Dinner for One (2 page)

By the time the pastries are cool enough to be filled and iced, he has several ideas and is confident that his religieuses will blow those elementary school parents’ baked goods out of the water. If he can’t make one thing absolutely perfect, he’ll sure as hell do his best to make something else as close to perfection as he can get it.

Avery comes home when he’s almost done icing the first batch, has a second one waiting to be stuffed and iced, and a third in the oven. He hears the slam of the garage door, the sound of her shoes hitting the wall as she kicks them off. “Bastien!” she says, delighted, when she bursts into the kitchen and sees him. She drapes her small body over his shoulder, leaning all her weight on him, and he has to be careful not to jerk his arm. He doesn’t want to mess up the pastry he’s working on. Her long blonde hair tickles the side of his face. He turns enough to kiss the top of her head. She smells like Elmer’s glue. His nose wrinkles. “
Bonjour, petite chérie
,” he says. “How was school?”

“Boring,” she says in a singsong voice. “We’re learning fractions.” Her face scrunches up. “I don’t like them.”

“Your
maman
didn’t either,” he tells her. Fleur had complained about them endlessly when she’d been learning. “I can help with your homework if you need it.”

She beams at him, one of her front teeth missing. “
Merci
, Bastien,” she says. She digs her pointy chin into his shoulder. “What’re you making?”

“Religieuses,” he says. “For your school bake sale.”

She sticks her bottom lip out. “None for me?” she pouts, making her lip tremble.

Like mother, like daughter, he thinks. He chuckles. “I’ve got a batch just for us,” he promises. “You go do your homework, and after dinner you can have one.”

She claps, jumping a little. She gets a sly look in her sparkling blue eyes when she calms. “Could I have just a little icing first?” she wheedles, pinching her thumb and forefinger so there’s a little gap.

He sighs, mock put out. “Get me a spoon,” he says, unable to hide his smile when she dashes for the cutlery drawer and runs back with the spoon waving in her small hand. He squeezes enough icing onto it to fill the dip and gives the spoon back. “Don’t tell maman,” he warns her.

She gives him wide, innocent eyes. “Of course not,” she says, and then sticks the entire spoonful in her mouth. When she’s finished she pats him on the shoulder, looking earnest. “Can I help?”

“After your homework,” he tells her sternly. “You can help me decorate the next tray that’s in the oven.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She runs from the room, and he hears her yell a passing greeting to Fleur before the sound of her feet pounding up the stairs filters down. Predictably Fleur pops her head into the kitchen not even a minute later.

“You told her she could help, didn’t you?”

Bastien turns the pastry in front of him just so, making sure the whiskers on the rabbit face are even. “Yes,” he says, sparing her a brief glance. “She’s going to be my protégé.” Last Halloween she’d dressed as a chef. He’d nearly burst from pride.

Fleur laughs, taking several steps into the kitchen. She shoves her hands in her jeans pockets, rocking back on her heels. She gets the same look on her face that Avery had. Bastien rolls his eyes.

“Go get a spoon,” he says, his cheeks twitching with the effort not to grin.

She doesn’t run to the cutlery drawer, but it’s a close thing.

“PLEASE TELL
me you’re giving this place a god-awful review,” says his brother, Laurence, stretching his leg out to annoyingly kick James’s ankle. “We’ve been waiting for twenty minutes, and no one’s come to even get our drinks.”

James kicks back at him, hoping absently that he doesn’t scuff his shoes. They’re new Pradas. When his brother tries to kick him again, he moves his feet out of the way, tucking them under his chair. They’re at a “happening” new seafood restaurant, and so far he’s unimpressed. “Maybe the food is good,” he says. “But I’m definitely docking stars for this service.” He’s been sitting here for twenty minutes that feel like an hour because his brother won’t stop whining.

He wonders if this is part of the restaurant’s gimmick. They’re exclusive, and hoity-toity, and they don’t wait on you. You wait on them. If so, he’s not a fan of it. He’s going to make that very clear in his column.

His brother starts up the silverware band a minute later, tapping his fork on the table and his spoon against his empty wine glass. James tries to flag down a waitress. A tall brunette waitress looks right at him, empty tray in her hand, and keeps walking. He’s tempted to get up, go to the Mexican food truck he saw down the street, and write this place the most scathing review he can come up with. This is just
rude
.

