“She has journalists asking for access. She has the investor group asking about coverage. She has a launch schedule with no approved interview, no approved photographs, no approved chef statement, and one email from you that says, and I quote, ‘No.’”
“That was my approved chef statement.”
Julien’s mouth tightens because he is trying not to laugh. “It lacks warmth.”
“It has clarity.”
“It has two letters.”
“Efficient.”
He leans back against the prep table and folds his arms. Julien has a way of occupying a room without challenging it. Useful in a sous-chef. Dangerous in a friend, if I were the sort of man who used the word loosely.
“Damien,” Julien says.
There it is. My name, not ‘Chef’.
That is always where the trouble starts.
“No,” I say.
“You don’t know what I am going to say.”
“I know the category.”
“You are impossible.”
“Imprecise. I am selective.”
“You are refusing every controlled opportunity to shape the opening before strangers do it for you,” he says with his voice tinted with frustration.
“I am opening a restaurant, not running for office.”
“No one is asking you to kiss babies.”
“Good. I don’t trust babies. They lack standards.”
Julien looks at me for a long moment, then looks at the ceiling. “God help us.”
“I believe he has other obligations.”
My phone vibrates again. This time it is a voicemail notification. Claire does not accept defeat. She is thirty-nine, French-Moroccan, terrifyingly polished, and capable of turning one closed door into six alternate entrances. She runs her communications firm like a military operation conducted in excellent tailoring. I hired her because she is brilliant, not because I intended to obey her. This distinction appears to cause her ongoing distress.
I open the voicemail and put it on speaker because Julien is already involved and pretending otherwise wastes energy. Claire’s voice fills the receiving area, crisp, controlled, and lethal beneath the civility.
“Damien, good morning. I am choosing to believe you are in the kitchen and not ignoring me, because the alternative would make me less generous when I arrive at 9:00. We need to approve the press framework today. Not tomorrow. Today. I have Leclerc from Saveur Paris asking for a pre-opening conversation. I have Monde Gastronomie requesting photography. I have two critics making reservations under names that insult all of us by how obvious they are. I also have an investor asking why the chef has not provided a quote beyond ‘The food will speak for itself,’ which, while admirablyobnoxious, does not constitute a communications strategy. Call me.”
The voicemail ends. Julien looks delighted in the restrained way of a man trying to protect his own face.
“Admirably obnoxious,” he says.
“I heard.”
“She likes you.”
“She likes being paid.”
“She can like both.”
