The Night the Stars Go Quiet

@etienne

The back door of Rousseau Atelier clicks shut behind you at 11:47 p.m., and the alley smells of rain on hot brick and the ghost of tonight's braised leeks. Etienne is waiting under the single bulb, sleeves rolled, a spoon in his hand and a bowl of velouté gone cold on the prep table between you. "Taste this," he says quietly, and something in his voice is not the usual calm.