Eve, who was standing only five feet away, was at his side instantly. “Yes, sir.”
“The menu,” he said, tapping the script. “It’s ridiculous. No one can read this. What’s this? Ris de veau.”
“That would be sweetbreads, sir,” Eve replied softly.
“Sweetbreads.” Damian’s face contorted in disgust. “Ugh. Sounds provincial. What is this?” He jabbed his finger at another item.
“That is the pâté en croûte, sir. A duck pie with—”
“I don’t need a cooking lesson,” Damian snapped. He was growing frustrated. He was trying to project an image of a global, sophisticated man, but the menu was exposing his limitations. And worse, it was happening in front of the people he was trying to dominate. He saw Mr. Henderson hovering anxiously by the bar, and a cruel idea seemed to form. He needed to reassert his dominance, and this waitress was the easiest target. He slammed the menu down on the table, making the silver jump.
“This is absurd,” he boomed. The nearby tables went silent. “I’m trying to host a multimillion-dollar dinner, and I’m at a French restaurant where the staff can’t even explain the food.”
Eve’s face remained impassive. “I was just explaining, sir.”
“You’re not explaining,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. He leaned in as if sharing a secret with his guests, but spoke loudly enough for the whole section to hear. “It’s obvious she can’t even read the menu herself.”
The silence in the restaurant was now absolute. Eve felt a hot flush creep up her neck. This was not just rudeness. It was a public execution.
“Sir, I assure you I am familiar with the menu,” Eve said, her voice trembling slightly with her own fury.
“Oh, really?” Damian sneered. He loved this. He was back in control. “Then what is this?” He pointed to the most complex item on the page, the lièvre à la royale.
Eve began to answer. “That is a very traditional preparation of—”