It’s our grand opening. My first day, first order, first food critic. I’m sure of it—he’s gorging on every detail of the restaurant, taking notes on his phone, maybe about the décor, the lighting. Maybe about me. No smile.
He orders the flat iron-crusted prawns to start, the lobster cavatelli for his main. Asks me to recommend a wine.
“The Etna Bianco would make a sharp, elegant match with shellfish,” I say.
He nods without looking up at me, then shrugs. “Sure.”
I relay his order. The kitchen’s a war zone: line cooks sweating through their whites, servers juggling charm and panic. Chef Bobby burned through his savings to build this place. We believe in it.
The critic finishes his meal, gestures for the dessert menu. Points to the Caramel Espresso Tiramisu. Solid choice. But I hesitate. Today we need to astonish.
“You might also consider Chef Bobby’s Pistachio Sundae,” I say. “Pistachio gelato, Amarena cherries, Sicilian dark chocolate sauce. Whipped crema with Tahitian vanilla. Pistachio brittle made with monk-harvested sea salt. It’s decadent. Unforgettable.”
He looks at me like I’ve insulted his bloodline. Then:
“Fine.”
We plate it like a dream—green, red, white, black. Childhood memory meets European aristocracy. He leans forward. Takes a bite.
And something changes.
His posture loosens. His eyelids flutter. He chews like he’s slipping into a dream. One with yachts. Nannies. Private sommeliers.
Another bite. Pupils dilate. A sigh, almost erotic.
But when I return with the check he’s frowning again. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t tip. Just pays the bill and leaves.
I die a little inside.
The next night, Chef Bobby charges into the kitchen waving his phone. “You guys! Rave review!”
He’s beaming. The Pistachio Sundae got a whole paragraph: “Transcendent. Drenched in luxury. A dessert worthy of the last days of Rome.”
Relief courses through me. We blew the critic away.
Except it wasn’t me who served her.
Turns out a different guest wrote the review. She sat at table nine. Not my table.
The guy I’d stewed over? He works in finance. Still comes in every week. Always orders the sundae. Devours it like it’s his birthright.
Every time, he gets a little louder. A little ruddier. Fleshier. He sweats through his Ralph Lauren shirts. Licks his spoon like it owes him money.
Chef Bobby says the rich don’t know when they’ve already been eaten.
We just keep feeding them.
One bite at a time.
Mathieu Parsy is a Canadian writer who grew up on the French Riviera. He now lives in Toronto and works in the travel industry. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as New World Writing Quarterly, BULL, MoonPark Review, and Bending Genres. Follow him on Instagram at @mathieu_parsy.
Comments are closed.