This wouldn’t be an ordinary customer.
Louis adjusted the plain black tablecloth at the corner booth for the twelfth time, trying to make it at least appear symmetrical. It was plain, there was nothing he could do about that.
“Mr. Caron?” asked a tentative voice behind him. “Could we get your help in the kitchen?”
“Have Pedro handle it,” replied Louis, looking behind him to the serving window and back to the front door. “He’ll be here in just un minute. If he has any questions can you just have him ask me?”
“What?”
“I said, if Pedro has any problems just have him ask me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t… quite hear you.” Mumbled the cook, turning away toward the kitchen.
Didn’t hear him, he says. More like my accent is slipping. Louis’s English was far better than the French he hadn’t used since he was fourteen, and yet whenever he got to thinking in his native tongue he found his accent creeping back. Just as he turned toward the front door it opened, and an overdressed man in a grey suit with a blue tie and pocket square entered.
Could this be his uncle Edgar? The man looked like the picture his grandmother had sent, but he wasn’t quite sure. He had a magazine and newspaper tucked under his arm, but Louis couldn’t quite see what language they were in. He would have to say something.
“Welcome to Chicago Beef,” he waited a few seconds for a response. “How many in your party?”
The man finally responded, and sure enough, he had a thick French accent. “I was invited here. My nephew works here, he asked me to meet him.”
Didn’t grandma tell him this is my place?
“Oh, you’re my Uncle Edgar!” he said, forcibly brightening his voice as he stepped out from behind the hostess’ stand. He tentatively held out his hand to his uncle, who took it just as tentatively.
“You’re Louis. I’ve heard so much about you,” said Edgar, briefly shaking his hand.
“Your English is very good. Probably better than my French.”
Edgar nodded but didn’t say anything else.
“Okay,” said Louis, clapping his hands together before realizing it looked stupid. “I have a table ready right over here.
hey navigated the crowded path through the restaurant to the table he had prepared. Louis gestured for his uncle to sit down while doing the same. Edgar placed his reading, copies of both Le Nouvel Économiste and The Wall Street Journal, on the table before taking the seat.
“Have you had much American food before?” he asked as Edgar pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket.
“We have McDonalds back home, you know.”
“Did you have a cheeseburger? Do you want to try the real deal?”
“I didn’t eat there.”
“But you’ve had a cheeseburger before.”
“Yes.”
“You should try mine, it’s actually really good, we cook the beef the French way.”
“Maman said you worked at a French bistro.”
“She must have been confused. I actually own this place, but we serve American food and I try to prepare it with French attention to detail.”
“Maman is fine, she said you were a waiter at an American French bistro.”
Louis bit his lip, trying to remain cool.
“Would you like a drink now?”
“What pairs with a cheeseburger?” Edgar scanned through the menu. “Where’s the rest of the wine list?”
Louis glanced awkwardly at the menu he knew by heart. “Sorry, we don’t a great selection of wines. Most American food pairs a lot better with beer. We have a great selection, we’ve got about 40 imports, and 13 different local brews…”
Edgar closed his menu and dropped it on the table in front of him. “When was the last time you were in France?”
“I went to Paris for a school trip about six years ago. Sorry I didn’t see you or grandmother then. We were in restaurants and kitchens 14 hours a day all week.”
“And did any of those Parisian restaurants try to serve anyone beer? Or anything else German?”
“They’re not all German. We have local brews, a few California wines-”
His uncle snorted.
“-a lot of Americans like soft drinks with dinner…”
His uncle picked up the menu again, shaking his head.
Louis stared at his uncle. Edgar scanned the menu again, shaking his head or making a noise after reading certain listings on the menu. He looked at his phone, then set it back down.
Louis started talking again, deliberately as if to both contain and emphasize his frustration with his uncle. “I’m sorry, I know American food and drink options are different than what you’re used to.”
Edgar made another noise under his breath.
Louis slid out of the booth and stood up. His uncle finally looked up from his menu.
“If it’s all right with you, I’ll prepare something different. I’ll make something special and off-menu. How do you like your steak?”
“Parisian.”
Louis decided to ignore this comment. “I’ll have dinner out soon. Let any of the waiters know if you want anything.”
He fast-walked back to the kitchen, his face burning. Bursting through the swinging door, he looked around for the least busy person he could find.
“Uh, Ashley?” he said to a waitress who was off in the corner folding napkins.
“Yes?” She said, looking up from the tedious job.
Can you run over to La Caille? It’s over on 43rd street.” He took out his car keys. “I need two bottles of Saint Emilion Bordeaux and a good cooking cogniac. Ask for Chef Westergard, tell him I need a favor. Tell him I need them as soon as possible, it’s an emergency.”
He turned to the cook as Ashley hurried to the back exit.
“Pedro! I’m making something special, get me the best cut of fillet we have.”
Thirty-seven minutes later, he was standing over the booth where Edgar sat staring at his phone. He poured the wine in what he hoped was the way he saw at that restaurant on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, hoping the napkin was folded over his arm the right way. Edgar didn’t seem to notice. He picked up a piece of the steak with his fork and examined its dark crust and light pink inside for a moment before taking a bite. He chewed it quietly a few times before taking a sip of the wine. He made a disgusted face as he tasted it.
“You know, California thinks they can copy our wine, but America just isn’t France.”
Louis gritted his teeth before responding.
“Okay… what about the steak?”
“I’ve had German hamburger and gravy that tastes a lot like it.”
“Did you like the salad?”
“All American salads are all mostly buttermilk.”
Louis smirked.
“It’s Niçoise Salad. French. The wine is a ’97 Saint Emilion Bordeaux. The perfect pairing for a Parisian-style steak au poivre with cognac peppercorn sauce.”
Edgar looked down at the food and back to his glass of wine. He rubbed his fork awkwardly for a few moments before responding.
“Tastes American.”
Louis felt his face go redder than ever. He gritted his teeth and stared down at the food he had prepared. Edgar continued to stare coolly down at his plate, not appearing at all embarrassed.
“Your mother was a show-off too.”
Louis stared at his uncle, feeling an uncharacteristic rage rising in his chest. Instead of responding, though, Louis turned and stormed back into the kitchen.
“How did it go?” asked Pedro, looking up from his skillet as Louis stormed past.
“Fine – I need a minute. I’ll be right back,” said Louis, looking straight forward toward his office and not stopping as he hurried toward the door. He entered his office and shut the door behind him. Unlocking his computer, he opened Facebook and went to the conversation with his grandmother where she set up this stupid encounter in the first place. He was about to start typing a message before he stopped, his fingers raised above the keyboard.
He slumped back in his chair. It was two in the morning in Corbeil-Essonnes. Besides, grandma must already know Edgar was the worst person in all of France and the United States. He looked instead at his uncle’s Facebook page. The privacy settings must have been set to friends only, because he could only see a profile picture, the same picture grandma had sent him.
Forty-five minutes had passed by the time Louis left his office and entered the restaurant again. He went back to the table to find that his uncle was gone. So was the steak, the salad, wine, and every drop of the sauce.
The plate had been licked clean.
Written April 2020
adurbin.com 