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The Bouchon Noir was recently slated in a series of American culinary publications because of their poor customer service. My job is to turn that around.
I am the face that greets people when they first arrive. I go around the tables of English-speaking clientele and make sure they are enjoying their meal, and I’m responsible for giving tips and tricks to the staff on how to offer a better customer experience.
All those years working the five a.m. shift at the donut shop are finally paying off.
Don't think this work is easy, though. It's near impossible to get snooty French servers to smile, let alone make them customer-friendly. Most days it feels like trying to teach a rock to tap dance. But I'm not complaining.
Across the square, the rolled-up awning of the Bouchon Noir awaits my arrival like a napping cat, ready to stretch its limbs in the morning light. The chairs are stacked and the tables folded, all of them chained together, since stealing outdoor restaurant furniture is a thing here.
I love how the restaurant looks in the morning before the hustle and bustle, before the world-class chefs have breathed culinary life into the place. At this hour, it just looks like a humble corner cafe and not the world-class restaurant that it is. It’s hard to be intimidated by a corner café, even knowing it will transform within hours into the award-winning restaurant that it is. There’s a long origin story about the Dubois grandmother who started the place, building it from a tiny enterprise into a gastronomical phenomenon.
I love being among the first to arrive, to wake the restaurant from its slumber and have a few minutes alone to drink in my new life.
Except that I’m not alone.
Sitting on one of the chained outdoor chairs is a man with a brimmed hat and scarf, like it wasn’t a sunny spring morning. The only people I’ve seen sitting here before open were homeless folks, but that’s not this guy. His shiny leather shoes give him away.
His legs are crossed and he holds a newspaper open in front of his face. His shoulders are back and confidence oozes from him like he’s a textbook gorgeous billionaire. I can’t see his face, but I don’t need to.
I must be imagining it. You can’t tell a man is magnificent from his chosen sitting position. Right?
But then he lowers the newspaper.
Hello, handsome, my voice sings, fortunately inside my head. It doesn’t matter that a scarf hides the bottom half of his face or that he’s wearing sunglasses and a dark hat. His head is tilted to the side with his full lips slightly parted. The muscles of his arms press against the sleeves of his dark pea coat like they might burst, Hulk-style, any second now.
Oh, no.
He said something to me in French but all I heard was “I’m a gorgeous French man and I’d like to sweep you off your feet and adore you for the rest of your life.”
Pretty sure that’s not what he said.
“I’m sorry,” I smile widely, “what was that?”
He lowers his sunglasses down his nose, revealing green eyes like the Mediterranean Sea. “Ah.” Disappointment drips from his lips in an only slightly-accented voice. “You are American.”
He puts his sunglasses back in place without even a hint of a grin, despite my sweep-me-off-my-feet-and-love-me-forever smile.
“Coffee,” he says, holding up his paper again.
I blink, imagining him and me flying on the back of a Pegasus over the Mediterranean. The world is our oyster as he tears off his shirt to let the ripple of muscles bathe in the sunshine.
“Please,” he adds, voice dripping with entitled expectation.
A blur of yachts and a four-piece band and French wine float before my eyes.
He sighs and drops the newspaper to his lap. “Coffee, now.”
“Coffee? Oh! Coffee!” I’m back in the moment, my running shoes suddenly feeling very drab. I toy with the loose threads in the hem of my jacket that I meant to fix. So not French.
There goes the fantasy.
CHAPTER 2
Natalie
I click back to life, remembering who I am (the hostess of the Bouchon Noir) and what I’m doing here (supposed to be hostess-ing).
Get it together.
