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“You said you had no allergies,” she says.

“But what about the others? My favorite and worst meal?”

Bea’s smile is smug. “I’ve been able to observe you long enough that I think I can do without the answers.”

A moment later, she slips out, but that doesn’t keep us from talking about her.

“Not gonna lie,” Mr. Jimenez says. “When you said we were doing our board meeting over lunch, and then you named the place we’d sent you for that failed setup, I thought maybe you had lost your mind. But this food.” He shakes his head. “And having someone choose for you. . .it’s brilliant.”

“I’ll withhold judgment until I see whether she brings me that ghastly burger,” Mr. Dressel says.

“That’s what she brought me,” I say, “and it was amazing.”

But the next twenty minutes are quickly consumed with their ideas for launching a women’s line. By the time I shoot down the third one, I can tell they’re annoyed.

“Who has heard of the brand Express?” I ask.

Most of the board members scrunch their noses. At least they know what I’m talking about.

“That’s not a high fashion company,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “They’re nothing like us.”

I shake my head. “They were a designer label at one point,” I say. “Perhaps not couture, but designer at least.Back in 2001, they took the first misstep on their journey toward being delisted from the stock market because their stock price fell below a dollar.”

It’s a horror story in fashion.

“Do you know what that step was?” I glance around the room.

They shrug. They share meaningful glances with each other. They look down at their empty plates. A few drain their glasses. None of them look my way.

But finally, Mr. Jimenez says, “Just tell us.”

“They had two arms at first. Express was for women. They poured millions upon millions into creating that brand. It sold extremely well. However, their men’s line, Structure, always lagged. Some said it was a misallocation of advertising dollars. Some said the designers they used weren’t as in touch as those who did the women’s side.” I did a whole project in school on the rise and fall of Structure and Express. “The CEO in 2000 was tasked to bring the men’s line up to par with the women’s. Instead of redesigning or refreshing, he decided to take what worked—the Express name—and transition the entire men’s line to become ‘Express for Men.’” I can’t help my cringe. “It was an unmitigated disaster. All the dollars they’d poured into making Express a recognizable name for women made it anathema for men. That, coupled with a few years of safe but disastrously boring clothing, built out the coffin. A lot of people blame the leadership in the past five years, but it was already in a steep nosedive that very few could have pulled out of.”

“What’s the point?” Mr. Dressel’s never patient. Not ever.

“I understand your insistence that we launch a women’s brand, but doing it the wrong way would be farworse than having no women’s products at all.” I look around, meeting each person’s eye.

As if on cue, the doors open behind me, the various aromas of our food slamming me in the face. Beatrice has excellent timing, unsurprisingly. I told her I wanted longer than usual in between each visit so we could conduct our meeting, and she nailed it. It makes me wonder whether she was waiting outside the door listening in.

“As the best latency spotter in the market right now, we really need your insight into women’s couture so we can figure out what to target,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “But you went on one date and have refused any more.”

“That’s because,” I say, “I’ve already identified a girl I’d like to date. I need a little time to win her over.” I glance behind me.

Bea freezes for a beat, and then she sets a plate in front of me. “Lobster risotto,” she whispers. “I had chef swap out the snow peas for asparagus.”

“Your chef—David Burke, right?—is brilliant,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “That looks amazing.”

“David designed this menu,” Bea says, “but one of his up-and-coming sous chefs has been handling lunch. Her name is Julietta, and she’s like a savant with vegetables. She smells them for twenty minutes each morning, tossing the ones that don’t pass muster into a big bin.”

Mr. Dressel frowns.

“But for you, sir.” She walks toward Mr. Dressel, taking him his food right after mine. She’s already figured out the pecking order. She places his plate in front of him and steps back. “Native lobster and Crab Imperial.” She tilts her head. “Hasn’t been on the menu since last fall, but a fresh catch of beautiful lobsterscame in this morning, and I thought you’d appreciate them.”

She doesn’t wait for Mr. Dressel to take a bite. She’s already off, serving Mrs. Yaltzinger her seared ginger salmon, and then Mr. Jimenez his bison short ribs.

A few moments later, and no one’s grilling me about the women’s line. They’re all oohing and aahing about the food—and Bea’s taste. “How do you do it?” Mr. Dressel finally asks, and then helickshis finger off. Clearly she really bowled him over with the lobster and crab thing.

“You want my secret?” She arches one eyebrow. “This is my job, sir, and you want me to give away my secrets?”

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