“Likely.”
I look back at the reservation sheet.
One woman. Alone. Center table. Full menu. Both pairings. Six weeks from now. The room shifts around the idea for half a second, then settles.
“Same table,” I say.
“I know,” Julien says.
“Same menu.”
“I know.”
“Same service.”
“I know.”
“Then stop looking at me as if you expect me to become interesting about this.”
“I gave that up years ago.”
“Excellent.”
He places the reservation sheet in the binder and closes it.
I turn toward the kitchen, where the day is beginning to gather heat. Marc has corrected the sauce. Inès is portioning herbs. Elise is trimming pastry with the expression of a woman prepared to ruin someone over uneven edges. Thomas watches the bones properly now. The restaurant is not open yet, but the work has already begun judging us. That is the only judgment that matters before a plate reaches the table. Still, when I turn back to the pass, my eyes go once to the closed reservation binder.
S. Bennett.
Six weeks.
Center table.
Professional pattern.
Possible critic.
I file the name where I file things that may become relevant later and refuse to give it more space than it has earned. If shecomes to judge the restaurant, she will judge the restaurant. If she comes to misunderstand it, I cannot stop her. If she comes hungry, we may have something to discuss. The thought remains with me for exactly as long as it takes Marc to call me back to the sauce.
By 7:40 AM, the kitchen has no room left for hypothetical critics. It has fish to portion, stocks to correct, herbs to dry properly instead of bruise into wet green apology, pastry to test, deliveries to receive, and the daily labor of becoming the restaurant I designed on paper before the room proves whether paper was arrogant.
The day fills itself with the usual sequence of controlled irritation. Claire arrives at 9:00 with coffee, a cream wool coat, red lipstick, and the expression of a woman who has already decided the entire staff would be more efficient if handed over to her for restructuring. She stands in the kitchen doorway for half a second too long, taking inventory of the room, the crew, the pace, and me.
Claire is beautiful in a way that has never asked for permission. Dark curls pinned low. Brown skin. Dark brown eyes that make most men correct their posture before they understand why. She wears tailoring like armor and kindness like a tool she can put down the moment it stops being useful.
She lifts the tray of coffees.
“I brought tribute,” Claire says.
Julien accepts one before I can object. “We are listening.”
I look at him. “Apparently we are very cheap.”
Claire hands me the only black coffee on the tray.
“You are many things, Damien. Cheap has never made the list.”
“I agreed to one paragraph.”
