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The Split Sauce at the Pass
The service bell pinged twice, sharp and demanding, but Marcus did not move the white ceramic plate onto the pass. Under the incandescent heating lamps, the tarragon emulsion surrounding the poached turbot was beginning to separate into an oily yellow sheen. Across the stainless steel counter, his twenty-four-year-old saucier, Leo, stood frozen with a copper whisk suspended mid-air.
"Look at that rim, Leo," Marcus said, his voice dropping below the clatter of pans and the hiss of searing butter. "You ought to know when an emulsion is overheating. You ought not to let butterfat exceed sixty degrees, especially when table four has been waiting twenty minutes."
"I thought the warm plate would hold it, Chef," Leo muttered, his knuckles whitening against the counter.
"You needn't guess what the plate will