Chez Pascal – 1985

First letter of the reservation is “B.” The rest is indecipherable, one of Vachon’s scribbles. It’s a party of four. Had Vachon realized that “B Indecipherable” was the nom de plume of Gael Greene, food critic for New York Magazine, he would have reserved her a spot in the VIP section. But that section is already packed with real VIPS, so “B Indecipherable” and party are exiled to No Man’s Land, AKA my section. As low man on this French totem pole, I get to wait on all the indecipherables.

Ms. Greene’s most vocal companion – a tall, once-handsome galoot, surrounded by an air of masculine prissiness, a real Mister Mary – loudly declares that he is not happy with the table, but Ms. Greene taps his forearm and says, “Leave it.”

By now Vachon recognizes Ms. Greene – that damned flapitudinal hat fools no one. He grabs my elbow and gets in real close. I can feel his whiskers on my ear. “That is Gael Greene,” he coarsely whispers. “She writes on food. Do not fuck her up.”

After cocktails and a couple of slices of Saucisson en Croûte (the house amuse-bouche), Ms. Greene and Mr. Mary order appetizers for the table: the Confit de Canard and the Salade de Haricots Verts et Truffes. Eight minutes later, I serve the appetizers. Mr. Mary finger-pokes the haricots, and says, “There’s hardly a truffle here. Is this the usual amount?”

Convinced that Ms. Greene is going to write that I, Ted the Waiter, ate one of the truffles on the way to the table, I panic, and sputter, “Um, I’m sorry, um, maybe?”

“Take it back to the kitchen and add more truffles,” Mr. Mary orders. “The correct amount this time.”

I know for a fact that I did not eat one of the truffles and regain some confidence. “Actually that is the correct amount,” I say, because it is, in fact, the correct amount. Truffles are expensive little buggers.

“You weren’t sure a second ago.”

“Now, I’m saying it is.”

Mr. Mary points to Ms. Greene. “This is Gael Greene. She is the food critic for New York Magazine.”

Ms. Greene stops him with a hand on his forearm. Her cover blown, she looks at at me, “Just go to the kitchen and get us more truffles, please.”

I take the salad back to the kitchen, and beg Machismo for more truffles, because it’s Gael Greene, and if she complains Vachon will shove his bazooka of hate up my ass. Machismo is a good guy, always on my side. He sticks a hand inside his pants and scratches his testicles. With newly scented fingers he reaches into the tin holding the truffles, lifts out three pieces, and gingerly places them atop the salad.

“Tell them, Bon Apetit,” he says.

I re-serve the salad. I say, “Bon Apetit.” I try to escape.

“Wait,” says Mr. Mary, “Pepper? Doesn’t Robey allow pepper mills in here?”

Fuck. I forgot to offer pepper. I will not allow Mr. Mary to win this round, so I take a dramatic pause wherein I look heavenward for guidance, and say, “Pepper? On truffles?” like it’s wildly known to be akin to putting salt on a slug. There are those who despise being informed of something they should have already known, even if that “something” wasn’t entirely correct.

Ms. Greene says, “Never mind the pepper.”

I toddle off.

Later, while Ms. Greene and Mr. Mary discuss the height of their raspberry souffles, I bring two haricot vert salads to the adjoining table. I serve the salads with a great elan. Holding high a pepper mill like it’s a drum major’s baton, I say, quite loudly, “Would you care for pepper?”

Mr. Mary hears, and opens his mouth to squawk, but Ms. Greene intercedes, and says, “Leave it.” On her way out, she pulls Vachon aside and I’m sure complains about me. Vachon looks at me, then says something to Ms. Greene. She takes one long scurrilous look at me, and leaves. I await Vachon’s bazooka, but he says nothing. I feel as if I have just passed a test.