Page 46 of From Paris, with Butter
I looked around the clean, minimalistic lines of Le Jules Verne, all decorated in shades of pale green and ecru, and tried to soak in some of the soothing ambience.
It failed. Miserably.
Diners began arriving, and I made my way to the staff room, cooling my heels and checking my phone compulsively as I waited for the VIPs to show up. Still no update from Laurent. Hopefully this delay would buy him enough time to come through.
A full seventy minutes after their scheduled time, a security guard announced that the Abascals had arrived. I smoothed my clothes, then went to stand by the elevator doors. When they opened, the first to step out were two new security guards. Behind them was the couple.
They resembled each other: tall, thin, dark-haired. The Prime Minister was smiling widely and shaking hands all around; clearly, she was used to the political game. Her boyfriend, standing behind her, looked annoyed. I hoped it was just nerves before a proposal and not anything deeper.
I stepped forward to greet them. “Good evening, and welcome to Le Jules Verne. I’m Margot Delcour,” I said in Spanish.
“You have an accent,” Señor Costa said, as the Prime Minister warmly shook my hand.
“That’s very perceptive of you,” I said, careful to keep any note of sarcasm out of my voice. “I’m originally from Alsace. Allow me to show you to yourtable.”
As I led the couple and their trailing security team across the dining rooms, I took the time to shrug off my irritation. I knew I had an accent in Spanish, but I also knew that it was slight. Again, I wondered why Señor Costa had come here if all he really wanted was to eat Spanish food and be served by Spaniards.
He’s proposing tonight,I reminded myself.This has to be one of the best nights of his life. I’d fake a Spanish accent and dance a flamenco if that’s what he needed.
Like many people, Señor Costa had informed us he’d be proposing during the final course. I suppose people felt it added some element of surprise, but I always thought it only extended the anxiety. Why not propose right away and spend the rest of the evening exulting in the glow of being newly engaged?
But my job was to pull off the logistics, not offer feedback. That meant I really had to rustle up the cheese that would apparently play a starring role in the proposal.
“Here’s your table. It’s one of the best in the restaurant,” I said cheerfully, once we’d reached Le Comptoir.
“There’s no view of the city,” Señor Costa pouted. He sounded like a child.
“Ah, Le Comptoir’s view is of the inner mechanics of the Tower,” I said. “Look, you can see the pulleys and wheels working as the elevators go up and down. No one else in all of Paris has this view.”
Allowing Señor Costa to continue staring out the window, I pulled out a chair for the Prime Minister. The table had been carefully set with 100% linen napkins and covered by a 100% linen tablecloth. Paul came over just then to explain the wine options and make recommendations. They chose a Spanish wine, of course.
“Here is your first course,” I said several minutes later. “It’s a citrus and crab salad featuring—”
“There’s no fennel, correct?” the Prime Minister asked. “We saw it on the menu, but we don’t like the taste.”
“No fennel at all, Prime Minister,” I said with a smile.
Between the two of them and their special requests, I got enough steps in to meet my exercise goal for the entire week. He wanted a different type of pepper, she wanted her salad dressing on the side, he wanted the temperature turned up,she wanted the music turned down, they both wanted new napkins after every second course. I wondered how two such picky people could ever have found a partner they were content with.
But they had. These two difficult, fussy, demanding people had each found a person who had chosen them, who had picked them alone from among the billions of people on the planet.
And here I was, standing on the periphery, imagining what that could feel like.
No use moping about that now,I told myself as I hurried back to the kitchens to get a knife that was “less sharp” for Señor Costa. I wasn’t going to let any hint of my negative feelings show. Every question they asked, I knew the answer to. Every request they had was cheerfully carried out.
As I brought their empty plates from the fourth course back to the kitchens, I decided the evening was actually going pretty well.
Except for the damn cheese. I’d been running into the staff room to check my phone every chance I could, but there’d been just one text from Laurent:still trying.
Pushing down my panic, I brought out the fifth course. It was roast duck, beautifully glossy, with a raspberry reduction sauce and caramelized vegetables.
“My grandparents had a poultry farm,” Señor Costa mentioned, and I pressed him for details, doing anything I could to stretch out the time. There was just one more dish before the final course, when they expected to see tetilla.
But dinner had been going so well, maybe they wouldn’t care? I allowed myself to hope, but when I brought out the sixth course, a trio of profiteroles, Señor Costa frowned.
His frowning mademefrown. Who could have a problem with profiteroles? They were notoriously tricky to make, but these looked gorgeous. The pastry balls were crispy, the custard in the middle was creamy and perfectly set, and they were topped with a drizzle of chocolate ganache. I could have devoured the entire plate right there.
“I prefer not to eat chocolate,” Señor Costa said, looking disdainful again. “I thought that had been understood.”
