to make them, but Sophie has an entire kitchen to run on the busiest (for us) night of the week. She’s also barely spoken to me, so asking her to make these on the fly is going to suck.

“You do that,” he says, the dismissal clear.

I don’t even bother to tell him the worst part: we don’t have broccolini. Not on the menu, not in the kitchen. And he has to know that since he wanted to study the menu so badly. I suppress the urge to scream, my frustration a fist around my throat. He’s doing this on purpose.

The servers grimace in my direction as I walk away. It’s the only thing we can do to help each other when we’ve got a table like Dad’s. No one wants to take over for you—not that I’d let them—all that’s left is to commiserate.

“Chef.” I wait for her to look up at me but she doesn’t. “I need four tenderloin.”

She barely glances up from where she plates the special a few feet away. “Punch it in.”

I roll my eyes. Thanks, boss. “I will. Can you make scalloped potatoes on the fly, though?”

Her hands still and she stares down at the plate. “I have the skills and knowledge to make scalloped potatoes, if that’s what you’re asking?”

You know that it’s not, you beautiful terror. “I’m asking if we have the ingredients? And do you have the time?”

Slowly she turns to me, her jaw clenched. “Did you promise someone scalloped potatoes?”

“I didn’t promise.” I lean closer. “My father is here,” I say, my voice lowered. “And it’s a big deal that he’s even come. He’s...” I blush. Sophie seems like the type of person whose father makes a point to eat her food whenever he can. He probably had a standing reservation once a week at her restaurant in Montreal.

“He’s never eaten at one of my restaurants before,” I say. Normally, I wouldn’t beg, especially not to someone I work with. But I want to be able to give him the things he’s asked for not because he deserves them. He won’t care what is or isn’t on the menu. Dad only cares about Dad. But I care. About this restaurant, about proving to myself, to the whole team, that we’re good enough. Just as good as him and his suit buddies.