It takes ten more minutes, but finally, at long last, a waiter approaches. His shirt is the color of salmon, and his slacks are crisply pressed. “Good evening,” he says, coming to a stop at their table, hands clasped primly in front of him. Something about his expression irks James. He thinks it’s the harassed air to it. His job is to take his order. He isn’t asking him to perform a dance for him. The waiter eyes Laurence’s use of the silverware, his lids narrowed in displeasure. “Can I start you off with something to drink?”

“The fanciest beer you have,” says Laurence, setting his silverware down and smiling at the waiter. It looks a little painful.

“I’ll try the house wine,” adds James.

The waiter nods and starts to walk away. Laurence looks like he’s having a heart attack. “Wait!” he calls, throwing a hand out as if he’s going to grab onto him and drag him back. The waiter turns. Laurence waves his thin menu around. “Can we order now? I’m ready.”

James doesn’t know why the waiter looks taken aback. They’ve been sitting here for half an hour. Did he think that wasn’t enough time to pick something to eat? He actually looks put out about having to take the couple steps toward them and listen to their orders. Once he’s retreated—to probably do a whole lot of nothing at this rate—Laurence bangs his head against the table, rattling their empty glasses and silverware.

“I miss the days where we used to go to hole-in-the-wall diners,” he says into the table. “I want greasy burgers that take five minutes to cook and that’ll give me a heart attack in ten years.”

“We still do,” points out James.
It’s just not as much.
“And you have kids. I’m thinking you should try and put the heart attack off for a little.”

Laurence makes a disgruntled face. “I think you should start reviewing food trucks. Leave behind this fanciness. They’re the new ‘in’ thing. I think they’ve even got a television show.”

“I’ll pitch that to my boss,” laughs James. He looks at the time on his phone and starts the mental clock for how long it’ll take before the plates hit the table. He’s ordered crab-stuffed filet mignon doused with a whiskey and peppercorn sauce. Laurence has ordered spinach, mushroom, and feta cheese stuffed flounder. He doesn’t think it’ll be quicker than forty-five minutes, but one can hope.

“It’s a brilliant idea,” presses Laurence. “You could pitch it as an addition to your column.”

“I’ll bring it up,” promises James. He actually wouldn’t mind doing a food truck column. There are some amazingly good ones out there. “It’s not like you don’t enjoy some of these places, though.”

Laurence shrugs his broad shoulders and looks around. “I do, but sometimes I want to eat at a place where I don’t have to wear a suit.” He tugs at his collar for emphasis. “It’s not even going to good use since Marcy won’t come with us.”

James laughs at that. Marcy is Laurence’s wife, and somehow she’s the pickiest eater on the planet. He thinks it’s a case of extreme irony. She doesn’t like fancy restaurants because, and he quotes, “The servings are too small, and they do all this weird shit to the food. Sometimes I just want a large pizza with mozzarella cheese and pepperoni, man. Not some cheese I can’t pronounce.”

Their drinks come then, and James thinks it might be a miracle that they only had to wait five minutes. Laurence looks at the waiter before he can scuttle off. “Keep these coming,” he says, pointing at the glass the waiter poured his beer into.

“All right, sir.”

“Five bucks says I only get one more beer out of him,” says Laurence, licking foam from his lip once he’s taken a long draw.

“I don’t like those odds.”

Laurence laughs so loudly they attract the attention of nearby diners. James ignores their judgmental stares, though he does note that several of them look as over the service as he feels. Maybe this review should come with commentary from fellow diners. He thinks that might add a new flavor to his column. Another level of disdain.

Time ticks by, and their food doesn’t arrive. Laurence’s drinks his beer, and the waiter doesn’t come back to refill it. James has to pace himself so he doesn’t drink the entire bottle of wine out of sheer boredom. He’s starting to wish he’d ordered a water with the wine.

“Is it any good?” asks Laurence, tilting his wine glass out, twirling it around in his fingers.

James waits for him to stop playing with it and pours him a little. Laurence isn’t really a wine person, and James is not a huge fan of this one, so he really doubts Laurence will be.

“It’s too sweet,” he warns him.

Laurence takes a tiny sip anyway, and his entire face scrunches up. “Bleh,” he says, setting the glass down and shoving it back. He sticks his tongue out. “I don’t know about sweet. That was bitter as all hell.”

