Page 7 of From Paris, with Butter
Ah. Cooking for his partner. This was Paris, after all. If a person stayed uplate, it generally wasn’t to work on their taxes. I pictured a generically attractive couple curled together on a couch as they waited for their meal to finish simmering.
I sighed heavily, sending little ripples racing across my tea.
When the timer went off, I pulled the baguettes out of the oven and smiled for a moment as I appraised their golden crusts. I set them on a cooling rack, where they’d remain until one became my breakfast tomorrow.
Tired now, I decided to run a bath. I poured in a generous amount of lavender bath salts then slipped into the scented water.
Leaning back, I again went through all the nice things that had happened today. Every time the image of the man and his sister wormed its way into my head, I flicked it away.
I soaked in the bath until the water grew cold.
Chapter 4
The rain was coming down in sheets by the time I got to work the next afternoon.
Rain always put diners in a bad mood. They got cold, their nice clothes got wet, their hair turned flat or frizzy, and they complained about not being able to see the view of Paris they’d been promised.
The staff at Le Jules Verne was used to providing perfection, but even we couldn’t control the weather. (Although, after one endless month of rainy days and damp, sullen diners, Luc had attempted an anti-rain dance in each of the three dining rooms. It hadn’t worked—and it’d taken days for the smell of burnt sage to dissipate—but no one could say we weren’t devoted to our guests.)
I and the other servers darted around, taking dripping umbrellas and damp coats, making sure the bathrooms were kept stocked with a pile of fluffy towels, and cheerily assuring guests that the city’s lights sparkled even more beautifully in the rain. We were well-practiced at lifting spirits, and most of the guests, once enveloped in the restaurant’s serene opulence, shook off their disappointment.
“Paris in the rain, what could be more romantic?” they said to each other, smiling as though it was a secret they’d been let in on.
There were always hold outs, though, people who arrived at the restaurant mad or seemingly hoping to get mad. There was a couple like that this evening. I had known they’d be difficult from the moment they’d walked in. It was something in the way they held themselves, as though readying for a fight. They were gorgeously attired, and, despite appreciating elegant fashion when the wearers weren’t making my job a misery, I’d silently dubbed the couple the Peacocks.
The Peacocks were at one of Yasmine’s tables, and her smile hadn’t even slipped when they’d dumped their sopping umbrellas in her arms. From thecorner of my eye, I watched as my friend passed back and forth from their table to the kitchens, looking a little more harried each time she went by.
I was grateful for my own guests, who were happy and obliging, listening raptly as I explained how the different parts of each course played against each other and where our ingredients were sourced from.
One of my tables was an older couple from Edinburgh who’d come to Le Jules Verne years ago while honeymooning in Paris. Each time I checked on them, we traded stories of what Paris had been like back then, how the restaurant scene had changed, and, yes, it was magical when anyone could just walk under the Eiffel Tower, wasn’t it?
“Is this the right time to visit Giverny?” the woman asked. “I’ve been wanting to go for years.”
“It’s the perfect time,” I assured her. “The water lilies are blooming and—”
Raised voices abruptly cut me off. Immediately, every staffer at Le Jules Verne turned toward the source of the outburst.
It was like a tableau at the Louvre. Madame Peacock was sitting with her arms crossed, glowering at Yasmine. Monsieur Peacock had half-risen out of his seat, one hand gripping his chair, the other pointing at my friend. As for Yasmine herself, her face held a mixture of indignation and apprehension.
I gave my table a reassuring smile, then made my way to Yasmine as quickly as possible without looking hurried. The voices picked up again.
“We pay all this money, and you’re telling me my wife has to take whatever is on her plate and be happy about it?” Monsieur Peacock shouted, his words slurred. “I can go to McDonald’s and tell them to take the pickles off my burger, but I can’t do the same here?”
He rose fully from his chair and swayed on his feet. “Overblown tourist trap,” he sneered, gripping his chair with both hands now. “And the tower’s swaying, too.”
Plastering a smile on, I stepped firmly in front of Monsieur Peacock.
“Good evening, Monsieur. How may I help you?”
Monsieur Peacock appeared momentarily confused by the appearance of a second server. His head swiveled between me and Yasmine. Madame Peacock, however, beamed at me.
“My dear,” she said, not breaking her smile. “There’s been a silly little misunderstanding. I didn’t like the sound of the next course; scallops don’t agree with me. I remember last time we were here—we’ve been here several times—we had the most delightful lobster ravioli. It was on the menu last time; I’m sure the chef still knows how to make it, butthatwoman—” she shot an ugly look at Yasmine, “She said we couldn’t make substitutions, even though this meal is costing us a pretty penny.”
Internally, I heaved a sigh. I remembered the ravioli; it had debuted a little more than two years ago (although it had been made with langoustine, not lobster).
I smiled at both the Peacocks. “I’m so sorry,” I began, and I watched their faces contract into frowns. “We ask for dietary restrictions when making a reservation, but it’s not possible for us to make an entire course substitution the day of. I loved that ravioli, too,” I said, turning to Madame Peacock, “But I’m afraid we don’t have the ingredients here to make it today.”
“Ridiculous,” Monsieur Peacock fumed. He was standing right beside me, and I smelled the wine on his breath as he glared at Yasmine. “This place is going to the dogs. The food is bad enough, but now the staff isn’t even from France?”
