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The Command of the Pass
Sebastien stood at the heated pass of the restaurant, watching sixty orders hum through the electronic printer while a sudden clatter echoed from the fish station. The restaurant dining room was packed to capacity, an anonymous critic from the Michelin Guide had been seated at table nine ten minutes earlier, and his newest commis had just knocked an entire tray of poached turbot into the ice bin.
Rarely had Sebastien witnessed such panic in a young cook's eyes. The boy froze, gripping a stainless-steel spatula as if waiting for a blow.
"Step aside," Sebastien said in a tone that allowed no hesitation. "Clear the ice, fetch the reserve cuts from the walk-in, and reset your timer."
Seldom does a brigade recover from a catastrophic error during the height of the eight o'clock rush without cascading delays across the dining room.