Diana: This is very good.
Serena: That sounds suspiciously calm.
Diana: It is better than very good. I am preserving your character by not overpraising you.
Serena: Noble of you.
Diana: Do not touch the Alain dialogue.
Serena: Wasn’t planning to.
Diana: You always plan to remove the best human moments because they embarrass you.
Serena: I remove indulgence.
Diana: Sometimes warmth is not indulgence.
Serena: That sounds like personal growth propaganda.
Diana: Keep the dialogue.
I keep the dialogue. I also keep the line about the tripe not betraying me, though I do not examine too closely why that one stays.
That evening, I have dinner with Pierre Marchal, a French food journalist Diana insisted I meet because he knows everyone, likes almost no one, and has apparently decided I am worth one meal after reading my piece on the failure of luxury tasting menus to understand restraint.
Pierre chooses the restaurant, which is either an act of confidence or aggression. With French food journalists, the distinction is often decorative.
The place is small and modern, tucked onto a quiet street with a blue door and no sign beyond a brass number. Inside, the room is all warm wood, low light, and the steady murmur ofpeople with strong opinions pretending to speak softly. Pierre is already at the table when I arrive, reading the wine list with the expression of a man identifying suspects.
He stands when he sees me.
“Serena Cole,” Pierre says in English.
“Pierre Marchal,” I say.
He is in his early fifties, tall and spare, with silver hair, brown eyes, and the kind of face that has become more interesting because it stopped trying to be handsome twenty years ago. His jacket is navy, his shirt open at the throat, his watch old enough to be inherited or expensive enough to look inherited. He kisses the air beside both my cheeks and gestures to the chair across from him.
“You are younger than I expected,” Pierre says.
“You are more direct than I expected,” I say as I sit.
Pierre smiles. “Diana said you were not delicate.”
“Diana says many things as a substitute for praise.”
“Good. Delicate critics are useless. They bruise before the meal is over.”
“I try to wait until dessert.”
“That is civilized,” Pierre says.
A server appears with water, then leaves us with menus we both ignore for the first minute because we are measuring each other, and pretending otherwise would insult us both.
Pierre pours the first glass from a bottle already breathing on the table.
“I read your Rome dispatch,” Pierre says.
“That sounds ominous.”
