Adam!

Adam Jones.

Adam?

One had hoped you were dead.

Three years without a word.

I used to run the best restaurant in Paris.

What happened?

Let everyone down-

but now I'm back.

So...Not dead.

Apparently, not.

I mean, "dead" these days could mean barbecuing chicken wings on morning television.

I'll never be that dead!

When I was your sous chef at Jean Luc's, we were like brothers-

so when I left it was only natural that you were hurt so you took your revenge.

He scares me.

He's a two star Michelin chef. He's supposed to be scary.

Well, doesn't seem like many.

To get one Michelin star you have to be like Luke Skywalker. But if you manage to get three? You're Yoda.

What if he's Darth Vader?

When I lay awake at night and listen to my regrets-

you are one of them.

I say to myself, "You're a lesbian. Why did you sleep with Adam Jones?"

Michel will be my sous chef.

Max is in.

Max is in jail.

He's out in two days.

Also, I found a chef de partie who doesn't know how good she is.

She?

Right there, the whole thing falls apart...Because in three days you will dump her and she leaves with screams and tears.

You can't do this alone.

There's strength in needing others.

Not weakness.

Should I be writing this down? Because I'll have a cramp.

You look good.

Do you ever think of me?

What do you want?

Nothing.

Are you together?

No, she's just a cook in my kitchen.

Does she know that?

Hey, pretend you're my girlfriend okay?

If I was your girlfriend, you'd probably hold my arm.

No, if you were my girlfriend then we would have probably got in an argument in the taxi. We wouldn't even be talking.

The kitchen is the only place I ever felt like I've belonged.

Let's go!

Yes, chef!

It's good.