It's just before 5:30 p.m., and I can't get over the feeling I used to have when I performed in school plays. It's a magical moment just before the curtain rises. I'm backstage, feeling excited but also a touch nervous. Now, when I look around the kitchen, everyone looks utterly calm. Chefs chatting, cracking jokes, laughing. Why am I the only one who seems to feel the jitters?

Evans has his prep area set up on a small table right next to the kitchen door. Through a small window on top of the door, he can keep an eye on the dining room and see how things are flowing. He also can see every plate before it leaves the kitchen. Quality control.

The first order comes in close to 6 p.m. Showtime! The waitstaff-dressed in black shirts, jeans, and black bistro-style aprons-take their work seriously. They seem truly proud to be serving food this good. The biscuits are warmed and brought out on the black slate slabs. The soup is piping hot, and a small disc of scallop gelee is placed on top.

At 6:10 p.m., the guests arrive for the special chef's menu. But there's a catch; they tell the waiter that they had called to cancel the chef's menu a week ago and want to order off the regular menu. Rob shakes his head. He doesn't rant and rave or throw anything. I keep thinking a monster chef, a reality TV kind of crazy man will emerge. But if this news doesn't rattle him, nothing will. One of the women is pregnant, can't eat raw fish, and worries that the menu will be too much. Calmly, Evans instructs the waiter to ask the party if they would be interested in a modified chef's dinner. Perhaps, eight courses (instead of the usual fifteen)? No raw fish? "Offer them a price break, too," he instructs the waiter. A minute later, the waiter reappears and the table has accepted his offer. Evans shrugs and gets to work.

"Ordering," calls out a waiter. And the procession begins. An order of soup goes out, but it's no ordinary bowl of soup. Surrounding the bowl with the hot soup is an even larger white bowl. Inside the rim of the outer bowl are sprigs of fresh herbs and ribbons of lemon zest. When the waiter serves the soup, he pours from a pitcher of boiling hot water over the herbs and lemon, thereby releasing an aromatherapy burst. The scent of the herbs is meant to complement each sip of soup.

Yellowfin tuna is served with aged shoyu (soy sauce), avocado fritters, cucumbers, and a Greek yogurt sauce. "Three soups and sandwiches," calls out a server as she leaves the kitchen with a cold-smoked Casco Bay cod dish served with "foraged Maine vegetables," tempura fiddleheads, and a dulse vinaigrette. The plates all return empty. The look like they've already been through the dishwasher.

It's all like a well-choreographed dance. Coriaty crisps the skin on a trout by placing the skillet over a hot heat. As she cooks, she teaches Conley how to tell when the fish's skin is crispy enough.

It starts to get busier, with orders piling up. "Three trouts, two ravioli, and three soles," comes the request. Nancy needs to help in the back room to get out the salads and appetizers, and asks if I can be in charge of the biscuits. "Who me? Yeah, sure." It's my moment. Nancy teaches me how to cook the biscuits to order: seven minutes on one side, gently turn, and seven or eight minutes on the other side. I'm terrified of burning them, but my first order comes out golden brown and smells like a grandmother's house in Vermont on the first day of fall.

I notice some of the chefs talking to themselves as they cook, kind of like self-coaching. At first it seems odd, but I realize it must be a great way to release tension.