Page 45 of From Paris, with Butter
Chapter 17
“Margot?” Laurent said again, louder this time.
I hurriedly cleared my throat. “Hi, sorry, I don’t have a lot of time to explain, but can you do me a favor? I’m desperate.” My words flowed into each other I was speaking so quickly.
“Of course,” Laurent said immediately. My heart leapt at his lack of hesitation.
“I know you’re busy, and you have so many other more important things to do, but there’s this cheese…”
I explained the situation, trying to keep a note of hysteria from creeping into my voice. “Do you know anyone who might sell it?”
“I’ll try every contact I have.” Laurent sounded completely unfazed, as though being asked to procure a specialty cheese for a new girlfriend was a regular occurrence. My heart banged painfully in my chest, whether from stress or my feelings for Laurent, I wasn’t sure.
“Thank you, thank you so much. If you can, bring it to Le Jules Verne. We don’t need it until the final course, so you have a few hours,” I said breathlessly, trying to give Laurent all the information he needed as I hurried back to the métro. “And remember, it has to be from Galicia!”
I raced home, made myself presentable in record time, and arrived at work just in time to assess the situation before diners began arriving.
It wasn’t great. Security was crawling all over the restaurant, everyone looked on edge, and if the clangings and strings of expletives (in three languages) coming from the kitchens were any indication, Chef La Croix was not in a particularly cheery mood.
And I wasn’t going to make things any better.
I crept into the kitchen, hoping to catch one of the sous chefs and deliver my news quietly, or maybe I could just write a note? But as soon as I stepped through the doorway, knives paused and every head swiveled to look at me.
There was complete silence.
It was Chef La Croix who finally spoke. “Well?”
I wished he wasn’t holding a literal cleaver in his hands.
“I couldn’t get it,” I began, and everyone’s face turned to pure terror. “But I asked a friend!” I said hurriedly. “He knows a lot of people, and he’s going to do everything he can to get it. He’s a chef!” I added, as though that would make a difference.
Something very interesting was going on with Chef La Croix’s complexion. He was going redder and redder, and his face now looked distinctly fuchsia. I really did wish he’d put down that cleaver.
I was braced for an explosion of rage, but Chef La Croix only nodded, his head moving jerkily. “Alright. Let’s hope he comes through.”
Deadly silence followed. I took it as an excellent time to exit the kitchen.
I fled back to the dining rooms to find Leïla and Luc panting as they moved tables around at the direction of the security team.
“Leïla had to take over for me,” Yasmine said, coming to stand beside me. “I was ready to tell them to drag the tables themselves if it bothered them so much. All this trouble for two people.”
“There are some paparazzi outside!” Colette said excitedly, using perfectpointetechnique as she stood on her toes to look out the window.
Once every table had been moved to the precise centimeter of floor space specified by the security team, Yasmine, Colette, Leïla, Luc, Paul, and I stood in an anxious line, waiting for the first guests to arrive. The Prime Minister and her boyfriend were supposed to arrive early, to be seated before anyone else.
A member of the security team walked over. “I have just been informed the Prime Minister and Señor Costa are running late. At least thirty minutes.”
“Of course,” Yasmine growled. We all looked anxiously at one another.
“I guess…someone needs to let Chef La Croix know,” Luc said, looking like a man heading to the guillotine.
“La Croix?” The security member who’d just spokento us grinned. “Like the sparklin—”
“Por favor,I beg you,” Luc said, cutting across him. He clasped his hands together in supplication. “Nevermake that joke. It will cause the end times.”
The grin slowly slid from the man’s face. Luc turned to the kitchens. A minute later I heard a muffled oath, a loud clanging, then silence.
“I’m glad I’m not you,” Colette whispered to me. My sole job for the evening was to attend to Prime Minister Abascal and Señor Costa and ensure their evening was as close to perfection as possible. Which, of course, couldn’t happen unless Laurent found that damn cheese. I’d checked my phone just before heading onto the floor, but there was nothing from him. After being calm for weeks, this visit was finally making me nervous.
