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Raised voices echo across the restaurant, and all thoughts of overflowing sewage flee my mind. I recognize a Midwestern accent, unmistakable when nestled among the French, German, Middle Eastern, and North African clientele we serve here. I’d put my money on southern Ohio.
One of the waiters tries to escort the guest out. The American stands and protests the waiter’s attempts to remove him. I know where this is going, and any time a waiter proposes that a client should leave, it doesn’t end well. While I can only see the client from behind, his wide shoulders and baseball hat are a heck of a signature. No one else would dare wear a baseball hat inside a restaurant like this, except… except… wait, I know that voice.
“Sir,” the waiter continues, “you really must leave. Your demand is an abomination.”
Yikes, it’s worse than I thought.
“An abomination?” He clutches his chest, and I wonder if there’s a defibrillator somewhere here. “All I did was asked for some ketchup to go on this tasteless pasta with mushrooms.”
“They are not simply mushrooms. They are truffles.”
“They are tasteless!”
Their argument is catching the attention of many other guests at the restaurant. Heads turn and lean to listen in. I must intervene. This is it, my time to shine.
“Excuse me,” I say with a big smile. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but I wonder if I might be able to help.”
The man with the baseball hat turns around to face me. And I know exactly who it is.
Manny Trinken, the culinary critic who takes over national radio every Sunday in America. I knew it. The baseball hat should have been the giveaway.
This business about ketchup on pasta is a ruse. I’m onto you, Manny Trinken.
“I'm so sorry for the misunderstanding,” I say with a big apologetic smile. “Please, sir, have a seat. Let me take my colleague aside, and I will explain the situation to him.”
“Now that's more like it,” Manny says, giving me a wink. “Customer service, finally.”
“Won't you come with me, Jean-Claude?” I pull the waiter by his sleeve into the back kitchen.
“How dare you entertain the whims of that heathen!” Jean-Claude shouts in the kitchen— the most English he’s ever said to me—catching the attention of all our workmates.
I cross my arms and narrow my eyes at him. “Jean-Claude, I was hired because of moments like this. You don't know who that man is, and I do. You just about destroyed our restaurant’s reputation across all of American radio. Come this Sunday from one to one-thirty in the afternoon, every single state would have heard about the fiasco that you caused at Le Bouchon Noir. That's what almost happened. Can’t you see? It was a test.”
Gasps erupt across the staff.
I gesture for everyone to calm down. “What you need to do now is bring that man some ketchup and apologize. You'll see that he's not going to put that ketchup anywhere near the pasta.”
I’ve stunned the staff into silence, and I can't help feeling satisfied.
Thank Heavens the rest of the lunch goes along smoothly, and even our apartment’s landlord texted to say he’d come over “immédiatement.”
“Everyone, gather up. Tout le monde, ici,” Camille calls out after the last lunchtime diner has departed. “Your closing procedures can wait. We need to talk.”
This is unusual. Talking is not something Camille likes to do—she's more of a screamy type. I’m working on it.
We drag our feet, gathering around in the front entry of the restaurant. My stomach is tense. A staff meeting isn’t that weird, except that this is only the second one since I was hired. The first one was all about me and how everyone should listen to me and the advice I had to give.
Yeah, that wasn't awkward at all.
“You need to know,” she begins, and I wring my hands, “that tomorrow the heir to the entire restaurant chain will be in town. There is no doubt that Olivier Dubois will be spending much of his time here. Tomorrow everyone must be on best behavior and looking sharp. No one is to be a minute late. Entendu?”
We nod our agreement, and everyone slips out quietly. The threat of the big boss looms over us like a guillotine. Everyone's heard of the Dubois family since they are the culinary equivalent of a household name. You can’t get rich and famous in this business by being warm and cuddly, but could it be as bad as all that?
“Natalie,” Camille shouts before I can sneak off. “Tomorrow will matter very much for you.”
That doesn’t sound good. “How so?”
“Olivier has been wanting to meet you since you were hired. He made a special point of saying it, so be sure to be in your game tomorrow.”
