Julien says, “The room holds.”
I say, “The room is currently behaving.”
Julien says, “I’ll take that as optimism.”
“Then you’re becoming reckless.”
At table six, one of the men with the enormous watches says something that makes the others laugh too loudly. The laughdies on its own when the next course lands. That is also useful information. The food can quiet arrogance if it arrives with enough authority.
The main course is where openings often break. Guests are deeper into wine. Timing stretches. The kitchen gets comfortable. Comfort becomes slackness. Slackness becomes a server waiting at the pass while a sauce decides whether to split in public.
Not tonight.
The lamb course moves through the line with the precision of something dangerous handled well. Marc finishes the sauce. Thomas plates the vegetables under Julien’s eye. Inès sends herbs. I finish with salt and check each plate before it leaves.
One plate comes back.
Too much sauce at the edge.
“Again,” I say.
Thomas takes it. “Yes, Chef.”
His hands move faster this time, but not carelessly.
Better.
The corrected plate leaves with the others.
The guests at table three stop talking after the first bite.
The man at the bar closes his eyes for one second, then opens them before anyone can see he has done it.
I see it.
Of course I do.
Julien says, “Table seventeen just seated.”
For half a second, the number cuts through the service noise.
Table seventeen.
Not S. Bennett. Not tonight. That reservation is next week.
Tonight, table seventeen holds a married couple from Geneva celebrating an anniversary they mentioned twice on booking and zero times after arrival, which makes me like themslightly. Still, the number lands where the name has been filed and then moves on.
I look at Julien. He knows exactly what crossed my mind because he is unfortunately awake.
Julien says, “Anniversary. Geneva. No restrictions.”
“I know.”
“I assumed.”
“Then why are you speaking?”
“Bad habit.”
