He hadn't forgotten her. He had fixated on her. Peterson walked over to Sophia, his face a mask of grim resignation. "It's you, Rossi.
He asked for you." Remember what we talked about. Be a machine. No more clever remarks.
Just do your job and get out. Nodding numbly, Sophia smoothed her apron with clammy hands. This felt different from last time. last time was an accident. This was an appointment.
As she walked towards table 7, she felt like she was walking the green mile. The whispers of her colleagues were gone, replaced by an unnerving, watchful silence. Blackwood was already seated a glass of water in front of him, which was unusual. He typically started with scotch.
He watched her approach, his pale eyes, tracking her every step. "Good evening, Mr. Blackwood," Sophia said, her voice impressively steady despite the frantic beating of her heart. She placed the menu on the table. "Rossi," he acknowledged his tone flat.
He didn't look at the menu. "I'll start with the seared scallops, but I want them seared for precisely 1 minute on each side. Use a stopwatch if you must. They are to be served on a bed of wilted spinach, but the spinach must not touch the scallops.
A clear demarcation. Sophia meticulously wrote it down. "Yes, sir." "And for your main course, I was considering the duck confit," he said, tapping a long finger on the table.
But I find the cherry sauce you serve it with to be pedestrian. Tell the chef I want an orange-and-star-anise reduction instead. It should be tart, not sweet. If I taste more than a hint of sugar, it will be sent back.
This was a direct challenge to Chef Antoine's authority and his menu. It was designed to be difficult to cause friction in the kitchen to see if she would push back or relay the insulting demand. An orange-and-star-anise reduction. Tart, not sweet.
Understood, Sophia said calmly, making a note. "And to drink?" "Water," he said. "From a bottle unopened.
And I'll require three lemon wedges, not two, not four. Three. And a separate glass filled with ice. I will mix it myself."
Every request was a small assertion of power, a deliberate complication of a simple process. It was a labyrinth of pointless specifications designed to make her trip up to make her fail. Sophia met his gaze, held it for a beat, and then gave a slight professional nod. "Of course, sir.
I'll see to it immediately." She returned to the kitchen and relayed the orders. Antoine flew into a theatrical rage. "Orange and star anise."
"Does he think this is a short-order diner? Does he want me to invent a new dish for him on the spot and the scallops? A demarcation. Does he want me to build a little fence between them?"
"He's testing me, Chef," Sophia said quietly, her voice cutting through his tirade. Which means he's testing you. Please just do it perfectly. Antoine stared at her, then at the order slip.
He let out a long frustrated sigh. "Fine. For you, Sophia, we will do it. We will build him his fence of spinach."
The first test came with the water. Sophia returned with a chilled bottle of San Pellegrino, a bucket of ice, a highball glass filled with perfectly clear ice cubes, and a small plate bearing exactly three uniformly cut lemon wedges. She opened the bottle in front of him, placed everything on the table within his reach, and retreated without a word. He watched her, a hawk, observing its prey, but found no fault.
Next, the scallops. When the plate came up from the kitchen, it was a work of art. The three large scallops were seared to a perfect golden brown. They sat on one side of the plate.
On the other, a neat mound of vibrant green spinach wilted just so. A literal gap of white porcelain, a demarcation, separated them. Sophia carried it to the table with the steadiness of a surgeon. She placed it before him.
"Your seared scallops, sir." Blackwood stared down at the plate for a long time. He picked up his fork and nudged one of the scallops, checking its underside. He then took a small bite of the spinach.
He chewed slowly, deliberately, his face an unreadable slate. He then cut a small piece from the scallop and ate it. Sophia stood perfectly still, holding her breath. He said nothing.
He simply finished the scallops and the spinach, leaving the plate clean. It was neither a compliment nor a complaint. It was a void.
The main course was the true crucible. The duck confit arrived the skin impossibly crisp and beside it in a small silver sauceboat was a dark glistening reduction. Sophia placed it down. "The duck confit with the orange-and-star-anise reduction you requested."
Blackwood picked up the sauceboat and poured a small amount onto the side of his plate. He dipped the tip of his fork in just a tiny drop and brought it to his lips. He closed his eyes. Sophia could see the muscles in his jaw working.
The entire dining room seemed to be holding its breath with her. He opened his eyes and looked at the source, then at Sophia. "It's adequate." From Alistair Blackwood, adequate was the highest form of praise.
A wave of relief so profound washed over Sophia that she felt light-headed. He proceeded to eat the entire meal meticulously, sourcing each bite himself. He declined dessert, but ordered a coffee. "Black," he commanded.
And I want it brewed fresh. I don't want coffee that has been sitting on a burner. Sophia brought him a steaming cup brewed just moments before. He took a sip and set it down.
The meal was over. The test, it seemed, was complete. "The check," he said, his voice clipped. Sophia processed the bill and brought it back in the leather folio.
He placed a black credit card inside without looking at the total. She took it, ran the transaction, and brought back the slip for him to sign. He scrolled an unreadable signature stood up and walked towards the exit without a backward glance.