Delphine nudges my arm with her elbow. “I amcoming by after my shift. I will stand outside and look supportive.”
“You are not getting in,” I say.
“I know,” she replies, unbothered. “I will still look supportive. And if there is anything left over, I won't be ashamed to take it.”
I laugh, and it feels easy in my chest. “Go sell your art, Delphine. I gotta go run my errands.”
She lifts her beignet in a salute. “Go make your wine people cry with joy.”
I pick up my coffee and shift the bag of beignets under my arm. As I turn toward the door, Delphine calls after me.
“Coco.”
I look back.
Her expression is calm now, serious under the sugar dust. “You're doing it,” she says. “The life you wanted.”
I hold her gaze and nod once. “I am.”
Outside, the city hums around me, and the morning has teeth and sweetness in equal measure. I walk toward the river, coffee in hand, and I let my mind move forward to tonight.
I getto the restaurant early, before the light outside shifts and before the kitchen heat settles into the walls.
The room is quiet in a way it never is once service starts. Tables are set but untouched. Glassware catches the overhead lights and throws them back clean and sharp.
I walk the floor once, methodically checking spacing and sightlines. I adjust a chair by a fraction of an inch and straighten a place card. I pause at the long central tableand imagine the bodies that will fill it later, the way voices will rise and overlap once the first pour loosens everyone up.
The cellar door is already open. Cold air drifts out. I step inside and run my fingers along the racks, stopping at the first bottle. I know the lineup by heart, but I check anyway.
Labels forward, vintages correct, and I verify the temperature is on point. This is the part that calms me, the quiet inventory of things that can be known.
The waitstaff filters in one by one, crisp tuxedos and eyes alert. They gather near the service station when I motion them over.
“Okay,” I say, and my voice carries without effort. “Tonight is paced, not rushed. I’ll introduce each wine before the course hits the table. You pour immediately after, and then the food should be served within two minutes. If anyone asks you a question you’re not sure about, you bring me in. Do not guess.”
A few nods. Pens come out, and someone asks about the second pairing. I answer without looking at my notes.
“The acidity cuts the fat. Let it do the work,” I say. “We’re not trying to impress them with volume, we're showing them why it belongs there.”
They listen attentively, eager to understand the importance of every single thing we curated, right down to the spices. I can see it in the way they stand a little straighter, the way they stop fidgeting once the plan is clear.
“I’ll circulate,” I add. “If I’m at a table, you wait until I step away before clearing. If a guest wants another pour before I move on, you check with me first.”
“Yes, ma’am,” someone says, and I almost smile.
The meeting breaks. The kitchen doors swing openand shut as plates are lined up, inspected, and adjusted. I change jackets, smooth my hair back, and check my reflection once in the mirrored panel near the bar. I look like myself. That matters.
Guests start arriving just before seven. Coats are taken as voices echo softly against the high ceilings. The room fills in layers, energy building without tipping into chaos.
I greet people by name, shake hands, accept compliments about the space and the concept, and invite everyone to find their name on place cards. I keep my attention moving, never lingering too long.
I notice the empty seat at the end of the long table and register it without concern. Substitutions happen. Someone will slide into it.
When the room is full, I step to the center and wait as the noise settles gradually. Conversations taper off until everyone's eyes are on me.
“Good evening,” I say. “Thank you for being here. Tonight is a guided tasting, which means you’ll hear from me before each course. If you have questions, please ask. That’s why I’m here.”
I introduce the first wine, introducing the region, the soil, the year. I keep it tight, making sure to avoid it sounding like a speech. I watch faces as I speak, adjusting my tone when I see attention drift, leaning into detail when someone looks intrigued.
