“There is always time.”
Julien takes the first crate from the driver and sets it on the stainless receiving table. Crushed ice shifts around silver skin, dark backs, clear eyes. Turbot. Sea bass. Sole. Langoustines in a separate crate, antennae tangled in a kind of elegant distress.
I check the turbot first. The skin is firm. The eyes are bright. The gills are red, not tired pink. I press one finger gently against the flesh and watch it recover.
Good.
I check the sea bass.
Better.
Henri watches me with theatrical injury. “You see? I am not a criminal.”
“I haven’t checked the sole.”
“Always the sole with you.”
“The sole offended me last week.”
“The sole had a difficult morning.”
“The sole was dead, Henri. Its morning had already reached a conclusion.”
Julien makes a small sound that he covers badly with a cough.
Henri points his pen at me.
“One day, I will bring you perfect fish and you will say thank you like a normal man.”
“One day, youmaybring me perfect fish,” I reply in jest.
He mutters something in French involving my ancestry, which is bold, considering my mother was from Lyon and would have dismantled him before breakfast. I let it pass because the sole is acceptable and because Henri has, against his instincts, delivered properly this morning.
Julien finishes weighing the crates against the order sheet.
“All correct.”
I look at the langoustines.
Henri sighs. “They are alive. They are excellent. They are better than you deserve.”
“That is often true of shellfish.”
I lift one gently from the crate, check the movement, the color, the firmness of the tail.
Excellent.
I set it back. “They’ll do.”
Henri stares at me. “That is the closest I have come to joy in your presence.”
“You should aim higher.”
“I aim for payment.”
“You’ll get that if dairy doesn’t disappoint me.”
Henri throws both hands up and turns toward his driver.
