The Rosie Effect
Page 67
There was a greetings person at a lectern just inside the door. I addressed her in the conventional manner. ‘Good evening. I have a reservation in the name of Tillman.’
It was as if I had said, ‘We have detected bubonic plague in the restaurant.’ She walked off rapidly.
‘What’s up her nose?’ said Rosie. ‘You’re wearing a jacket.’ This was true, although the restaurant did not have a formal dress code. I realised it was a reference to the night Rosie and I first had dinner together. The series of events that began with me being refused entry to a restaurant due to some confusion about the definition of ‘jacket’ ultimately led to our relationship. So much had changed since then.
Bubonic Plague Woman returned with a formally dressed person whom I assumed was the maître d’.
‘Professor Tillman. Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.’
‘Of course. I made a reservation. For this time. Exactly.’
‘Yes. Now it was for two people, am I right?’
‘Correct. Was. Now three.’
‘Well, we’re very full. And the chef has gone to some trouble, I understand, to accommodate your specific requirements.’
Very full was a modified absolute. I was pleased my father was not with us. But it was obviously unacceptably rude to exclude Gene, now that he had walked to the restaurant. I turned to leave. ‘We can find somewhere else,’ I said to the maitre d’.
‘No, for God’s sake, no, we’ll sort something out. Just wait a moment.’
A couple arrived and he turned his attention to them. ‘Reservation for two at eight,’ said the man. It was now 8.34 p.m.
They did not identify themselves but the maître d’ apparently recognised them, as he made a mark on his list. I looked again. It was Loud Woman from the night I was fired from my cocktail job!
She was definitely pregnant. As far as I could tell, she was not drunk. At least the sacrifice of my job to protect her baby from foetal alcohol syndrome had not been based on a misjudgement.
Her companion spoke to her. ‘You’re going to die for the truffled brie.’
Die. His choice of word was potentially accurate. I had no choice but to intervene. ‘Unpasteurised cheeses may carry listeria and are hence inadvisable in pregnancy. You’ll be putting the foetus at risk. Again.’
She looked at me. ‘You! The cocktail nazi! What the fuck are you doing here?’
The answer was obvious and I was not required to give it, as the maître d’ interrupted.
‘Actually, we’re doing a very special degustation menu tonight. We had a customer with some unusual requirements, and in the end the chef decided to prepare the meal for the whole restaurant.’ He looked at me in an odd way and spoke slowly. ‘In order to preserve his sanity.’
‘Is the truffled brie on? What about the lobster sashimi?’ Loud Woman asked.
‘Tonight, the brie will be replaced by an artisanal local ewe’s milk cheese and the Maine lobster will be cooked in a broth enhanced by—’
‘Forget it.’
‘Madame, if I might be so bold, you might find tonight’s menu particularly appropriate for your…situation,’ said the maître d’.
‘My situation? Holy fuck.’ She pulled her partner towards the door. ‘We’ll go to Daniel.’
Twice I had saved this woman’s baby, or at least given it another chance. I deserved to be its godfather. I could only hope that Daniel would be cognisant of the risks of food poisoning in pregnancy.
Rosie was laughing. Gene was shaking his head. But a problem had been solved.
‘You now have two seats available,’ I said to the maître d’. ‘And a reduction in the crowding problem.’
We were guided to a window table.
‘They’ve guaranteed all food will be compatible with a baby under development according to the strictest guidelines and that the aggregate nutrition will be perfectly balanced. And incredibly delicious.’
‘How can they do that?’ asked Rosie. ‘Chefs don’t know about that sort of stuff. Not at your level of…detail.’
‘This one does. Now.’ I had spent two hours and eight minutes on the phone explaining, supplemented by several follow-up calls. Gene and Rosie thought it was hilarious. Then Gene raised a glass of champagne to toast Rosie’s success, and, in accordance with convention, Rosie and I raised our mineral water and champagne glasses respectively.
‘The future Doctor Jarman,’ said Gene.
‘Doctor Doctor Jarman,’ I pointed out. ‘When you’ve finished the MD, you’ll have two doctorates.’
‘Well,’ said Rosie, ‘that’s one of the things I wanted to tell you. I’m deferring.’
At last! She had listened to reason. ‘Correct decision,’ I said.
Food arrived.
‘Vitamin A,’ I said, ‘packaged in calf’s liver.’
‘You’re really taking my renunciation of pescatarianism literally, aren’t you?’ said Rosie.
‘If you want to minimise environmental impact, you eat the entire animal,’ I said. ‘And it’s delicious.’
Rosie took a bite. ‘It’s not bad. Okay, it’s good. Great. Whatever happens, I’ll never say you were insensitive about food.’
