Page 33 of From Paris, with Butter
“I very much hope you enjoy the salad,” I told them, smiling wide. “I’ll return when you’ve finished to explain the next course.”
The rest of the meal was just the same: they were unimpressed by the food, they complained that their sodas didn’t have enough ice, they wanted to knowwhen it would stop raining.
I should know by now that some people are just intent on being miserable, but it still bothered me to have unsatisfied guests. I kept hoping that, if I just presented this new course, just fixed this new problem they had, then they’d become happy and have a good experience after all.
But that didn’t happen, and as I brought out the final course, the woman actually rolled her eyes, as though nothing could offend her more than the two cups of chocolate mousse I was now bearing toward them.
Despite their unhappiness, the couple had stayed for quite a while (and eaten every bite of their meal). It was late by the time they left, and I wasn’t expecting any new diners. But there was an elderly couple at the front. I heard them explaining to Luc that they’d had a terrible time getting a taxi and were late for their reservation, but was there any way they could still have dinner?
Luc beckoned me over. “Can you take the Iliescus?” he asked in a low voice. “They were going to be Colette’s, but I sent her home because all her other tables left.”
“Of course.” I smiled at the couple. “Welcome to Le Jules Verne.”
The restaurant was nearly empty by now, so I led them to one of our best tables, right next to the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was true that the rain obscured most of the view, but, at that moment, the Eiffel Tower lit up. The Iliescus were momentarily mesmerized by the twinkling, golden lights. I caught myself watching the light show, too. It was still captivating, even after all these years.
Paul, who’d been on his way out the door, hurriedly came back, shrugged out of his jacket, and put his suit coat back on. He patiently explained the wine list to them. When I brought out their first course, their faces lit up.
After explaining the dish, I chatted with them for a few minutes. They were Elena and Vasile Iliescu, they told me, in accented but fluid English, on holiday from Bucharest. It was their first time in Paris. From the way they spoke, I sensed it would likely be the only time, and that this was a trip they’d dreamed of for years, maybe decades, planning out every detail. And after it was over, they’d reminisce about it for the rest of their lives.
They were dressed beautifully, in the way their generation always did. Thedress code at Le Jules Verne was only smart casual, basically no t-shirts, shorts, or sneakers, and we had a difficult enough time enforcing that. But Monsieur Iliescu was wearing a dark gray suit, and his wife was resplendent in a red and black dress, her makeup carefully done, and a sparkling brooch holding back her hair.
I wanted every person who eats at Le Jules Verne to leave happy, but for people like this—for whom the meal meant so much—I get a sort of desperation to have the experience surpass even what they’d imagined.
Fortunately, the Iliescus were delighted with everything. Madame Iliescu admitted she didn’t eat seafood much, but when she tasted the crab salad, she chewed for a moment, then her eyes went big.
“Oh! That’s good salad!” she declared, and my heart leapt.
I talked to them more between courses, asking them about Bucharest and telling them about a trip to Transylvania I’d taken with a college friend years ago.
They told me about their grandchildren and the rural village they’d grown up in. This was only the first night of their stay in Paris, and Monsieur Iliescu pulled out a creased piece of paper with their itinerary carefully written out to see if it met my approval. I gave a few suggestions here and there, but, on the whole, I told them they’d planned a wonderful trip for themselves.
When they finished their meal, they asked me to take a photo of them, then a photo of the three of us, which Yasmine stepped in to take. Afterwards, Madame Iliescu took my hands between hers.
“Thank you for this evening,” she said fervently, as though I’d done much more than just be a decent server for a single meal. As I watched them leave, all the annoyances from earlier in the day faded away.
“Every now and then it’s worth it, isn’t it?” Yasmine mused beside me. I could only nod.
After work, I walked home leisurely. It had stopped raining, and all of Paris smelled clean and verdant.
When I got to my floor, I turned down the hallway and saw the outline of a small package next to my door. I was grinning before I even picked it up. I smelled through the wrapping that it was another quiche, this one with tarragon in it, and maybe goat cheese? There was a note as well.
Attempt 2. Eagerly awaiting all your thoughts -L
I ate the quiche before bed and didn’t stop smiling until I fell asleep.
Chapter 14
La Forêt was located in the 3rdarrondissement, on the tiny Rue des Barres, which had existed in Paris since medieval times and was still brimming with gargoyles and gothic roofs and uneven cobblestones.
I arrived early, but Laurent was already there. Through the restaurant’s large windows, I saw him standing just inside. He was peering intently out a window, but in the wrong direction. This meant I was able to observe him without him noticing as I walked up to the restaurant.
He was standing a little stiffly, his briefcase resting against his feet. He was still dressed for work, but he’d taken his suit jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. There was a little gel in his hair, as though he’d attempted to tame his curls, but whatever it was, it hadn’t been enough. They flopped over his forehead like they always did. In one hand was a neatly folded newspaper.
As I got closer, I saw it was turned to the crossword puzzle. I couldn’t make out his answers, but I imagined they were neatly written, and in ink, too. He was turned just away, so I only saw his profile, but that was enough for me to observe a single green and golden eye. A little thrill ran down my spine when I realized it wasmehe was looking for so intently.
I was nearly at the entrance when Laurent saw me. He broke into a lopsided grin and hurried to open the door. Again, we kissed on the cheek, and again I felt heat pulse through me when his cheek pressed mine. I was half-tempted to grab his face and kiss him right there.
Save it for dessert, I told myself as I followed our server to our table.
