was all he said. The French toast had done its job.

As the brioche hit the clarified butter, the sizzle was immediate. He watched for the telltale golden-brown lace around the edges.

Leo didn't flinch. He flipped the thick slices with a flick of his wrist, the aroma of caramelized sugar filling the narrow space between the range and the pass. The Service

The ticket spat out of the printer like a challenge: Table 12. Two orders. No syrup. Extra berries.

For Leo, this wasn't just breakfast; it was his shot at moving off the prep line. He’d spent the last three nights perfecting the custard—a precise ratio of heavy cream, Madagascar vanilla, and just enough orange zest to cut the richness.

Leo watched from the swinging door as the man finally nodded to his companion. Back in the kitchen, Marcus didn't offer a compliment, but he did hand Leo the tongs for the steak station.

When the plates were set down at Table 12, the room seemed to go quiet for a heartbeat. The customer—a regular who hadn't smiled once in three years—took a bite. The brioche was pillowy, the center almost like a bread pudding, and the crust shattered with a satisfying crunch.

The sous-chef, Marcus, was already breathing down his neck about a backed-up omelet station.