Page 87 of The Seven Year Slip

The hostess quickly took her to be seated at the best table in the restaurant, and she smiled as she sat down, and marveled at the décor. I excused myself from the table to go say hello.

“Oh, Clementine!” she cried, clasping her hands together. She was dressed in a sage-colored pantsuit, pearls in her ears. “It’s so unexpected to see you here. Lovely, isn’t this justlovely?”

“It is,” I replied in greeting. “How are you?”

“Good! Good. I thought this was a soft opening, what brings you here to Iwan’s—excuse me,James’s”—she said conspiratorially—“restaurant? He hates it when I call him Iwan in public. Something about his image. A bit silly, but he’ll figure it out.”

I wasn’t so sure, seeing this restaurant. “I actually work for one of the publishers he’s thinking about signing with.” I motioned back to my table. “I just wanted to come over and say hello.”

“Oh, what a treat! He’d be wrong not to choose you—Oh, there’s Lily and her husband,” she added, looking behind me, and I barely had time to look before a petite woman in a flowery dress, her auburn hair long and wild, came up to the table. It startled me how much she looked like Iwan, from her light-colored eyes to the freckles across her cheeks. She gave me a hesitant smile, as did her husband, and I quickly realized I was blocking the chair she was to sit in, and stepped out of the way. “Lily,” Vera said, motioning to me, “this is Clementine. Do you remember my stories about Analea? This is her niece.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Lily said pleasantly, as her husband sat down beside her. “Wasn’t Analea who Iwan stayed with that summer?”

“In her apartment, yes,” Vera confirmed. “I heard she was going abroad, so I phoned her up and asked if my son could stay there for the summer. He got a job at his grandfather’s favorite restaurant, and seven years later, look where we are! All because Analea lethim stay there for free.”ThatI didn’t know. Vera laughed, shaking her head. “Isn’t it strange how the world works sometimes? It’s never a matter of time, but a matter of timing.”

It was, wasn’t it.

“I just sort of wish he had more comfortable chairs,” Lily said with a laugh. “Grandpa would’vehatedthese.”

“I’m sure he would’ve appreciated the thought,” Vera replied amicably. “Clementine, would you like to join us? We have an extra chair.”

“Oh, no, I should get back to my table, but it was really great to see all of you—and to meet you, Lily. Have a good night,” I said in goodbye, and started back for my table.

The kitchen in the back was hidden behind frosted glass that shifted, a little, like an opal, depending on the light. Behind it, shadows went back and forth. I set my mouth into a thin line, looking at the perfect white marbled tables and the clean lines, and the dishes that came out to waiting tables, circles of white with small bite-sized pops of color on them. At the tables sat influencers and celebrities, people I knew of tangentially in the culinary world from researching James. Tastemakers. Critics. People heshouldbe seen with. People he wanted to impress.

I returned to my table, but there was someone already in my seat. A man in a pristine chef’s uniform, broad shoulders and crisp hair, a whisk hidden behind the curls around his left ear.

James looked up at me as I approached, and gave me a perfect smile. “Ah, hello there. I was just here to welcome everyone to hyacinth.”

Juliette said, “It’s so bright, I should’ve brought sunglasses.”

“You’re going to give copy editors a heart attack with that name not capitalized,” I added.

“Maybe I’ll start a new trend, Clementine,” he said evenly withthat perfect white smile of his. He stood and pulled out the chair for me. I sat, a hard lump forming in my throat. “It was a pleasure seeing all of you again—and meeting you, Juliette. Please enjoy your meal, and I hope it’s memorable—perhaps even perfect.”

Then he left for the next table, and my friends began to talk about the dishes on the menu—almost all of them were iterations of recipes in his proposal but heightened to fit this elevated space.

Around me, the gossip from other tables talked about how he’d earned a Michelin star for the Olive Branch, how he won the James Beard Emerging Chef award. They talked about his presentation, his dishes, his attention to detail, how he was hungry—always hungry—for more. How that made him a rising talent.

How people were excited—starved—for more.

As much as my heart ached, it was hardnotto be proud of him.

Even though his closest friends, Isa and Miguel, were nowhere to be found.

Our server began to bring out our plates.

The first thing was a fish soup—black bass in flower blossoms. They were all bite-sized, though that was what atasting menuwas, a bunch of smaller plates, enough for a mouthful and an evocative conversation about the flavor of the caviar.

There was trout liver with fresh apples and fatty, caramelized butter.

Duck ragù.

Amaranth toast with smoked roe and tartar sauce.

A single cornbread hush puppy with a smoky yolk and nobs of pickled corn.

Pig’s-blood flatbread.

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