Chapter 20
Paris
And just like that, I’m back. Paris. The Michelin city.
The city I loved as deeply as I loved any man, and which broke my heart just as thoroughly as any of them. Sure, loving Paris is a little cliché, but I can’t help myself. It is the center of the world I’ve been dreaming of my whole adult life—and quite a few years before that too.
I am in the living room of my one-bedroom apartment in the tenth arrondissement of Paris, eight blocks from the restaurant, which is in the second, right in the beating heart of the city.
The apartment is small, of course. It’s Paris, and the real estate is some of the most expensive in the world, but it’s a cozy place to fall after a long shift.
I peek in my room and look at the old comforter I’d gotten from a secondhand shop.
It’s antique gold–colored satin and probably fifty years old, but unspeakably soft.
It cost me all of fifteen euro, and I’d had to run it through the washer at the laundromat three times to get the musty smell out of it, but the sight of it brightening the tiny bedroom always cheered me after a difficult service.
I donated it back to the thrift shop before I left, but that act had been more painful than I’d thought it would be.
It’s nice to travel light, but it’s also hard leaving little treasures behind all the time.
I’m unreasonably glad to see it on my bed.
Just a few weeks ago, I told myself that keeping it would be silly and impractical.
It would have taken an entire extra suitcase, and the resultant fees, to bring it to the States, and I couldn’t justify that.
I look at the silly blanket, and all it represents, and think maybe I was hasty to bail on Paris altogether.
Leaving town is always my first impulse when it’s time to move on, but I could have stayed and found another job here, or at least somewhere in France.
Possibly a great job, where I wouldn’t have to start from scratch for once.
I have a comical vision of shoving the massive gold comforter in an oversized Ikea-style shopping bag and schlepping it on the Métro to grace the bed in my new flat.
Which, admittedly, wouldn’t possibly be as nice as this one.
As a perk of the job, the restaurant investors subsidize the rent because they want the GM close at hand.
They wouldn’t go so far as to secure an apartment in the same neighborhood as the restaurant, where rents are drastically higher, but it’s far better than having the GM living within their means an hour away.
It’s a good compromise, and I love it here.
Leaving this space behind was a real blow, second only to the job loss itself, but I was given no choice.
Even if I could afford full rent here, which I can’t, the investors handle the lease, and it was their prerogative to pass the flat on to the next GM.
And they will do it again if I fail a second time. Which I don’t intend to. If I have to leave Maison Ortense and this flat again, it will be for Michelin.
Rosaline is right. I have to trust my instincts and fight for Joelle and her star.
Her predecessor, éugenie Rosier, is a legend in the Paris food scene.
She is now enjoying a much-deserved retirement in èze on the C?te d’Azur and hopefully eating copious amounts of seafood she prepares leisurely in her own kitchen, pleasing no one’s palate but her own.
It’s important to note, Michelin stars belong to the restaurant, not the chef, though it’s often hard to divorce the two.
When éugenie retired, Michelin stripped the third star from the restaurant.
It’s not meant to be punitive, but rather, it provides the opportunity for the new chef to prove their mettle.
Especially in the common scenario where a restaurant passes from one generation to the next in the same family.
The younger generation deserves the chance to prove they aren’t riding on anyone’s coattails.
Which Joelle is not. She took everything éugenie taught her and has run with it.
I can’t speak as to why Michelin hasn’t given her the third star, but it can’t be due to her food.
We can’t even be sure Michelin has sent an inspector since she took over, given the volume of restaurants they have to review every year and the limitations on their staff.
As Joelle herself often says, a third star is a little bit like your ninetieth birthday—never promised.
It doesn’t matter how much you think you’ve earned it by doing all the right things; it still might not happen.
None of that matters to the investors, though, and I’ll have to make them see that she deserves a fair shake.
I finally check my phone and realize I’m about three months back in time.
Two and a half months before Joelle and I are let go.
Not much time to right the ship. It’s early morning yet, but I am expected at the restaurant in two hours as preparations begin for lunch service.
