Page 20 of From Paris, with Butter
Yasmine rolled her eyes, but shehadpromised that I wasn’t beholden to anything more than attending this meeting.
“Just keep thinking about it,” she said. “I need to sit in on the decorating meetings with my mother now, but I’ll call you tonight. Remember, you still have time to change your mind!” she called as she hurried off.
I waved her off, then decided that, if I was going to feel bad, I might as well feel bad and be well fed.
I busied myself with taking a sample of every food that was being passed around. By the time I’d circled the room twice, making sure I hadn’t missed anything, my plate was piled high with kebabs, couscous, fruit, and pastries.
The meeting room was, thankfully, empty, so I sat down to enjoy my feast in peace.
At that moment, Monsieur Bad Times himself had to walk through the door. I gave him a curt nod and turned back to my food. I had three pieces of baklava on my plate, and no one, not even Laurent Roche, was going to ruin a single bite of it.
Except that, apparently, he would.
Although there were plenty of empty tables, he took the seat directly across from me. I didn’t even glance at him.
I bit into my baklava, trying to savor the crispy phyllo dough drenched inhoney, but the dark cloud of misery that was Monsieur Roche kept distracting me. His mere presence made me jumpy, and when I went to reach for my coffee, I accidentally knocked it over.
Of course, it spilled all over my neighbor.
He swore and stood up with a start, his suit jacket wet.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasped, pushing all my napkins toward him and running to get more. When I returned, Monsieur Roche was blotting his soaked jacket, looking more aggrieved than ever.
He turned those golden eyes on me. “Every time we meet—which is disturbingly often,” he began, taking the napkins I passed over, “I’m more and more surprised that Le Jules Verne employs you as a server. How many diners have you spilled drinks on?”
“This was an accident, and that’s none of your business,” I said, nearly snarling with embarrassment. How did this man always catch me at my worst?
I had all these sharp retorts ready, about how I knew his girlfriend had left him and his restaurant closed, but now I was, again, caught on my back foot. (And the answer was two. Two diners I’d spilled drinks on in five years, which wasn’t a bad record at all.)
I paused in wiping the table to see Monsieur Roche smirking. “You know, you’re more interesting when you’re annoyed,” he said. “I knew that sunshiny attitude you had at the restaurant was just an act.”
Now that was a bridge too far.
“I’ll have you know,” I said, speaking slowly to remain calm, “that I am a very happy person.Exceptionallyhappy. And I love my job. As long as the diners aren’t acting like asses.”
Whoops, that wasn’t very sunshiny.
Monsieur Roche grinned wider. “No, I can tell. You might be able to hide it most of the time, but you’re a grump like me. I bet you curse under your breath at slow walkers, too.”
I glanced up, startled, then immediately returned to cleaning the table. “You’re incorrect, Monsieur. I love slow walkers. I adore them. They allow me to slow down myself and appreciate the, uh, beauty of my surroundings.” I smiled radiantly, just for good measure.
Infuriatingly, Monsieur Roche shook his head. “Protest all you want, Mademoiselle Delcour. But I know a fellow grouch when I see one. I just hope you’re able to make it through the gala without wrecking someone’s meal.”
I was still sputtering for a response when the door opened and Fatima and her assistant sailed in.
“All ready to get back to work?” Fatima asked cheerfully.
“Absolutely!” I chirped, smiling my widest smile. Then I sat down and rage ate the rest of my baklava as the others filed in. Not once did I look at Laurent Roche.
By the time I was finished eating, I was fully resolved to see this gala through. I hadn’t felt this motivated to do something in years. Let Monsieur Roche smirk and make his snide comments. I’d show him just how competent I was. And I’d do it with a smile.
“Let’s start throwing out ideas for the menu,” Fatima said once we were all seated. “We want it to have a cohesive theme, nothing too restrictive, but we don’t want a series of disparate dishes, either.”
“The theme should be classic French dining,” a sous chef sitting to my left said. “Escargots, Crêpes Suzette. The kind of food our grandparents knew they’d be served when they attended a dinner party. I’m sure everyone here knows how to cook those recipes, and it’ll give immigrants an experience they wouldn’t have had before.”
As I inwardly blanched at the idea of making hundreds of Crêpes Suzette (so much alcohol, so many flames), a woman sitting on my other side shook her head.
“Isn’t that tone deaf? The gala is to raise money for this organization that supports immigrants from around the world, and we’re not serving a single dish they’d recognize?”
