The next day, Happy found herself smiling when she saw the sign for La Petite Table as she came into work. She'd arrived early, so the restaurant was nearly empty when she got inside. Walter was standing in the back, on the phone with their vegetable supplier, griping loudly about some small transgression on the vendor's part. Happy caught his eye and mouthed stay calm.

Walter had a habit of antagonizing vendors. He would find some small inefficiency in the way the sellers worked - he was always going on about inefficiency - and yell at them until they decided to stop selling to La Petite Table. It was a rather small business, after all, not really worth the trouble of dealing with its persnickety owner. The waitresses had started betting on how long it would be until they had to find a new supplier of something or other. In his last interview with the Post, Walter boasted that his restaurant got crabs and oysters all the way from Baltimore; he neglected to say it was because he'd been banned from just about every seafood market in New England.

Walter seemed to ignore Happy's whispered warning; he turned his back to her and continued complaining. Happy walked passed him and went into the kitchen, where she found Toby flipping through the Creation Book.

The Creation Book - infamous enough among the Petite Table staff to be capitalized in all written discussion of it - was proof of Happy's culinary genius. It contained every recipe she'd ever come up with, starting with the raspberry tarts she first made in middle school. To the chefs in the Petite Table kitchen, it had become a sort of Bible. Louis had almost tried to take it with him when he left, but Walter wouldn't allow it.

Now, Toby was reading it, a look of awe on his face.

"Hey," Happy said, startling him.

"Oh, hi. I didn't hear you come in." He pointed to the book. "This… you made all of this?"

"All those recipes, yep."

"Happy, there has to be hundreds of dishes in here."

"Three hundred and seventeen, as of last week."

"Three hundred and seventeen? You're only, what, twenty-five? Twenty-six?" Happy shrugged noncommittally. "You must be the most prolific chef of the century - maybe ever."

"Well, it's not that hard, when you look at cooking like a science. Taste buds are built to sense certain chemicals, some more strongly than others, some more enjoyably than others. Once you figure out what chemicals go well together, it's just a matter of making those chemicals by combining foods."

" 'Just a matter of making those chemicals by combining food,' " Toby repeated. "Sure. So simple. Just like Apollo Thirteen was 'just a matter of sending some guys to the moon', huh?"

"It's not really comparable."

"I guess not, but…" He shook his heads, eyes wide with admiration. "God, and you never went to culinary school."

"I told you, those tests they gave you weren't teaching you anything."

"Now, wait-"

Toby was cut off by Walter's rushing into the room. "Happy," he said annoyedly. "I need you to talk to Molina. She's being absolutely unreasonable."

Happy sighed. "Sure thing, boss."

Walter led her out of the kitchen and handed her his cell phone, which she put up to her ear.

"Adriana?... Yes, this is Happy… I know he was rude to you; I'm sorry about that… No, please don't do that…"

Happy hung up the phone and let her head fall into her hands. Molina had crossed La Petite Table off her delivery list. She was one of the last reputable vegetable vendors in New York and, as she'd reminded Happy multiple times in their conversation, she was buddy-buddy with the head of the farmers' union that influenced all the New England. She could blackball La Petite Table from sellers as far as Maine.

Happy shook her head; that was Walter's problem now. When she returned to the kitchen, Toby was smiling at her.

"What?" she asked.

"So, you're not only the best sous chef in town; you're also Walt's therapist."

"I'm not a therapist - or not a good one, anyway. I just lost the vendor. And don't call him Walt; he hates that."

"Why? It's more efficient than saying 'Walter'."

Happy had to laugh at that. "True. But he doesn't like it."

"So, we don't have vegetables anymore?"

"We have enough to last through the week, maybe a little more. I guess by then Walter will have figured something out. He always does."

" 'Always'? This happens a lot?"

"He makes me clean up his vendor messes once every week or so. Normally I can sweet talk the vendors-" She cut off; Toby was laughing. "What?" she asked.

"You? Sweet talking?"

"Yeah."

"You don't seem like the type."

"I'm not. But I do what I have to to keep this restaurant afloat."

"Mm. That's admirable of you."

He paused, and they both understood what he left unsaid: That's the kind of thing a head chef would do. Happy looked away, trying not to get mad at him for taking her job.

"But anyway," he continued after a minute. "I cut you off. You normally keep the sellers happy by sweet talking them?"

"Yeah. I can normally talk them into continuing to deliver to us. But every month or so, we lose one."

