Michelin

“Again?” Mia angrily asks, looking at her phone reading 21:12. Clenching her teeth and her clutch, sitting at the bar.

“Your martini, madame.” The bartender announces, taking away her previous glass.

“It’s Mademoiselle.” Mia corrects, proving a point. The bartender smiles, clocking me tipping a tenner into the jar.

“Look, I don’t -”

“Have an excuse for my tardiness.” Mia mimes, nailing my mannerisms, and exploring the bottom of her glass. I hide her gift underneath my pea-coat and head toward the maitre d.

“Excuse me, reservation for two…Smith.”

“Smith…Jared, yes of course. Give us a moment as we get your table set.” Looking up from her log book, talking into her walkie-talkie, the maitre d announces, “He’s here.”

“Standby,” the woman on the opposite side responded.

Putting down her walkie-talkie, and adjusting her hair behind her messy bun, the maitre d asked, “Would you like me to check your coat, Mr. Smith?”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” I responded, handing her my coat. She feels the gift underneath, looks at me, and then at Mia. I could sense from her expression, that they’d already exchanged pleasantries.  

“Madame?”

“Oh please.” Mia interrupts with a rudely timed scowl, finishing her cocktail. Taking off her coat and revealing the red cocktail dress that we both agreed would get us in trouble. The maitre d hands our jackets to the coat check, hands me a ticket, and shows us to our table.

“Par ici,” the maitre d replies, escorting us through the back of the bar to the restaurant.

“Ridiculous. What is this, GoodFellas?” Mia complains walking behind me, feeling the effects of her libations and her outfit choice. “Why is it so cold?”

“Do you want my jacket?” I ask, unbuttoning my top button.

“Oh please. Your jacket smells like Time Square.” 

Moments later, we arrived, centered in front of the house band. I pull out her chair, and she sits down her third martini glass instead, taking the opposite seat. The maitre d uncomfortably looks at me, then away, as the stewards set the table.

“In honor of our soft opening, tonight we have a special menu for our esteemed guests. La Fête de L'Amour. We had you fill out personal questionnaires about your dining experiences. Once your reservation was confirmed, we carefully considered them to create a banquet, unique to each individual. As a token of our appreciation, we would like to share with you, your menus.”

The maitre d handed us Playbills. The first thing I noticed was that snapshot of me from my semester abroad. “How’d they find this?” I think to myself, looking over the rest of the front cover. The play stars me, featuring La Fête as the venue, and my loved ones as the creative team and producers. They were filled to the brim with family photos, collages, and testimonial quotes plastered beside the moments captured. The highlights of my life were highlighted throughout with every page turned. Each one, walking me down a different avenue.

“Each memory comes with a themed dish, complementing your personal preferences. The back cover will be used to confirm your orders. Please sign and rip, then keep your gift, for you to share. Our staff of stewards will be coming around to finalize and fulfill your needs.”

“Well, I like the sound of that!” Mia interjects.  

“Right, well whatever questions you have, please don’t hesitate to ask. Enjoy… Mr. Smith.” The maitre d nods, as she exits the lounge. I can sense the frustration coming off Mia. Before she says anything I hear -

“Bonjour and welcome to La Fête. I’m Paulo, one of your stewards that will guide you through this experience. Je voulais confirmer quelques choses avant de te régaler, Mademoiselle.”

“Bonjour, je m'appelle Mia... I want the fish.” She says, snacking on her olives, enticingly.

“Bien sûr, et Monsieur?”

“Uh, Je ne sais pas?” Relying on the only phrase I remember from my semester abroad. I hear laughing coming from Mia and immediately know what for. “How about two waters, for now, I’ll get back to you momentarily.”

“Bien sûr.”

“And another one of these, por favor,” Mia inserts, signaling to her empty martini glass as Paulo walks away with her back cover.

“Did you know that our meals come with a bottle of wine that we can take home?” I ask, looking through the menu. “That’s strange, I don’t see any meal options.” I relay to Mia, attempting to add some banter in between the band’s breakdowns.

As the spotlight passes over our table, Mia passive-aggressively responds, “Ugh, be a man and make a decision already.” Passing her attitude over to me.  

Caught avant-garde, I asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh please. This is what I’m talking about!” She grunts, pointing at the menu, stirring up a scene. “I wanted to do something different, something special for our anniversary and you're ruining it!”

“What?” I ask, raising my voice and my defenses. “I’m letting you know that there's something wrong with my menu, shit. What am I supposed to eat?”

“Just order something and stop embarrassing me.” Mia accuses, waving to the crowd, leaving little to interpret.

“Embarrassing you? All you’ve done this whole night is bitch and complain and drink!” I counter, throwing off the band’s tempo; attempting to mask the argument being had, but it was too late. Each word was thrown out like a sharp note from a trumpet, crashing into our ears.

