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My phone vibrates with a call. Just the sight of Father’s name on the screen is enough to make my hands shake. I know what’s coming.
But it’s time.
“Alors?” Father opens on video. “This big idea you alluded to in your text?”
I steady myself. If I walk, I’ll lose my nerve. I have to anchor myself in the ground and remember why this matters.
“It begins with a new menu, and it ends with a launch on top of the world’s most famous landmark.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” He shakes his heads. “Exactly what kind of a new menu?”
“Father,” deep breath. Imagine it’s not him, but just another stakeholder I’m informing, “we are adapting the ingredients to stay current with the new wave of Michelin restaurants.”
“New menu, new wave.” He brings the phone to his forehead as if having a headache. “I do not approve.”
Electricity runs through my veins and before I have a chance to know what’s happening to me, the words emerge. “I don’t need your approval, Father. This is the direction we’re going. I am responsible for the direction of the Bouchon Noir, and this is what we’re doing.”
“It’s Sebastien, isn’t it? He’s finally gotten to you.”
“No, I finally listened to reason. And Sebastien was right.”
“Olivier—”
“No, Father. This is what’s happening. I can share more with you later, but right now I have a lot to do before the new menu launches. And this is not up for discussion. The responsibility of managing the Bouchon Noir was given to me, and now you need to let me do my job.”
“Olivier!”
“Goodbye, Father.”
A laugh of relief, bubbles up for somewhere deep inside me. It explodes like fireworks, enough to make the old woman strolling next to me jump.
“Excusez-moi,” I reach out to steady her.
She pats my hand on her arm. “C’est bon d’entendre autant de joie.” She smiles and carries on. Even strangers can feel sense of joy running through me. It’s like when I was eight years old and successfully baked my first loaf of bread for my mother. It was lopsided and slightly undercooked in the middle, but she swung me in the air with pride, announcing: “My boy can do anything when he decided to do it.”
That’s the memory I take with me now, forcing Father’s frustration aside.
As the restaurant comes into view, a strange feeling weaves its way into the bottom of my stomach. It’s like in horror movies, when the music gives every sign that something terrible is about to happen. Everything on the surface is fine, but there is an energy steaming off of the Bouchon Noir that I don't recognize, and I don't like it.
It doesn't take long for me to see what it is. Through the front windows, Simone is pointing her fingers and commanding the staff in all different directions.
Deep breath.
Simone has become more and more erratic. What she thought was going to happen years ago—this expected union—hasn’t materialized. Maybe she’s beginning to sense it never will.
I shut the front door loudly behind me. I want her to hear me coming. Simone may have an air of authority, but this ismyrestaurant.
"Simone," I call out, strutting over to her. The staff freeze.
The air intensifies as Simone straightens her spine and sets her hands on her hips."At last, Olivier. I have been waiting for you, and in the meantime I have tried to clean up the mess around here. Since you've been away at the country house, quality has slipped in the Bouchon Noir."
"How so?" I ask through clenched teeth. “It's important for me to know so thatIcan make the necessary changes.”
"This is the gratitude I get for volunteering my time to make sure that the family legacy doesn't seep into the sewers of Paris? I'll have you know that the condition of the kitchen was far less than spotless. I haven't seen Christophe all day."
"That's because I have set Christophe on a special project."
"You and your special projects.” She throws her hands in the air. She’s putting on a show for the staff. “Wasn't Natalie one of your special projects? And she's not even here. Too irresponsible to show up for work?"
