When the most demanding executive chef in the city walked into my freezing packing shed two hours before dinner service, he thought he could intimidate me into handing over my entire inventory. He pointed at the four glass jars I had sealed with bright red tape, demanding to know why I was refusing his money. What he didn’t understand was that those jars contained a microscopic flaw, and I was about to risk everything to protect my standard.
Daniel’s fingers gripped the red-taped lid. The shed was dead silent. I could hear the faint hum of the warming…