He reaches for his silverware again, and James doesn’t think he can take more banging of it. “How about we play a game?”

“Like what?”

He unlocks his phone screen and flicks through his apps. “I’ve got Scrabble, tic-tac-toe, solitaire.”

His brother groans. “Who are you? I’ve got QuizUp. Download that and we can challenge each other. I’m not playing tic-tac-toe before dinner. You can tell me about any new books you’re working on. Bounce ideas off of me.”

James writes romance novels on the side—it’s just a hobby compared to his food critic career—and the last thing he needs is Laurence’s advice. His brother’s been begging him to put his characters in space for years now. It’s just not happening.

When their food arrives, over an hour later, their stomachs are gurgling, and they’re slouched in their not-so-comfortable seats, challenging each other in ridiculous history topics. Apparently Laurence doesn’t remember any of his American history class, and James knows absolutely nothing about art. Which is ironic because he does go to art galleries. James might actually be a little buzzed from half a bottle of wine on an empty stomach, enough to make him more amused with the game but not enough to take his irritation at their service away.

He’s not surprised when the food is much like everything else at the place: not great and cooked for too long. Apparently it had been cooked for the entire time they’d been waiting. His filet mignon is like chewing beef jerky. The crab inside is like shoving a handful of gravel into his mouth. The texture is all off. The sauce is pungent, overwhelming. He’s tempted to spit it out into his napkin.

Laurence isn’t having any problem plowing through his flounder. “Can I?” he asks, holding his fork out, and Laurence tilts his plate so James can get to the other end. It’s not as bad as his filet mignon, but it’s certainly not the best food he’s ever had. He doesn’t taste any mushrooms. He pokes at the end with his fork, doesn’t see any stuffed in there. “Are there actually mushrooms in this?”

Laurence takes a moment to chew and swallow. “I’ve gotten like two.” He’s already a third of the way through the fish.

“Do you like it?”

He shrugs. “I’m hungry. I think it could taste like cardboard and I’d eat it.” He points his fork at James. “We’re going to that cupcake shop on Eighth for dessert. I’m not waiting here.”

“All right,” says James, not even contemplating arguing. He doesn’t think dessert can save this place, seriously doubts it would even come close. He glances at his watch. “It might be closed by the time they give us the bill.” He watches Laurence’s jaw work as he chews. “Possibly not if you keep eating like that.”

He tries to eat his filet mignon, but he gives up after a few bites and settles for eating the overcooked mashed potatoes and vegetables on the side. They’re at least edible. That’s always a good line for a review.
At least something on the plate was edible. Bravo.

Laurence finishes his flounder in record time and pushes his chair back. “Bathroom?” asks James.

“I’m going to get our bill,” says Laurence, straightening his tie and smoothing down his shirt. “I want those cupcakes.”

“Good luck.”

He looks incredibly determined as he walks off in search of someone to help him. James shoves his plate away. He’ll eat a bunch of cupcakes to fill himself up and just hit the gym extra hard in the morning. While he waits for his brother to come back, he pulls up the notepad on his phone and writes pointers for his review. Witty comments he thought of while eating, that he might not remember in the morning.

His editor is going to have a field day with this one. He loves when James is particularly scathing. He’s got a decent-size list going before Laurence returns, their waiter trailing him slowly, a receipt in hand.

“Stay there,” says Laurence, taking the receipt from him. “We’re paying in cash, and we’re paying right now.” He looks to James. “It’s $327.” The message is clear: I’m not pitching in anything for this train wreck.

James pulls out the necessary bills and hands them to the waiter. He sees his face register the dollar tip. He honestly doesn’t even deserve that for the poor service he gave them, but James isn’t inclined to give absolutely nothing. He’ll just give close to it. “Word of advice,” he says, “if you want a good tip, you might want to check the table to see how your customers are doing.” He points at the nametag, which tells him the guy’s name is Louis. “And you might want to introduce yourself. Just a thought.”

Getting out of the cloying atmosphere of the restaurant is a relief. He takes a deep breath of non-seafood-scented air and lets the cool New York night wash over him. Laurence bumps his shoulder. “Cupcakes,” he whines plaintively and then adds, “You’re kind of an asshole.”