Chương 30: The First Tactical Meeting Fails

With the last hour of prep time remaining, Gareth Vane appeared in the Blue Team kitchen like a ghost. He said nothing, only crossed his arms and toured each person's station, one by one. When he saw the pockmarked, over-trimmed strip steak in front of Jack, his brow furrowed. When he saw the ingredients piled at Jessica's elbow waiting to be handled while she was still, unhurried, deboning a salmon, his face darkened.

When he saw the basket of abandoned, blackened fries at Owen's feet, he finally couldn't help speaking.

"Jack!" His voice wasn't loud, but it froze the air in the whole kitchen. Jack shuddered, stopped his work, and looked at Vane in alarm.

"You're the captain, yes?" Vane asked coldly.

"Y-yes, Chef."

"Good." Vane pointed at the fries on the floor.

"Then can you tell me what this is? Performance art? Or your team's new dish — 'Oxidized Potato'?" Jack's face flushed to the color of liver.

"No, Chef, it was an accident…"

"An accident?" Vane cut him off.

"In my kitchen there are no accidents — only incompetence! Three hours of prep gone, and your prep is less than sixty percent done! The kitchen looks like a landfill, everyone fighting their own war! And you, as captain — apart from running around like a headless fly shouting 'faster,' what have you actually done?" Jack, savaged head to foot, couldn't get out a single word. Vane's gaze turned to the others.

"And the rest of you! You're a team! Look at yourselves now — like a flock of brainless chickens! Now look at the Red Team!" He pointed next door. On the monitor, the Red Team had finished all their prep and were holding a final tactical meeting, everyone relaxed and assured.

"If you go on like this, I won't even need to wait for dinner service to end." Vane's voice was bone-cold.

"I could declare it right now. You've lost." With that, he looked at no one, turned, and left the kitchen. Vane's words were a bucket of ice water poured over every Blue Team member. The kitchen sank into a dead silence. Everyone stopped working, their faces shifting from panic to dejection and bewilderment. Jack's face was uglier than anyone's. As captain, publicly humiliated by Vane like that, his pride had taken a heavy blow.

"All right… don't just stand there." Jessica broke the silence first, her voice carrying a trace of fatigue too.

"Chef's right, we can't go on like this. Jack, I think we have to rediscuss the assignments."

"Yes, we have to rediscuss them!" Sarah immediately agreed.

"This workflow just doesn't work." Owen and Mia said nothing, but showed their agreement by action, both looking to Jack, waiting on his decision. Jack's lips moved. He wanted to push back, to defend his authority as captain. But seeing everyone's doubting eyes, and thinking again of Vane's words, he swallowed the words at the edge of his mouth. He knew his leadership had gone thoroughly bankrupt. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"Then… then what do you all say we do?" For the first time, there was uncertainty in Jack's voice. And just then Chris, silent until now, wiped his hands and stepped out from behind his sauce station.

"I have a plan." Every gaze snapped to him at once. Chris ignored their surprise and walked to an empty counter — the center of the whole kitchen.

"First, our biggest problem right now isn't unfinished prep. It's that the workflow is chaotic and responsibility is unclear, so everyone's doing redundant, ineffective work." His opening went straight to the core of the problem, and Jessica and Sarah nodded without thinking.

"So I propose a complete restructure of stations." Chris's voice wasn't loud, but his logic was clear, his order precise. No emotion in it — like an engineer presenting a technical plan.

"Jack," he looked at Jack first.

"Your heat control on meat is strong. So I suggest you do nothing but the grill. All steak cooking goes to you. You don't need to think about anything else — just deliver a perfect medium-rare, medium, or medium-well by the ticket." Jack froze. He hadn't expected this. The arrangement stripped his command, but put him at the position he was best at and loved most. For a moment he didn't know how to argue.

"Jessica," Chris turned to her.

"You've got experience and a steady hand. You take the sear station and the oven. Salmon and pulled pork are yours. Your station's right next to Jack's; the two of you form our core mains-output module." Jessica's eyes lit. The arrangement freed her from her earlier jumble of tasks to focus on the cooking she did best.

"Sarah, you take the fryer and assembly. Frying the wings and burger patties, and final burger assembly, all on you. Your spot's near the pass, fastest to respond to tickets.

"Owen, you stay on prep and cold station. But everything you produce — the coleslaw, for instance — comes to me for a final seasoning check before it goes out.

"Mia, move your pastry station to that empty counter in the far corner. It's the quietest; no one will disturb you. I'll give you a ticket schedule — just work to that rhythm." Chris laid out his whole plan in one breath. The kitchen was utterly silent, everyone digesting the new arrangement. They realized it was tailored almost individually to each of them. He'd considered not just everyone's technical strengths, but even their personalities and work habits.

"Then… then what about you?" Sarah asked the question in everyone's mind.

"What's your job?" Chris's eyes swept over them all and settled on the most central position in the kitchen — the pass, connecting inside and out, responsible for taking tickets, directing, and checking output.

"I handle all the sauces, and… the pass. Expediter."

"What?" Jack jumped up first.

"You want to be expediter? On what grounds? You've been back one day!" The plan tempted him, but handing over the most important command authority — that he still couldn't accept.

"On the grounds that only I can execute this plan." Chris's answer was simple and direct.

"The expediter has to coordinate every station. He has to know cold every person's ability, every dish's cook time, every possible sudden situation. Which of you can do that?" No one could answer.

"Jack, let me ask you," Chris looked straight at him.

"If three tickets land at once — one medium-rare steak, one medium-well steak, one seared salmon — which do you start first? The salmon cooks in 6 minutes, the medium-rare steak in 8, the medium-well in 12. How do you sequence it so all three reach the pass at the same time, within a 30-second margin?" Jack opened his mouth, his head a tangle. He'd never thought about a problem this complex.

"I can," Chris said mildly.

"I can calculate the optimal ticket sequence. I can tell every one of you when to start, when to come off the heat, and when to hand it to me." There was an unquestionable confidence in his words. A confidence that came not from emotion but from cold data and logic.

"I don't agree!" Jack made one last struggle.

"This is a power grab! I'm the captain!"

"Captain?" Chris gave a cold laugh.

"A captain who nearly sank the team in the prep stage? A captain publicly humiliated by Chef Vane? Jack, now isn't the time to argue who's the boss. We're a sinking team. Either we all drown clutching your title of 'captain,' or we accept the one plan that might let us live." The words were a sharp knife, piercing the last of Jack's pitiful pride. Jessica drew a deep breath and stepped forward.

"I agree with Chris's plan. He's right — what we need now is someone who can solve problems, not a title."

"I agree too," Sarah followed at once.

"Chris just taught me how to read oil temperature, and it worked. I trust him." Owen and Mia timidly raised their hands too. In an instant, Jack stood alone. Watching everyone move to Chris's side, his face went green, then white. He knew the tide had turned.

"Fine… fine!" Jack ground the words out through his teeth.

"We'll do it your way! But Chris, I'll say it here and now — if anything goes wrong with tonight's service, you carry that responsibility alone!"

"I'll carry it." Chris's answer was two words, but they weighed a thousand pounds. A kitchen "coup" was complete, in the most direct way, before dinner service even began. Chris walked to the pass and moved his sauce station over too. From this moment, he was the true brain of this kitchen.