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The Midnight Inventory
Arthur smoothed the creased edges of the supplier invoices against the zinc bar, listening to the rain rattle against the bistro windows. The kitchen lights had been switched off an hour ago, yet across the dining room, Chef Luc was still hovering by the espresso machine, wiping his copper pans with obsessive care. For six years, the corner bistro had thrived on crisp roast chicken, hand-cut frites, and honest carafes of house red; over the past six weeks, however, revenue had collapsed under the weight of fifteen-course experimental menus and astronomical grocery bills.
What troubled Arthur most was not the chef's ambition, but his utter indifference to the monthly balance sheet. All Arthur wanted was a reliable neighborhood bistro that could pay its staff on time.
"Look at this total from the fishmonger," Arthur called out, tapping the yellow carbon receipt with his pen.