“Take those to table eight.”
“Table eight?”
“To the right of the entrance. Table with the loud guy. Be nice to him, though—he’s a regular.”
“A regular,” Mia repeated, picking up the plates. “Got it.”
“Keep it to four at a time till you get the hang of it, please.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Mia replied, balancing the plates on her arms.
Her mission accomplished, she came back straightaway, ready for the next round.
Freed of waitressing duties, Daisy took control of her kitchen again. As soon as each meal was ready, the bell rang and Mia rushed over. When she wasn’t serving, she was clearing tables, picking up bills, and coming back for more instructions. Daisy watched her, amused.
Around eleven p.m., the restaurant started to empty.
“One euro and fifty cents. That’s the whopping tip your ‘regular’ left me.”
“I didn’t say he was generous.” Daisy smiled.
“Then he just sat there . . . like he was waiting for a ‘thank you’!”
“You did thank him, didn’t you?”
“You’ve got to be joking!”
“Maybe it’s your brand-new look. What in the world possessed you to do something so strange?”
“Are you saying you don’t like it? It’s quite handy for remaining incognito.”
“It just doesn’t look like . . . you. Give me some time to get used to it.”
“It must have been a long time since you watched any of my films. Believe me, I’ve looked worse.”
“Don’t hold it against me. I’m too busy with the restaurant to go to the movies. Do you mind serving these desserts? I want to close ASAP so we can get home and crash.”
Mia played her role to perfection until the end of the evening. Daisy was impressed: she would never have believed her friend capable of such a feat.
At midnight, the last customers left the restaurant. Daisy and her chef cleaned up the kitchen while Mia tidied the dining room.
When Daisy had finally locked up, they walked back to her apartment through the sloping streets of Montmartre.
“Is it really like that every night?” Mia asked.
“Six days a week. It’s exhausting, but I wouldn’t change a thing. The restaurant is like home to me, even if it’s hard to make ends meet.”
“Really? It was packed in there!”
“We had a good night tonight.”
“What do you do on Sundays?”
“Sleep.”
“And what about your love life?” Mia wondered again about the cigarettes left behind.
“Let’s see, love life . . . I must’ve misplaced that somewhere between the kitchen and the meat locker.”