After the carob-based low-sugar petits fours and decaffeinated coffee arrived, I asked for the bill—the check, please—and Gene returned the conversation to Rosie’s plans.
It was as if I had said, ‘We have detected bubonic plague in the restaurant.’ She walked off rapidly.
‘What’s up her nose?’ said Rosie. ‘You’re wearing a jacket.’ This was true, although the restaurant did not have a formal dress code. I realised it was a reference to the night Rosie and I first had dinner together. The series of events that began with me being refused entry to a restaurant due to some confusion about the definition of ‘jacket’ ultimately led to our relationship. So much had changed since then.
Bubonic Plague Woman returned with a formally dressed person whom I assumed was the maître d’.
‘Professor Tillman. Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.’
‘Of course. I made a reservation. For this time. Exactly.’
‘Yes. Now it was for two people, am I right?’
‘Correct. Was. Now three.’
‘Well, we’re very full. And the chef has gone to some trouble, I understand, to accommodate your specific requirements.’
Very full was a modified absolute. I was pleased my father was not with us. But it was obviously unacceptably rude to exclude Gene, now that he had walked to the restaurant. I turned to leave. ‘We can find somewhere else,’ I said to the maitre d’.
‘No, for God’s sake, no, we’ll sort something out. Just wait a moment.’
A couple arrived and he turned his attention to them. ‘Reservation for two at eight,’ said the man. It was now 8.34 p.m.
They did not identify themselves but the maître d’ apparently recognised them, as he made a mark on his list. I looked again. It was Loud Woman from the night I was fired from my cocktail job!
She was definitely pregnant. As far as I could tell, she was not drunk. At least the sacrifice of my job to protect her baby from foetal alcohol syndrome had not been based on a misjudgement.
Her companion spoke to her. ‘You’re going to die for the truffled brie.’
Die. His choice of word was potentially accurate. I had no choice but to intervene. ‘Unpasteurised cheeses may carry listeria and are hence inadvisable in pregnancy. You’ll be putting the foetus at risk. Again.’
She looked at me. ‘You! The cocktail nazi! What the fuck are you doing here?’
The answer was obvious and I was not required to give it, as the maître d’ interrupted.
‘Actually, we’re doing a very special degustation menu tonight. We had a customer with some unusual requirements, and in the end the chef decided to prepare the meal for the whole restaurant.’ He looked at me in an odd way and spoke slowly. ‘In order to preserve his sanity.’
‘Is the truffled brie on? What about the lobster sashimi?’ Loud Woman asked.
‘Tonight, the brie will be replaced by an artisanal local ewe’s milk cheese and the Maine lobster will be cooked in a broth enhanced by—’
‘Forget it.’
‘Madame, if I might be so bold, you might find tonight’s menu particularly appropriate for your…situation,’ said the maître d’.
‘My situation? Holy fuck.’ She pulled her partner towards the door. ‘We’ll go to Daniel.’
Twice I had saved this woman’s baby, or at least given it another chance. I deserved to be its godfather. I could only hope that Daniel would be cognisant of the risks of food poisoning in pregnancy.
Rosie was laughing. Gene was shaking his head. But a problem had been solved.
‘You now have two seats available,’ I said to the maître d’. ‘And a reduction in the crowding problem.’
We were guided to a window table.
‘They’ve guaranteed all food will be compatible with a baby under development according to the strictest guidelines and that the aggregate nutrition will be perfectly balanced. And incredibly delicious.’
‘How can they do that?’ asked Rosie. ‘Chefs don’t know about that sort of stuff. Not at your level of…detail.’
‘This one does. Now.’ I had spent two hours and eight minutes on the phone explaining, supplemented by several follow-up calls. Gene and Rosie thought it was hilarious. Then Gene raised a glass of champagne to toast Rosie’s success, and, in accordance with convention, Rosie and I raised our mineral water and champagne glasses respectively.
‘The future Doctor Jarman,’ said Gene.
‘Doctor Doctor Jarman,’ I pointed out. ‘When you’ve finished the MD, you’ll have two doctorates.’
‘Well,’ said Rosie, ‘that’s one of the things I wanted to tell you. I’m deferring.’
At last! She had listened to reason. ‘Correct decision,’ I said.
Food arrived.
‘Vitamin A,’ I said, ‘packaged in calf’s liver.’
‘You’re really taking my renunciation of pescatarianism literally, aren’t you?’ said Rosie.
‘If you want to minimise environmental impact, you eat the entire animal,’ I said. ‘And it’s delicious.’
Rosie took a bite. ‘It’s not bad. Okay, it’s good. Great. Whatever happens, I’ll never say you were insensitive about food.’
After the carob-based low-sugar petits fours and decaffeinated coffee arrived, I asked for the bill—the check, please—and Gene returned the conversation to Rosie’s plans.
