Page 4 of From Paris, with Butter
“Monsieur?” I’d seen some foreigners blanch at the idea of eating raw beef, but this couple appeared thoroughly French. They’d probably eaten steak tartare before their first teeth had come in.
“We’re not eating that,” the man said. His partner was looking down at her clasped hands, but I could see that she was blushing even harder now.
The man glared, those golden eyes burning into me. “Why is this so difficult for you?”
I blinked. No one, not even sour old men who walked in with baseball capsand cargo shorts took this much offense to steak tartare.
“I’m sorry, Monsieur. Perhaps you could go over again what you’re hoping to avoid—”
“You know, you’re really a terrible server.”
My smile, which I had kept so carefully affixed throughout the whole interaction, slid off my face.
Who was this man? He sits there in his stuffy suit and messy hair, deriding every dish I bring out, as though Le Jules Verne doesn’t post its menu online for diners to read before they decide to visit.
Who was he to decide what kind of server I was? For the last five years, the only thing that had really mattered to me was doing this job well.
Did he know how many hours I spent studying the ever-changing menu so that I could answer any question I was asked? Did he know this job was at the forefront of my thoughts, every day, from morning until night? Did he know how many calls I’d taken from nervous guests, wanting their proposal or birthday or anniversary to go perfectly, and how I’d listened to every detail and then done everything in my power to make their wishes come true? Did he know how many weddings I’d been invited to by guests grateful for the help I’d given with their engagements? Did he know that, this very evening, I’d called in a favor to get two of my diners’ tickets for Giverny when the website said they were booked solid?
Of course he didn’t. He didn’t like the steak tartare, and that was enough for him to turn his nose up at my entire career.
“Monsieur, this doesn’t seem to be the place for you,” I said, my voice polite but steely. “Why don’t I pack up the rest of your meal—the courses that you want—and then we can all enjoy the rest of our evening in peace?”
As soon as the words left my lips, I regretted them. I hadn’t raised my voice or even said anything especially rude, but to essentially tell a guest to leave went against everything I believed as a server. My job was to help people have one of the great dining experiences of their lives. I wanted every diner at Le Jules Verne to leave several orders of magnitude happier than they had been when they’d walked in. Despite the man’s irrational and never-ending demands, I hadn’t done that here. And I hated him for making me feel like a failure.
The man’s feelings seemed to match mine. “Are you throwing us out?” heasked, his voice as quiet and hard as my own.
At the moment, my deepest wish was for this man to leave and never haunt Le Jules Verne’s dining rooms again, but I blanched at actually saying so outright. “Of course not,” I said smoothly. “It’s your choice to stay or leave. I only suggested it because the meal doesn’t seem to be what you expected.”
There was movement behind me, and I quickly looked around at the other tables. None of the diners seemed to realize anything was amiss, although Leïla was looking at me anxiously. But the man gave a sharp intake of breath, and my attention jolted back to him.
“Not what I expected?”he repeated.
“Margot.” Luc was behind me, whispering in my ear, but I ignored him.
The man leaned forward, across the table. “I called ahead, informed the woman I spoke with that my sister had a compromised immune system because of cancer treatment, and I was assured the menu would be modified for us. Then I arrive here, and I get saddled with a server who doesn’t know the first thing—"
His partner—sister—was dragging on his sleeve now, trying to get him to quiet down. Behind me, Luc was mirroring her.
“Margot, I forgot. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice strained. “The Roches, they requested modifications to the menu. Their dishes are waiting in the kitchen.”
Luc was still speaking, but his voice was dimmed, as though it was coming from very far away. I couldn’t even tell him to speak louder. All I could do was stand still as a wave of humiliation washed over me.
This man had a sick sister and had decided to treat her to a nice meal. He’d done the right thing by calling in advance and asking for menu modifications, then we’d dropped the ball and—even worse—I’d tried to force them out. I’d taken what was meant to be a positive, perhaps healing, experience and made it terrible.
In my entire career, I’d never felt so embarrassed.
“Monsieur, Mademoiselle, please accept my deepest apologies,” I began, my voice faint from the blood pounding in my ears. “There was a miscommunication with your request. You should have received modified courses, and it’s beneath Le Jules Verne’s standards that you did not. We’re bringing out your first correctedcourses now—” I glanced at Luc who took off nearly at a sprint. “Your meal will, of course, be on the house.
“Now,” I said, struggling mightily to resume my cheery demeanor, “Is there anything I can get you? Anything at all?”
Chapter 3
The man continued glowering, but his sister, looking paler than ever, smiled. “We’re fine. Thank you for your help.”
The rest of the meal crawled along. I brought out the (correct) courses, smiled so hard that tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and did everything I could to try to right this meal. But it was already ruined, and the three of us were simply going through the motions miserably. My shame was almost overwhelming.
The woman seemed especially embarrassed, even though she had no reason to be. She picked at her food and seemed close to tears.
