PETROSSIAN

1985

The dining room is paneled with rich slabs of mocha mahogany. The Art Deco women etched onto the full-length mirrors behind the bar are designed by Erté. The bar glows in muted shades of lavender and gold. The floor is polished granite, the banquettes upholstered in mink, stemware by Lalique, silverware by the house of Christofle. The very air shimmers with a mist of wealth.

They serve fish eggs here. Expensive fish eggs.

I’m the day bartender. Francois got me in. Waiters who work the French Restaurant circuit tend to migrate from job to job. Francois said goodbye to Chez Pascal and landed here, at Petrossian, as the Maitre’d hotel. On my first day, Francois had said, “Do not be ashamed that you are only a day bartender. It was the only position open. Hold your head high, Tedee. Have some pride. Play your card and you will make money. Not what you made at Pascal, but you do not need money, yes? You are bohemian, no?”

“This bohemian has never tasted caviar. May I try some?”

“You will never see one egg. You cannot afford it and Monsieur Petrossian will not allow it.”

“When do I meet Monsieur Petrossian?”

“You will never meet him or wait on him. He is way too muy importante. He is the only person allowed behind the Iron Curtain to fish the Caspian Sea for sturgeon. Only the best humans may approach him or wait on him. Like me.”

“Seems like a lot of fuss for a fish monger.”

“Shut-up, you twit. You are a day bartender. What do you know?”

~~

A month later, I’m behind the bar, prepping for lunch. I’m distracted from making the perfect lemon twist – paper thin, all yellow, no pith – by a noisy maelstrom of fire, fury, and phlegm, emanating from the host stand. It’s Francois. He’s on the telephone with René, the house chauffeur. “You fool. You twit. You ignorant ignoramus.” Francois bangs the receiver onto its cradle, picks it up and bangs it again.

René has misplaced Christian Petrossian. He was supposed to meet him at the airport. Monsieur Petrossian lives in Paris, and pops over here four or five times a year to have a look at his flagship restaurant and retail store. He prefers flying the supersonic Concorde. It leaves Paris at 11am, passes through combating time zones, and lands at JFK at 10am, an hour before it took off. But it’s 11:15 and Monsieur Petrossian is nowhere to be found. He wasn’t at the gate. He’s not wandering lost in baggage claim. He is not having a drink in the airport bar. He has, essentially, vanished, and Francois has morphed into an even more frenzied Spaniard than he usually is.

Francois says, “I have lost Monsieur Petrossian.” He produces a pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights. “I need to think of a new job. Keep an eye.” Francois walks off the floor.

Minutes later, I look up from my debris field of fat, mangled lemon twists, and spot a guy standing at my bar. He’s sophisticated, confident, but looks lost. He’s standing behind Mr. Maddock’s bar stool. Mr. Maddock is my Tuesday regular. Extra-dry gin martini, an ounce of Beluga, half bottle of white, whatever fish is on special, espresso. He’s a twenty-five dollar tip and gets cranky if I allow someone else to sit in his preferred seat.

I approach the interloper, a guy I’ve never seen before, “Good morning, sir. Do me a favor. Don’t sit there. That’s Mr. Maddock’s seat. He’s a regular. Twelve o’clock on the nose. Every Tuesday. If he doesn’t get this seat, he’ll be irritable all afternoon. Come, sit over here. Next to me.”

The guy smiles and says, “Of course.” His teeth are piercingly white. He walks the length of the bar, stops, and looks around the empty restaurant.

“Where is everyone?”

“Customers start piling in around noon. Maître d’ is downstairs, working on his resumé. And the waiters are crowded in the wait station, making fun of me. They’re French. It’s what they do to the new guy. I’m used to it. Takes about three months to be accepted. Usually. What can I get for you?”

“An espresso, for now.”

“You’re in luck,” I say, “the machine’s working today.” His eyes narrow. I can’t tell if he’s amused or annoyed. I go to the waiter station. The waiters huddled in the corner make guttural Gallic noises that translate to, “Let us watch the American idiot attempt to make espresso.” To their dismay, the espresso machine produces a smooth coating of brown creaminess over a single shot of robustly bitter coffee. I smile smugly at the frogs, throw them a “Ribbit,” and return to the bar. I add a fat but freshly cut lemon twist to the cup. I place it in front of my guy. He’s still standing.

“Take a load off,” I say.

With fingers from both hands he squeezes the lemon twist into his coffee, and says, “I prefer to stand.” He has an accent, but I can’t place it. Not French or Spanish. Somewhere in between. Whatever it is, it comes from deep within his chest. He bends forward, a protective hand over his tie, and sips the espresso. I notice his suit: charcoal gray, Gary Cooper sharp, about three-thousand bucks. This guy is packing a loaded wallet. Best way to make friends with wealth is to let him know you don’t care he’s wealthy.

“Nice suit,” I say, “Where did you get it? Today’s Man?”

“You are brave,” he says with a resonant chuckle; “I had it made.”

“Let me guess. By elves?”

He nods his head while tossing back the remaining espresso, “Yes. Elves.”

“Elves work cheap, I hear.”

“Not these elves,” he says, “they are British elves. Thieves.” He’s really smiling now. The guy is James Bond handsome. I don’t usually get the chance to converse with the pretty ones, so I slog on. He’s swirling something through the fingers of his right hand: a bracelet-sized chain holding four or five gold pellets. I ask him about it.

“These are my worry beads,” he says.

“I could use a set of those.”

“You are new.” Less a question, more a quizzical statement.

“About a month.”

“Do you enjoy working here?”

“It’s okay. Except…” – I lean in – “they won’t let me taste the caviar. My boss says I never will. He said Christian Petrossian counts the eggs.”

“That is disappointing.”

“I’ll say.”

Francois returns to the host desk, palpitating with fey anger. The phone rings. He grabs it, calms himself, “Good morning. This is Petrossian.” A pause. Then the explosion. “No, you twit, he is not here. Do not call me again until you find him.” Francois bangs the receiver onto its cradle, again and again and again. The cradle cracks.

“What is going on,” says my guy, “I sense a catastrôphe.”

“They’ve lost the owner.”

“Ah, so that is why Francois is…over-acting?”

“You know Francois?”

“I should. I hired him. I am Christian Petrossian.” He holds out his hand. I shake it. The gold beads are cold. The hand is hot.

He says, “It is a pleasure to meet a man with a smile on his heart.”

“Ditto,” I say.

Still clasping my hand, Petrossian calls out, “Francois.”

Francois turns, sees me and Christian Petrossian holding hands, and the breath leaves his body. He clutches the host desk to keep from falling.

“Monsieur Petrossian. You are…”

“Oui, Francois, c’est moi. The flight was early. Your chauffeur was late. I hailed a taxi. Now, bring me one ounce each of Beluga, Sevruga, and Osetra. My new friend…what is your name?”

“Ted.”

“My new friend, Tedee, and I shall taste some caviar. Don’t forget the toast.”

Francois has not moved or blinked since spotting us. Christian Petrossian turns and addresses him impatiently.

“Francois?”

Francois bursts into flames, an angry, sulfurous inferno. He dashes to get the caviar.

It’s now noon. The waiters appear on the floor, ready for work. They see me being introduced to the joys of caviar by Christian Petrossian himself. They are suddenly my best friends.