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“Grandmama,” Simone sings and opens the door. “Oh.” her tone changes, suspicion dripping from her every word. “Who is she?”
I stepped in behind Simone. “This is Natalie,” I say in English. “She's working for us temporarily before going back to the restaurant in Paris where she is gainfully employed as a hostess. A normal staff member, like everyone else.”
That sounded anything but normal.
“Enchanté,” Natalie says. “I'm Natalie.”
“And I'm shocked,” Simone announces in French as she presses against me to whisper. “Shocked that you could bring someone into this home to care for dear Grandmama without at least some consultation about who would be an appropriate—”
“Excuse me,” Grandmama says with a perfect English accent. “While you're in my room you will speak English. It's been a delight for me to revisit the days when I was more fluent in the language of our neighbors across the pond.”
“What if she doesn't speak English?” Natalie whispers to Grandmama.
“Oh, I speak English,” Simone snaps and then lays her hand on my shoulder like a lioness. “I speak English very well.”
“And how did you come to speak English? Answer in two sentences or less.” Grandmama strangely interrogates.
Simone’s eyes dart left and right and then she straightens her shoulders to respond. “When one works in the sciences at my level—I am the director of my own laboratory—speaking English is a necessary evil for engaging in collaborations with other like-minded institutions.”
“That sounds very,” Natalie pauses, “important.”
I chuckle.
“It is.” Simone squeezes my shoulder and glares at me, but I can tell that she feels a little silly for showing off.
“And you, Natalie?” Grandmama asks pointedly as if she is a border guard.
“What about me?”
“What international collaborations do you engage in?”
“Oh, well… at the restaurant, I regularly have to mediate between our customers of varying cultures, particularly around the type of service that they like to receive. But sometimes it comes down even to their culinary tastes. It turns out that ground pepper can be a very divisive issue in some circles.”
That’s just one of the reasons why she’s brilliant in the restaurant world. It’s as though she knows what people need before they have to ask.
“Ground pepper?” Simone says, like she just ate a lemon.
Natalie folds her hands in front of her and bites her lip. I should say something about how integral she is at the Bouchon Noir, how she almost single handedly had us recommended in Vin Annuel. I’m searching for the right words as Natalie straightens her spine and smiles weakly. She clears her throat and smooths her hair.
“Simone, what’s the square root of one hundred and sixty-nine?”
“Thirteen.” Simone looks at me sideways like Grandmama has lost her senses.
“Natalie,” Grandmama snaps to look at her, “what is the secret to a perfect beef brisket?”
Even I’m lost. “Are you feeling well, Grandmama?”
Natalie doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Consistent flame and temperature in the barbeque over several hours.”
“Simone, what is the key to success?”
“Perseverance.”
“Natalie, same question.”
“Success? I don’t know. I try to live by the values my mom and dad raised me with. Does that count?” She glances at me, panicked.
“That will do.” Grandmama looks from Simone to Natalie and back to Simone. “Alright, leave me be. I already went for a walk this morning and I'm feeling rather tired.”