“Oh, blame my drinking, excuse me for being thirsty!” She yells, condescendingly folding her arms. “Sorry that my mess of a life doesn't fit in your clean little world.”

“No, it doesn’t.” I communicate, putting down my menu.

“You know what? You’re pathetic.” She implies ungracefully.

“You’re calling me pathetic?” I laugh in frustration.

“You see? That self-righteous act of yours? All this “be better for the greater good” bullshit you just spit out, and they just lap it up! Be a fucking man Jared, why don’t you tell the truth for once?”

“What… that I'm unhappy?” I yell, coincidentally adding to the band's final note.

“...and, we’ll be right back after this.” The pianist says, playing off my untamed solo, as the audience awkwardly fills the tension with applause.

“Excusez-moi, your waters. Et pour vous Monsieur?” Paulo asks, confirming my meal.

Exhausted, I responded, “I’ll have a tequila, double.”

“Bien sûr, but our kitchen will close in 30 minutes. Mademoiselle, your food will be arriving soon.”

Mia stands up, pours the water over my head, looks at Paulo, and licks her lips while grabbing her martini. She responds, “I lost my appetite.” Looking down at me, as she walks away.

Using the towel to wipe the embarrassment from my face, I say, “Make that two doubles.” As Paulo jets off to fulfill my order. Another steward made their way over to the table, gifting me with the softest towels I had ever felt. Another steward gifted me a fleece quarter zip with “La Fête” embroidered, to put over my shirt and tie. By the time Paulo returned, I had almost forgotten what happened.

“Here you go, Monsieur. Et -”

“Chef’s choice,” I responded, handing Paulo the menu and my first downed double. “Keep them coming.”

“Tout de suite.” Paulo smiles, confirming my order. Every time I reached the end of my glass there was another double, waiting for me. The next three songs seemed to go by in a blink of an eye, after a while it was just me and the band. I heard the sound of a heel striking the ground. By the impression, I assumed that it could only be one person.

“Hurry up, you don't want your food to get cold,” I say, chugging down my last double.

“Her Chilean Sea Bass is packed and ready to go whenever you are.” By the time it registered, she had already placed the double in my hand.

“Camille?” I say both surprised and tipsy.

“Hey Jay,” she says, standing…stunning. I put down the double, stand up, and embrace her.

“Look at you, I haven’t seen you since,”

“À l'étranger.” she completes.  

I exhale, releasing our embrace. “Please have a seat. It’s great to see you, but what are you doing in the city?”

Camille smiles and gestures to everything around her.  

“Are you serious?” I asked surprisingly.

She nods her head and exclaims, “Oui.”

“That’s amazing, you must have some stories to tell.”

“Only a long one, unfortunately.” She answers, taking a second to gather herself. “And you?”

Embarrassed, I look at my drink before taking a swig. “I bet you heard.”  

“I did.” Camille chuckles.

“What’s so funny?” I chuckle, matching her energy.

“Some of the reporters thought we were hosting a dinner show in between performances. They posted your argument online and people raved about how raw it was. It went viral in a matter of minutes, we’re booked solid!”

“Well, I’m glad that I could help,” I say, somberly finishing my drink.

“That reminds me, my maitre d gave me this after your wife stormed out.” Camille handed me the red box that I was planning to present to Mia later on that night.

“She’s not my wife,” I say, tucking the box into my pocket, and finishing my drink.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she says, signaling for someone. “Please, allow me to make it up to you.”

I hear meat, dancing off the plate as the smell wafts in my direction. I see Paulo and his team of stewards, heading my way. “Voici!” Paulo exclaims, avec excitement, “La Fête de L'Amour, Le choix du chef! We have prepared our cajun-crusted jumbo shrimp cocktail served with our signature sauce. We have a 28 oz., Bone-in cut, dry-aged garlic porterhouse, combining both the rich flavor of a strip with the tenderness of a filet. Cooked to medium rare, with a side of our homemade peppercorn aioli. Accompanied by our lemon parmesan-crusted asparagus and our four-cheese lobster mac and cheese. Paired with our Argentinian Malbec, giving both bold and balance to your rich meal. For dessert, our homemade double chocolate brownie bake, topped with our homemade cookie dough ice cream, drizzled with our signature peppermint mocha sauce.”

My mind was blown and my joy was found, a smile formed. The stage lights hit my teeth, ricocheting off of Camille’s pearled necklace, adding radiance to her already ethereal glow. Our eyes, locking the moment in front of us. It felt like forever searching for the words to describe this lost feeling, until it appeared.

“Paulo, close up shop and ask the band if they could stay a little longer. I feel like celebrating.”

“Tout de suite madame.” Paulo replies, heading over to the band.

“For you, Camille, anything!” The pianist praised, raising his glass. Camille returned his kind words with a blown kiss.

Camille leans in and asks, “Did I miss anything?” Opening the bottle of red.

"Non, c'est parfait."