“Yeah, but I can’t pronounce it,” I lie. Day one on the job was learning the proper French pronunciation of everything in the restaurant, and I do mean everything.
Jim insists that we call the spoons “Cuillère.”
She scoffs and returns the modicum of focus she was expending on me back to her book. Or, at least that’s what I was hoping she was doing.
“Do you remember the address?” she asks, her eyes moving side to side as she reads.
“Not remotely.”
That one’s not a lie.
“Do you know the name of the chef?” she asks. “I could probably look it up from that.”
“You really liked it, huh?” I ask, secretly patting myself on the back.
“Yeah,” she says. “Oh well. If you can’t remember, you can’t remember.”
“All right,” I say, and start to walk back toward my room.
“Only…”
I stop.
“I don’t know. I’d love to find out where you got it. It’s the best confit de canard I’ve had since—well, it’s the best I’ve had in years.” She finally looks up from her book. “Maybe sometime when you’re free we could walk through the area. I’m sure we could find it.”
I have to give her something; otherwise every conversation is going to end up here. We really don’t have anything else to talk about.
“It has a flower on the sign,” I tell her. “Other than that, I’m not sure that—”
“L’Iris?” she asks, her breath bated.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”
When I’m free and clear of the restaurant, I’ll tell her where to go. Not that Cannon could even dream of making confit de canard without me holding his hand and slapping him in the face with it.
“I bet that’s it,” she says. “I’ve wanted to try it out, but I hear the chef is a real jerk.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yeah,” she says. “If the food’s that good, though, maybe it’s time to drop in and see what happens.”
“Nah,” I tell her. “I could hear that guy from the kitchen. Everything was ‘fuck this,’ and ‘fuck that.’ It kind of kills the mood.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll just have Mike go in there for me. People who curse all the time get on my last nerve. I mean, what kind of idiot—”
She pauses a moment and looks up, but she doesn’t look at me.
“Thanks for picking that up for me, anyway,” she says, and goes back to her book.
I smile, but don’t pursue the insult.
It’s already 12:30, and if I’m going to find any wet comfort, I’d better get showered, changed, and on my way. Otherwise, I’m going to end up booty-calling one of last month’s rejects, and that’s really not worth the drama if I can avoid it.
Chapter Five
Work, Work
Leila