"Wow. There must not be too many vendors left to do business with."

"Nope. Walter's very particular, kind of hard to get along with."

"It didn't take me long to figure that out."

"He's a good guy, though, underneath it all. He looks out for us." It had been Walter, in fact, that had talked Louis into letting Happy go from dishwasher to line cook - the most difficult transition on her her way to sous chef. Louis hadn't wanted to let someone who was untrained touch his food. But then Happy cooked Walter some fish - the oddest recipe, fermented fish with cod oil - for this birthday and he'd decided her talent was being wasted on the dirty dishes. So he'd talked Louis into giving her a two-week trial run; once Louis had seen her cook, he accepted her immediately.

She didn't want to tell Toby all of this - he was too new in her life to be sharing such secrets with, and besides, she didn't want him to think she'd only gotten where she was because of some restaurateur's charity. So she just left it at that: He looks out for us.

Toby nodded. "That's good."

They ended up standing their, looking at each other, and the silence lasted long enough to get awkward. Eventually, Happy made an excuse about checking on their supply of ice cream, so she could slip into the freezer and out of his intense gaze.

Paige arrived a few minutes early for her shift and spent her extra time in the kitchen, talking to Happy while the chef prepared their soup of the day.

"So, according to his teacher, Ralph's reading at a college level. He's in kindergarten, Happy. I mean, I don't mean to brag, but damn."

Happy smiled. She complained about Paige's talking too much, always breaking the focus of the kitchen, but she was pretty fond of the waitress. She'd met Ralph, too, and taken to him immediately. Paige was the only coworker Happy might call a friend.

"That kid's going places," Happy said.

"You bet he is. Anyway - hey, I heard Wendy say we lost the vegetable vendor this morning?"

"Yep, we did."

"Damn. I bet twenty bucks that we'd last through the end of the month."

"We were close - I was on the phone with Molina for a solid thirty minutes, basically begging her to keep doing business with us. But no luck. Walter sure can piss people off."

"Wait, Molina? Adriana Molina?"

"Yeah, the vegetable lady. Why?"

"I know her - her daughter's in Ralph's class. Maybe I should call her, try to get it all sorted out?"

"I guess it couldn't hurt."

"Paige!" Walter called into the kitchen, interrupting the conversation. "Your shift started two minutes ago."

"Go," Happy whispered, "before he starts calling you inefficient."

Paige chuckled, and then went off to start her shift.

As Happy was leaving the restaurant that evening, Toby slipped in step beside her.

"Hey," he said, placing an arm on her back and startling her. She moved to shove him off before recognizing him.

"Oh, hi."

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I just thought… where do you live?"

Happy raised her eyebrows at him. "That's a pretty personal question."

"No, I just meant… I live down at Fourth and Twenty-Second. If you lived close by, we could walk together."

Happy shook her head. "I live out in the Village. I have to take the subway home." She pointed down the street, to where the subway station waited.

"Oh. Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow then."

He waved goodbye as their paths diverged, Happy headed south towards the subway station and he headed west towards Twenty-Second Street. It struck Happy as odd, his rushing out of the restaurant to try and walk her home. But she didn't have time to dwell on it; Paige called her as soon as she crossed the street away from Toby.

"Paige?"

"Happy! Guess what?"

"What?"

"I talked to Molina, and La Petite Table" - her French accent, unlike Toby's, was unashamedly poor; Happy smiled - "is back on their delivery list."

"Wait, are you serious?"

"Yep! I just told her she could come eat for free whenever she liked - I'm pretty sure we let all the vendors do that, but I guess she didn't realize that. She thought she was getting special treatment, and she warmed right up."

"Wow. That's great." Happy felt a twinge of guilt - she'd always looked at Paige as a sweet but simple, unskilled person, working as a waitress to support her son because there weren't really any other jobs she could do. But Happy had spent half an hour trying - and failing - to do something that Paige had accomplished with a five-minute phone call. "Did you tell Walter?"

"Yep, right before I called you. You know how he is - 'Oh,' " - Paige mocked Walter's deep voice - " 'that's good, Paige. Thank you. Goodbye.' But I'm still proud of myself."

"You should be. Without Molina, we were kind of screwed."

"I'm happy to help. Look, I'm about to be home and I need to make sure Ralph gets to bed okay, so talk to you later?"

"Sure."

As the call ended, Happy was climbing onto the subway. On her long ride home, she caught herself wishing she lived near Twenty-Second Street, just so she could have walked home with Toby.