CHAPTER 1 SOLENE #2
I don't swat the rib. I launch it. My palm connects with the underside of the bone, and the force of the strike sends the entire tennis-racket-sized slab spinning out of his grip and across the room, where it slaps against the exposed brick wall with a wet, meaty thwack and slides down in a slow, greasy trail before landing on one of the rough-cut tables.
Boris stares at his empty hand.
I look at my palm. A smear of rendered fat glistens across the skin, dark and fragrant, and my stomach clenches because my body, the traitor, registers that the seasoning profile on this barbecue glaze involves smoked paprika, brown sugar, and at least three chili varieties I'd need a full minute to identify.
I wipe my hand on the back of my chef coat. The back, where no one will see the stain until I can burn this garment and start fresh.
"Are you listening to me? At all? Even slightly?"
He's still looking at his hand. Then at the wall. Then at the rib on the table. His expression cycles through something I can only describe as the five stages of grief compresses into four seconds.
"You hit the beef."
"I redirected it."
"You hit Borog's beef. Off Borog's hand. That was best rib. Corner piece. Bark was perfect."
"And in about thirty seconds, your bark is going to be the least of your problems." I unclip the clipboard from under my arm.
It's been there this whole time, pressed against me, because I don't leave Verdure without it.
Prep lists. Vendor contacts. Reservation confirmations.
And, as of 6:47 this morning when the smoke woke me from a dead sleep in my apartment above the restaurant, a freshly printed copy of the City of Paris zoning regulations for the ninth arrondissement.
I flip to the relevant page. Tab twelve. Yellow highlight. I've had this document for three years. It has never once been deployed in anger.
Until now.
My finger stabs the page so hard my nail bends.
"Article L.421-dash-3. Commercial establishments operating within the ninth arrondissement mixed-use residential zone are prohibited from maintaining open-flame cooking apparatus on public walkways, sidewalks, or any exterior surface within fifteen meters of a neighboring business's primary ventilation intake. "
I jab the page again. Another highlight, orange this time.
"Subsection B. Smoke-producing equipment, including but not limited to grills, smokers, fire pits, and" -- I look up at him -- "bonfires must be fully enclosed and approved by the Bureau de la Qualité de l'Air prior to operation."
One more jab. Pink highlight.
"Subsection D. Violations carry fines starting at two thousand euros per incident, with escalating penalties for each subsequent infraction."
I hold the clipboard up. Level with his sternum, because that's as high as a reasonable person should be expected to reach. The highlighted text faces him. The zoning permit number is circled in red.
"Do you see this? This is the law. These are the rules. You are breaking at minimum four of them simultaneously, and I have already photographed your exterior fire pit from three angles."
Boris Cleaver looks at the clipboard.
He tilts his massive head. The topknot shifts. Butcher's twine creaks.
And then he laughs.
A detonation. His body expands, the leather apron strains across it, and the sound that erupts from his throat fills the entire room like a bass drum dropped into a cathedral.
The hanging carcasses sway. The iron hooks rattle against the brick.
In the back of the space, a stack of firewood shifts and tumbles.
He laughs so hard he has to brace one hand on his knee. The other slaps his thigh with a crack that sounds like a gunshot. His tusks frame the open cavern of his mouth, and the wet-clay eyes squeeze shut, tears forming at the creased corners.
"Small chef has clipboard!"
"Stop laughing."
"With colors! Little colored marks!" He gasps. Actually gasps for air. "Borog has never seen someone fight with paper."
"It's not paper, it's a legally binding municipal ordinance, and if you don't--"
"In homeland, if neighbor has problem, neighbor comes with axe. You come with tiny colored papers!" Another thunderclap of laughter. The floor shakes. "This is WONDERFUL. Borog loves this city."
The blood in my face could heat a sous vide bath. My grip on the clipboard turns my knuckles white. I open my mouth to deliver something devastating, something that will puncture this orc's impervious good humor like a skewer through a balloon.
A gust tears down Rue des Martyrs.
The kind of wind that Paris produces without warning, channeled by Haussmann's corridors into a focused blade. It rips through the open doorway, catches the interior in a spiral, and slams the heavy iron lid of the smoker beside the indoor pit. The lid drops like a guillotine.
The impact sends a shockwave through the barrel.
And the reservoir of thick, mahogany barbecue sauce pooled in the drip tray erupts upward in a geyser.
A thick, viscous, fragrant wave that arcs through the smoky air in what feels like slow motion, rotating lazily, catching the firelight, and lands across the front of my chef coat with the wet, heavy slap of a death sentence.
I look down.
Dark sauce. Everywhere. Collar to hem. Soaking through the cotton. Warm against my skin. Reeking of molasses and smoke and rendered animal fat.
My clipboard drips.
Boris's laughter dies.
The silence in the room is absolute.