Page 44 of From Paris, with Butter
“I need to get to the restaurant and begin cooking, and your apartment is the only one on my way, so I’m giving this task to you. Before your shift, I need you to find tetilla cheese. It must be from Galicia. I’m told Señor Costa has a habit of voicing his thoughts on social media when places don’t meet his standards.”
I started to roll my eyes, then stopped because it would be unprofessional, then remembered my boss was chain smoking on my doorstep while complaining about a political VIP and an eye roll probably wouldn’t do any harm. So I eye rolled.
This was one of the most stressful aspects of working in the service industry: you could do everything perfectly for a thousand diners, but if the 1001stdidn’t like something, even if what they wanted was objectively unreasonable or even impossible, they could thrash you all over the internet and ruin your reputation.
I’d known restaurants that had shuttered over a single disgruntled guest. Le Jules Verne was too established for that, but if the Prime Minister’s boyfriend voiced his displeasure publicly, it could certainly take time for us to recover from the effects.
“I’ll do it,” I said firmly. “I promise.” Chef La Croix appraised me for a moment, then nodded.
“We beat them in the war, you know,” he said, taking a long drag on his cigarette.
“That would be the, uh, Franco-Spanish War? From the 1600s?”
Chef La Croix began walking away. “And don’t let them forget it.”
***
Thus commenced the most frantic afternoon of my life.
My first step was my local fromagerie, which I’d shopped at for years. I didn’t remember them selling tetilla, but I hoped I’d only overlooked it. It would be just the break I needed, to simply go down the block, purchase the cheese Le Jules Verne desperately needed, then walk into work like a hero.
But the owner shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Delcour, but we don’t sell tetilla. Would you be interested in something similar?”
I explained the situation, and he pulled out his contact list of other fromageries in the city. While I waited, simultaneously grateful and anxious, he called a handful of the closest, but none of them sold tetilla. One of them suggested a shop that was known for selling Spanish goods, but when I tried calling them, they didn’t pick up.
“It’s not too far,” I said looking at the location on my phone. “I’ll take the métro there. Thank you!” I called as I ran out the door.
Two stops on the métro later, I found myself in a new shop, again with the owner shaking his head. “We only get occasional shipments of tetilla, and we’ve been out for weeks. But I may have another place for you.”
This shop was across the city, so I ran back down the steps to the métro, squeezed myself into a hot, crowded train, and tried not to look at the time too often. That journey ended in defeat as well, as did the next one, and the one after that.
“Why would I sell Spanish cheese here?” one owner asked, and that seemed to be the general sentiment.
I was starting to get as wrathful as Chef La Croix. Who goes to France and demands they be served a food you could eat every day in Spain?
By now I was out of breath, overheated, and had to get ready for work very soon. Standing outside the most recent shop, I scrolled through my phone. Maybe I should try a supermarket? Some of them had a pretty decent cheese selection. There was one sort of on my way home.
One final, sweaty métro ride later, I found myself standing in the cheese section of a grocery store, pawing at each bundle to see if it was tetilla. I searched through the entire selection twice, then found a worker and asked him.
“We don’t have that here,” he said, shaking his head. He turned away to continue his restocking. I was left alone in the aisle, having an internal meltdown as shoppers parted around me.
I’d promised Chef La Croix I would do this, and I’d failed. We weren’t going to have the cheese, and the Prime Minister’s boyfriend would throw a fit.
I pictured Chef La Croix, perfecting each course of a meal that’d be forgotten as soon as this one shortcoming came to light. Maybe they’d cut the staff, then Yasmine wouldn’t be able to save up enough to move to Switzerland, Colette would have to drop out of her costume design course, Paul’s wife would have to go back to work and leave their twins…
I looked at my watch. I had to get back home now and shower; I was already cutting it close. There wasn’t time for anything else.
Unless…
No. We’d barely started dating and, besides, his work was keeping him shackled to his desk. Even if he wanted to help me, he wouldn’t be able to. It was the middle of the work day. There was absolutely no way I was going to bother him.
I pictured my coworkers’ crushed expressions again.
Ughhhh.
I pulled out my phone and dialed a number, half-hoping he wouldn’t pick up.
“Margot?” Laurent sounded startled. Which, of course he was.
