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She gasps and then laughs. “The time he was attacked by a pigeon? I thought that was the sorriest excuse until he showed me the peck marks.”
“You were furious until he had no choice but to take off his shirt and show you!”
“That was a time I will never forget. But do you know what was even better?”
I should be wandering the room, making sure the staff are fulfilling their duties, making sure the kitchen is running on time. But this is where I need to be. I look up and see Natalie, who gives me two thumbs up from behind the podium.
“You read the room better than you make coffee,” I whisper to her as I pass by, Madame Ornault now calm and composed.
“Thank goodness.” She replies with a grimace that makes me laugh.
CHAPTER 10
Natalie
Friday night is well underway, and it’s total madness, but destiny is on my side. As the bottles of new wine varieties shine atop individual podiums, I’ve got to seat a couple over here, bring water to a family over there, walk-don’t-run across the restaurant, the kitchen, the foyer, and now to tables thirty-four, forty-one, and back to number seven to clear for the next service.
I weave around the giant tower of crystal wine glasses—tonight’s artistic centerpiece of the entire restaurant—and start it over again.
The organized chaos suits me just fine. I’ve hardly had to talk to Olivier at all because of it. This whole week he’s continued to stare over my shoulder with a conniving grin like he just caught me doing something wrong. It drives me up the wall, even though I’m yanking at every bit of positive energy to endear him to me. He’s the big boss, and I know a thing or two about sweet talking the powers that be. It’s what makes me good at this job.
“Good evening, bonsoir,” I welcome the new arrivals with a big ol’ smile. Hundreds of people have milled through the restaurant for the grand unveiling of this season’s varieties from Dubois Estates.
It hadn’t occurred to me that so much of tonight would be dependent on my ability to manage the influx and egress of Paris’s most prestigious diners. That’s the plight of the front woman of the Bouchon Noir, though I’m also playing circus master, commanding the servers regarding which tables have yet to receive which tasters of which wines. They say humans only use ten percent of their brain, but I’m sure tonight I’m blasting that out of the water trying to keep straight which tables have tasted the aperitif versus the light opener, the full bodied, and the digestif...
Merlot, shiraz, chianti, oh my!
The fact that the Dubois estates uses numbers for all its wines is both helpful and a hindrance. The labels have a beautiful scrolling font, which is stunning but a work hazard as the “seven” can be confused with a “one” and don’t get me started on “four”.
“Alexandra,” I point, “I need you to take fifty-one to twenty-six, twenty-seven, and thirty-three, but right after that, you have to make sure that twelve, seventeen, and twenty-one get the fifteen.”
“Oui, Natalie.”
You’d think they could’ve gone with classic names for their wines, but no. Rumor has it the numbers are related to the degree of tannins, oak, and fruity overtones… or something like that. Marie tried to explain it to me, but it went way over my head. I’m not sure she actually knew either—it sounded like she was making it up as she went along.
“Docteur Ferreole,” a man says, slapping a business card on the podium at the entry.
“Bonsoir, Doctor,” I say with a welcoming smile.
“Not me,” he says, rolling his eyes, and then gestures to the couple behind him.
They are larger than life, in all senses of the word. Never have I seen such a blend of neon pink, yellow, and green on a single body before.
And that’s just the man.
The woman is wearing a dress that could double as a wedding gown. Her bosom is pushed so high in a corset that she risks indecency, despite her matronly age.
“Doctor Ferreole?” I ask.
“Oui?” the woman replies, catching me off guard—which it shouldn’t. I just didn’t expect a doctor to be dressed like a marshmallow. But that’ll teach me.
“I’ll take you to your table. I mean, je vous amène à votre table. Follow me, s’il vous plait.”
“Delighted,” she says in English and extends her hand for me to take or to kiss, I’m not sure which.
I choose to take her hand and guide her to her table. It’s a bit odd, but she’s living her best life, and I’m not about to interfere with that.
Across the room, Olivier has been catering to a distant relative of British royalty. But now he catches my eye and mouths something about the couple I’m escorting. I can’t make out the details, but according to his hand gestures, these people are important.