No, I’ll go in now to reorient myself and draw up a battle plan.
I’m going to stay in this timeline until I catch up with my own if necessary.
Anything to have another chance to help Joelle earn her star.
I dress in what I’ve dubbed my “work uniform.” Before I started in Paris, I invested in seven single-breasted pantsuits in tones of black, charcoal, and navy, which I alternate.
They’re all designer, all purchased on consignment in the US where I can find clothes that accommodate my height, and all professionally tailored to fit me like they’re bespoke.
I restrict myself to three pairs of sensible low-heeled pumps in coordinating shades of black, gray, and navy as well.
I do have one suit in brown that I favor for fall, and a red one for my sassier moments, but I generally stick to the basic seven to take one decision off my plate before service.
It’s not quite as restrictive as Steve Jobs’ black T-shirts and blue jeans routine.
I mix up camisoles and accessories for a bit of fun, and to blend in with the fashionable crowd, but I organize it all on Mondays when the restaurant is closed so it feels like one medium decision instead of a dozen smaller ones.
I had thought, and still think, the practice leaves me with just a scrap more bandwidth for work.
Today is a Tuesday, and it would appear my black suit with large brass buttons is up for the day, along with a cobalt-blue satin shell that makes me think of the throw pillows in Copenhagen with a little pang, which I force myself to push aside.
Just as I’m about to head for the door, my phone dings and I retrieve it from my pocket that I’d had tailored to be large enough to serve a purpose beyond annoying me with the promise of a pocket and delivering nothing but disappointment.
JO?LLE: Can you meet the fishmonger? I’ve had a bit of a problem at the dentist. He’s due in twenty minutes.
I remember this moment vividly. She’d gone in for a routine cleaning, and the dentist noticed one of her fillings was loose.
He decided to jump into giving her a crown before asking if her schedule would permit for an invasive procedure.
Thankfully for the dentist, he sedated her enough that she didn’t murder him for gross misconduct.
She had been miserable all service, poor thing, but this time I can be prepared to take over as much as I need to.
Three months ago, I’d jumped right in to meet the fishmonger because she wasn’t comfortable enough with her sous, Girard, to delegate the task to him.
I know now this is a key problem to solve.
If Joelle can’t trust her sous to do something that is vital, yes, but ultimately not all that challenging, there is a fatal problem in the kitchen.
Either she needs to gain trust in her sous, or he needs to be replaced.
I’m fine with whichever outcome will best serve Joelle and the restaurant.
ME: Consider it handled.
I just don’t tell her how. She doesn’t need the stress while she’s in the dentist’s chair. And it may have more of an impact for her to see after the fact that he has succeeded in following her directives. I wouldn’t have tried this before, but it’s time to be more hands-on in matters of staffing.
I bring up Girard’s number, pull up the messaging app, and begin to type.
ME: Hey, are you free? I’ve a bit of a work favor to ask of you.
His three dots appear instantly.
GIRARD: Of course, Patronne. Anything.
I roll my eyes at his nickname for me. Patronne loosely translates to “boss lady,” and while most people use the term unironically, I can’t help but feel a trace of condescension in it from Girard.
ME: I need to accept the seafood order in about twenty minutes, but I may be running late. I don’t want to keep an important vendor waiting, so would you mind going in and seeing to it? I’ll forward you the invoice so you can check everything off.
GIRARD: Isn’t that Joelle’s job?
ME: Usually, yes, but she asked me to do it as a favor this once because she has a personal appointment she can’t miss. I should be there before he leaves, so I just need you to get the process started.
GIRARD: Of course. Will be at the restaurant in ten.
ME: You’re a lifesaver.
GIRARD: I know.
I groan. Ego was never the problem with that one. I forward the order invoice to him, tuck my phone in my pocket, and grab my trusty backpack. I root inside for my keys and find that I’m still using the daisy key ring from Nikolai. This is huge, but I don’t have the time to process it all just yet.