“Who is taking the table?” Catalina asked, dread already pooling in her stomach. “That’s the problem,” Gregory muttered, swiping a hand across his damp forehead. “Thomas was supposed to, but he suddenly developed a migraine in the kitchen and locked himself in the staff bathroom. Carmichael broke Thomas last month over a mispronounced cheese. You’re my strongest closer, Catalina. I need you to take table four.” Catalina closed her eyes for a brief second, inhaling the scent of roasted duck fat and expensive perfume that permeated the restaurant. “Fine. But if he tries to dock my tip because the chef won’t substitute the foie gras, you’re backing me up.” “You have my word,” Gregory lied smoothly, already stepping away.
Approaching table four required a specific kind of armor. Catalina smoothed her apron, plastered on a polite, impenetrable smile, and stepped into the lion’s den. “Good evening,” Catalina said, her voice modulated to the perfect pitch of respectful deference. “Welcome to Le Cirque. My name is Catalina, and I will be taking care of you tonight. May I offer you some sparkling water while you review the tasting menu?” Alvinson did not look at her. He kept his eyes locked on Penelope, continuing a story about his recent yacht trip in the Mediterranean. Catalina stood there for a full thirty seconds, ignored, holding her posture perfectly straight. It was a classic dominance tactic. By refusing to acknowledge her presence, he was establishing that her time was utterly worthless compared to his.
Finally, Alvinson turned his head slowly, looking Catalina up and down as if inspecting a slightly defective piece of furniture. “We don’t need water,” Alvinson said, his voice dripping with condescension. “We need someone who actually understands the nuances of the menu. Tell me, Catalina, do you know the difference between a Périgord truffle and an Alba white? Or do you just memorize the descriptions the chef yells at you in the kitchen?” Richard Gable chuckled dutifully into his napkin. Penelope Hayes simply raised an eyebrow, watching the interaction with clinical detachment.
“A Périgord is a black winter truffle, sir, prized for its earthy, robust aroma, typically harvested in France,” Catalina replied smoothly, not missing a beat. “The Alba is a white truffle from the Piedmont region of Italy, significantly more delicate, with notes of garlic and shallot, and is strictly shaved raw over dishes, never cooked. Both are featured on tonight’s menu. Shall I detail the specific courses?” A flicker of annoyance passed over Alvinson’s face. He hated being corrected, especially by someone he deemed a subordinate. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the crisp white tablecloth. “I suppose that’s an adequate recitation of the Wikipedia page,” Alvinson sneered. “But I’m not interested in the standard tasting menu. It’s unimaginative. I want something off-menu. Something that requires actual skill to coordinate.”
“Our executive chef is highly accommodating, Mr. Carmichael,” Catalina said, keeping her tone completely neutral. “What did you have in mind?” Alvinson’s eyes gleamed with malicious delight. He glanced at Penelope, making sure she was paying attention. “I’ll give you my order, but I’m not going to repeat myself. And since we are dining at a supposedly world-class establishment, I expect world-class comprehension.” Alvinson cleared his throat. He had spent his early twenties bumming around Europe on his father’s dime, fancying himself a cosmopolitan intellectual, before joining the tech rat race. During a prolonged stay in the Pyrenees, he had picked up conversational Basque, Euskara, one of the rarest and most isolated languages in the world. It belonged to no known language family. It was notoriously complex, filled with terrifying grammar and archaic vocabulary. He had used it twice before in high-end restaurants in London and Paris to utterly humiliate waitstaff, demanding they find someone who could translate or face his wrath. It was his favorite party trick.