Chapter 5 - Clean Hands
For two gonizing hours, Inspector Vance moved through Maison like a ghost looking for a haunting.
She checked the internal temperatures of seven different refrigeration units; every single one reads exactly 36°F. She wiped a gloved finger along the exhaust hood above the main line; it came away completely dustless. She checked the digital logs for fish deliveries, cross-referenced the batch codes for the oysters, and inspected the employee handwashing stations.
The junior inspector was taking notes on a tablet, looking increasingly bewildered.
"Where is your dry storage?" Vance asked sharply, determined to show frustration.
"Right this way," Dara said smoothly, opening the heavy door to the immaculate storage room, where every grain bin was sealed, labeled with precise dates, and elevated twelve inches off the floor on stainless steel shelving.
Vance stood in the center of the dry storage room, turning around slowly. She pulled down her reading glasses and stared at Dara.
"Miss Mitchell," Vance said, her tone shifting slightly. "Do you have any idea who submitted the report against your establishment?"
"It was anonymous, wasn't it?" Dara asked quietly.
"It was," Vance admitted, glancing down at her screen. "But in my fifteen years doing this job, I have never seen a complaint so specific... or so completely detached from the reality of the facility. The report mentioned you were storing raw poultry above produce in Walk-In 2. You don't even have a Walk-In 2. You use a centralized walk-in matrix."
Dara smiled thinly. "Whoever wrote the complaint probably looked up a generic commercial kitchen floor plan without knowing how I actually built this place."
Vance let out a quiet breath, tapping her screen. She finalized her report and generated a digital document.
"A-Grade," Vance called, looking up. "Zero violations. In fact, this is the cleanest commercial kitchen I've inspected in Manhattan this year."
"Thank you, Inspector," Dara said, holding out her hand.
Vance shook it firmly. "Whoever is trying to mess with you, Miss Mitchell... they picked the wrong restaurant."
When the inspectors left, a collective cheer went up from the kitchen staff. Miranda practically threw her arms around Dara, while Marcus gave a rare, triumphant smile.
"We cleared it," Miranda laughed. "We cleared it with a perfect score!"
"Get back to prep," Dara said with a grin, though her eyes remained sharp. "We have a summer menu to launch in forty-eight hours."
Dara walked back to her office, closed the door, and took out her personal phone. She dialed Heather's direct office number.
It rang three times before Heather picked up. "Heather Mitchell."
"Nice try," Dara said calmly.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Dara could hear the soft hum of an office air conditioner and the clicking of a keyboard stop.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Heather said, her voice dropping into her practiced deposition tone.
"The NYC Health Department," Dara said. "Zero violations. Perfect grade. You should tell your junior associates that if they're going to fake a commercial sanitation complaint, they should at least get the building layout right. You forgot I redesigned the refrigeration matrix when I bought out the lease."
Heather was silent for three full seconds before letting out a cold laugh. "You think you're so smart, don't you, Dara? You think because you run a trendy little restaurant that you're untouchable."
"I don't think I'm untouchable, Heather," Dara said softly. "I just know I'm better at what I do than you are at what you do. Stop coming after my business. Because if you try something like this again, I won't just block it. I'll go public. Imagine how the partners at your law firm will react when they find out a senior associate is using firm resources to wage a personal vendetta against a local business owner."
The silence on the line was deafening.
May you like
"You wouldn't," Heather hissed.
"Try me," Dara said, and hung up the phone.
