Chapter 23 #2
But just as soon as she disappears, another figure takes her place in my doorway.
Two figures actually. Messieurs Phillipe Grandin and Fabrice Martin, who lead the investment group that owns a controlling interest in Maison Ortense.
Nadia and Nikolai make a hasty exit from the office, knowing the financiers always have to take precedence.
The men remind me of a modern-day French equivalent of Laurel and Hardy.
Grandin is tall, wiry, and given to nervous fidgeting.
Martin is a short, rotund sort of man who wheezes even when sitting still.
I didn’t care for them in my original timeline, and I don’t find my opinion of them much improved.
But investors are rarely my favorite sort of people.
“Well, well, it seems Mademoiselle Durand is pleased with herself.” Grandin cranes his head, presumably to watch Joelle’s exit from the kitchen, then closes the door behind him.
He and Martin take the seats Nikolai and Nadia just left, looking as grim as pallbearers.
But this isn’t so very different from the way they look at any given moment, so I don’t let it fluster me.
“As well she should be. She’s just received a wonderful review from The Guardian.” I pass the paper across my desk, but they leave it untouched.
“We’ve come to discuss the matter of your unceremonious dismissal of Girard Bodin.
This was not a matter you brought before us, and we would not have sanctioned it if you had.
” Grandin laces his fingers, looking very much like my middle school principal who loved giving wayward students long lectures about how disappointed he was in their conduct.
Spoiler: No one much cared about his disappointment.
“I wasn’t aware that staff changes were under your purview.
” I endeavor to keep my tone even, but I am only marginally successful in my attempt.
“It was made very clear to me that all decisions concerning hiring and dismissal at the rank below the chef de cuisine were to be my responsibility, in conjunction with Chef Durand.”
“Technically speaking, this is true. But we firmly believe that a chef as young and inexperienced as Mademoiselle Durand will benefit from the support of a talented chef like Chef Bodin.” Grandin’s tone is so obsequious I feel a tinge of green around my gills.
“I believe you mean Chef Durand.” I don’t bother to correct him with any sort of tact.
“Messieurs, perhaps you weren’t aware of the costly and egregious error Girard made concerning one hundred pounds of bluefin tuna.
I’m sure I don’t need to tell you the enormous cost he committed this restaurant to the very first moment he was given the smallest taste of a leadership role.
It was my duty to dismiss any employee who makes such a large, unsanctioned purchase with restaurant funds.
He is lucky I didn’t report him to the authorities. ”
Martin shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Chef Bodin approached us about the matter. He expressed a great deal of frustration at not having more creative license in the kitchen. More of a say in the running of things.”
I lean forward and don’t break eye contact.
“He was a sous-chef. It isn’t his place to have a say in the ‘running of things.’ His job is to follow Chef Durand’s orders and see to it that the rest of the kitchen falls in line.
A task at which he failed miserably time and again.
And as for a lack of ‘creative license,’ he could have auditioned dishes for Chef Durand and myself at any time.
He only chose to do so once, and it was woefully below par. ”
“That is not how Chef Bodin frames things.” Grandin speaks as though the matter is settled.
I barely restrain myself from growling. “That may not be how he frames things, but I am telling you how things are. His value as a member of staff was minimal. He fell short of the mark as a leader and, to be direct, wasn’t even an adequate follower.
Chef Durand did not let him take over more responsibility because she didn’t feel he was equal to it.
His actions on Tuesday morning proved her concerns were valid.
The only reason we kept him on as long as we did was because éugenie Rosier designated him to take Chef Durand’s place as sous when she was elevated to her current role. ”
Martin had cast his eyes downward, but now he summons some resolve.
“It was not Madame Rosier who appointed him as sous-chef, Mademoiselle Sorensen. It was the board. We would have preferred him to take over from the start, but we allowed Madame Rosier to pass on the baton to the successor of her choosing as a courtesy for her years of service to the restaurant.”
“How gracious of you.” My tone drips with disdain that I don’t bother to conceal.
“Quite.” Sarcasm seems to be lost on Grandin.
“Be that as it may, we feel that Mademoiselle Durand has been given an adequate opportunity to prove herself and has not met the goals we set as a benchmark for her success within the allotted time. The board is of the considered view that the time has come for Chef Bodin to take the lead.”
“You promised her two years,” I remind them.
Martin chimes in. “We do not feel three months will make much difference, and we’d prefer to have Bodin at the helm before the busy holiday season.”
I pause a long moment, my stare enough to make Grandin fidget.
“No, you’re worried three months is just enough time to make all the difference in the world.
” I point to the newspaper. “She’s getting noticed and you don’t want her to succeed so you can replace her with that miserable little slimeball. ”
It occurs to me they may well have somehow persuaded Michelin not to send inspectors.
Wealthy men have connections, and Michelin inspectors are spread thin.
They could spin it so nicely too. “Chef Durand just needs some time to get her footing. Why not come next year to give her the chance to settle in?” They couldn’t risk her earning back that star.
And they had hired me because I was new to the rank of GM, American, and wouldn’t have connections in Paris that might sway things in her favor. Like friends at The Guardian.
The game is rigged, and we were never going to win. They never would have let us.
“Purely conjecture on your part, of course.” Grandin sniffs as he passes me a folder with what I presume are my walking papers.
“You’ll note there is a healthy severance package if you ‘go quietly,’ as your people say.
And you have until the end of the month to vacate your lodgings.
But if you say anything to the press or make any sort of public spectacle, we reserve the right to withdraw any remuneration beyond the wages you are due. ”
This had not happened in my original timeline because we had been kept on for the full two years of our contract.
The review had made them nervous. I thumb through the pages and one of the names of the signatories leaps out at me.
I look back up at their dim-witted faces.
They look expectant, as though I will jump at their generous severance.
I clear my throat. “Well, you have been thorough. I hope Chef Bodin is waiting in the wings somewhere. Service is in two hours and Chef Durand and our new sous, Chef Rasmussen, obviously won’t want to interfere with his vision. ”
The pair of them blanch. Martin finally finds his voice. “Certainly, as preparations for today’s services have already begun—”
I sign the document and close the dossier before they can rescind the offer, my eyes shooting daggers.
“You forget, messieurs, that we are not handing in our notice. You have dismissed us. Effective immediately, according to the agreement I just signed. For us to work another two services would put us all in a legally awkward situation. It says here”—I tap the dossier with my index finger—“that we are ineligible for any further wages for services performed. You cannot ask for labor without promise of fair compensation.”
“Well, I don’t think—” Grandin blusters.
“Clearly you did not think, messieurs, or you would have handled this matter with a bit more delicacy. And you might have thought to obfuscate that Georges-Luc Bodin is one of your investors. Who is he? Girard’s father? Uncle?”
The two men have been rendered mute. I take no small pleasure in this. Clearly I’ve hit the rusty old nepotism nail square on its ugly, corrupt head, and it will take me only a few seconds with my phone’s internet browser to uncover the link between the investor and Girard.
Grandin finds his voice first. “You will be paid nothing if you make a statement.”
I smirk. “Oh, Monsieur Grandin. I wouldn’t debase myself with something as crass as a public spectacle.”
Grandin exhales and Martin’s jaw unclenches.
I lean closer and lower my tone to its very depths. “I won’t have to.”