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Chef Mara wipes her forearm across her brow, leaving a faint smear of duck fat and salt. The line is silent except for the hum of the lowboy and the sizzle of butter hitting a pan that should’ve been cleaned an hour ago.

She looks at the dirty pans, the chive scraps, the latest Instagram post she hasn’t posted — a blurry shot of a broken yolk with the caption: “Some days you’re the hero. Some days you’re the mise.”

Then she grabs a steel wool and starts on the flat-top. %23cheflife+latest

The dining room is nearly empty. One couple left, nursing Negronis. Mara leans against the stainless steel and checks her phone.

The clock hits 11:47 p.m. The last ticket is in. Four top, no modifications — a miracle. Chef Mara wipes her forearm across her brow,

She types back: “Always.”

Sixty seconds to plating. She catches her reflection in the pass — chef coat stained with squid ink, hair escaping her bun, eyes that haven’t seen sunlight in three days. Some days you’re the mise

“Hands!” she yells. Plates land. Leo runs the food.