Pierre takes his time answering.
“I respect it,” Pierre says.
“That is not what I asked.”
“No,” Pierre says. “It is not.”
I wait.
He smiles again, smaller this time.
“I had one meal at one of his previous restaurants, before the star came back, that I still remember in a way that annoys me.”
“Why does it annoy you?”
“Because I wanted to dislike it more.”
“That feels honest.”
“It was,” Pierre says.
“He cooks like a man who would rather cut off his own hand than ask to be understood, but who becomes furious when he is not.”
The sentence lands somewhere I do not expect.
I look down at the cheese plate, then back at him.
“That is specific,” I say.
“Holt inspires specificity. Also irritation. They often travel together.”
“When does Maison Holt open?”
“Soon,” Pierre says. “Very soon. Three weeks, maybe less. Paris has decided to be interested.”
“Paris is always interested in men who refuse interviews.”
“Yes,” Pierre says. “Refusal is one of the city’s favorite perfumes.”
I write that down because I am not a fool.
Pierre notices and looks pleased with himself.
“Do not give me too much credit,” he says.
“I’ll give you exactly enough.”
“Cruel woman.”
“Accurate woman.”
“Worse,” Pierre says.
We finish dinner with espresso and a dessert neither of us likes enough to defend. Pierre walks me outside afterward, where Lyon has gone dark and soft around the edges, the street shining faintly from rain that must have fallen while we were inside.
“You will write about Holt?” Pierre asks.
“If the restaurant earns the space.”
