**The grillman was grilling the fish, the pantry chef was plating the salad, the tempura was coming along nicely, and those poachers had just dropped 100 quail eggs into the poacher. Crunch time in the kitchen.
The boss, usually a picture of composure and correctness, said something they had never heard him say before.
Don't fuck it up.
"It must be someone really important!" cried the pantry chef, who was on his first shift without his trainer by his side.
The tempura sizzled, starting to turn that perfect golden color.
The eggs were nearly done. The poachers stood at attention with their slotted spoons hovering over the simmering pans.
Everything was ready. It was time to plate the fish.
The grill person lifted the fish carefully from the grill. It was perfectly striped and perfectly cooked. Everything was going along smoothly, a beautiful thing in the kitchen.
Until the pantry chef cried out "I quit!"
And the fish landed on the floor.**
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
A collective gasp escaped the assembled crew as everything came to an abrupt halt, all eyes turning first to the pantry chef and then to the fish staring up at them from the floor
One second passed, then two. Nobody moved, then…
“3-second rule’” squeaked the pantry chef breaking the silence, his resignation already forgotten so tense was the scene before him.
“Genius” cried the kitchen porter, a man with a Michelin star for hygiene and the logistical brain of a mathematician, the gleaming surfaces and glistening kitchenware around them a testament to his fastidiousness. ”Sure you could eat your dinner off that floor,” he said and with the grace of a ballerina, he swooped down plucked the fish from its resting place, and giving it a quick rinse under the hot tap, and a few dabs with the t-towel he returned it to the grill.
The grill man expertly grilled the fish, the pantry chef deftly plated the salad, the tempura was cooked to perfection and the poachers lowered their slotted spoons to scoop up the eggs. Then, with a dash of chef’s CYA sauce, the dish was complete just as the server pushed through the swing doors.
“Main course for VIP table, chef,” she sang out loudly “And let’s hope it stops him pontificating” she added but with considerably less volume. “Some ugly old git called Gore he is, never heard of him, had the cheek to tell me I could call him Al." and grabbing the fish special she breezed back from whence she came
"Well done everyone," said the boss with a nod to the porter and the pantry chef, "I think we might just have pulled it off."
Twenty minutes later word came from the restaurant floor.
Mr. Gore’s compliments to the chef and a special mention for the slightly grainy texture to the fish which, he said, rendered the entire dish quite extraordinary.
/././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././././/./././.
This is a continuation of 
The first part is hers, and the second is my conclusion to her story.