Page 3 of From Paris, with Butter
“What’s the mercury content?”
I paused, momentarily stumped. I couldn’t remember the last time a guest had asked a question about a dish that I couldn’t answer. I’m not sure it had ever happened, actually.
The woman placed a hand on the man’s arm. “It’s fine.”
“No, I want to know.” He turned back to me, his gaze piercing. Now that he was in the light, I could see his eyes were nearly golden. “The mercury content?” he repeated.
“I’m…not sure, Monsieur.” Admitting defeat left a sour taste in my mouth. “Let me ask the kitchen. The sommelier will be right along.”
In the kitchens, one of the sous chefs and I squinted at a tin of caviar, but there was no indicator of mercury levels anywhere on it. At least that meant I hadn’t missed anything.
“What will you tell them?” the sous chef asked.
I was busy running internet searches on my phone. When I found the information I was looking for, I wrote it neatly on a piece of paper, including the source, and brought it over to the table.
“This is what I could find,” I said, back to feeling in control. “Lake Kardjali itself is free of mercury, so I’d expect the mercury levels in the caviar to benegligible.”
The man stared at the scrap of paper, a stray curl falling over his forehead as he bent his head low.
“Fine,” he said shortly, as though he’d lost some kind of bet. “We’ll accept a spoonful’s worth of caviar.”
“Of course, Monsieur.”
Keep looking happy,I reminded myself as I picked up his plate. Fortunately, half a decade as a server had taught me to look cheerful no matter how I felt.
If I could maintain a perfectly delighted expression when a diner brought a tuna and mustard sandwich into Le Jules Verne and then asked me to microwave it as though I was her personal assistant and this was not a restaurant that served its own food, this would be a piece of cake.
I caught a glimpse of my expression in the kitchen mirror.
Flawless.
Dismissive guests, who made it clear they saw me as little more than the vessel that brought them food, were something I was well used to. The same was true with whatever demands they came up with.
This man might think he was being special by specifying the number of tablespoons of caviar he was willing to eat, but he had no idea that, in the last month alone, I’d dealt with guests who’d variously requested: no food warmer or colder than lukewarm temperature, cheese that was pure to pale white only (a color wheel had been helpfully provided), and someone who had insisted that they could have any sort of artificially-flavored maple syrup but couldn’t touch a drop of the real stuff. All had been pleasantly accommodated. (The last request had been especially easy as Le Jules Verne’s head chef regarded maple syrup as “poison designed for babies and idiots” and refused to ever include it in his recipes.) This was child’s play.
When I explained the next course, the cold strawberry soup, the man asked curtly about pesticides. I was able to assure him the strawberries were entirely organic. I even pulled out the official certification I had put in my pocket in anticipation of this question. He glared at me as though I was presenting his death warrant.
That was the odd thing. For every course he had questions: how had thesalad greens been washed, was there dye in the cheese rind, what exact beekeeper did the honey we used come from? And every time I answered, he only appeared to get angrier.
“Is there a specific concern you have, Monsieur?” I finally asked, after the fifth such demand for information. “If so, I might be able to give you more guidance.”
“Just answer the questions I ask you,” he snapped. For the first time that evening, my smile dropped. His partner blushed, all her earlier confidence and composure gone.
With an effort, I smiled again, crinkling my eyes so it looked genuine. “Of course, Monsieur. I’m happy to answer any questions you may have.”
But the man wasn’t paying attention; he was now staring intently at my shoulder.
“You have something there,” he said, pointing a long finger.
I glanced at my shoulder. Stuck to my dress was a tiny, miniscule crumb.
“Yes, uh, thank you,” I said, flicking it away as I tried to hide my annoyance. How obnoxious, both that the man should point it out and that I should have a crumb on me in the first place. I prided myself on always appearing put together. Had the crumb been there all day?
Again, this man was knocking me off balance. The only thing for it was to keep the courses coming until they finished their meal and walked out of Le Jules Verne, hopefully to never return.
“Your next course,” I said a few minutes later, setting the plates before them. “Steak à latartare with cured egg yolk, truffle cream, and—”
“No.” The forcefulness of the man’s voice stopped me cold. “Take it back.”
