"Pauline," I said, "this is my daughter, Margot. And her fiancé, Peter. And Peter's parents, Graham and Philippa Lindqvist."
Pauline turned to the table, and something in her softened. She looked at Margot for a long moment.
"Margot," she said. "Oh, honey. Look at you. You don't remember me, do you?"
Margot opened her mouth and closed it. "I'm sorry, I—"
"No, no. Why would you? You were this big." Pauline held her hand flat at about the height of the table. "You used to sit on a milk crate in my kitchen on Fulton and eat pierogi off my cutting board with your fingers. Potato and cheese. You wouldn't touch the sauerkraut ones. You said they tasted like feet." She laughed, and her eyes were wet. "Your mother used to say you'd turn into a pierogi."
Margot didn't say anything. I don't think she could.
"I'm sorry," said Philippa, setting down her cup at last, and her voice had changed. It had lost its edges. "I'm afraid we're a bit lost. You and Wesley are old friends?"
Pauline looked at her, then at me, and I knew what was coming, and I tried to give her a look that said, Not here, Pauline, not tonight, but she's never once in her life listened to me when it counted.
"Mrs. Lindqvist," she said, "this man is the reason this restaurant exists. This man is the reason I exist, professionally speaking. In 1998 my walk-in died two nights before the most important review of my life, with every dollar I had sitting inside it going warm, and this man came in on his own time, with his wife holding the flashlight and this one"—she pointed at Margot—"asleep in a car seat in my front booth, and he built me a new one out of junk and stayed until five in the morning, and he never let me pay him a dime." She took a breath. "There's a picture of it by the restrooms. Go look on your way out."
"Pauline," I said.
"Shut up, Wes. I've been waiting five years to embarrass you." She turned back to the waiter. "Kevin. This table's done. Nothing comes to them. Bring them the Tokaji. The good one, from downstairs."
"Oh, we couldn't possibly," said Graham, half-rising. "Please. We insist on—"
Pauline put a hand on his shoulder, very gently, and pressed him back down into his chair.
"Mr. Lindqvist," she said. "With respect. I have been trying to pay this man for twenty-eight years. Don't you start getting in my way now."
She kissed me on the cheek and went back toward the kitchen, and Rudy followed her, pointing at me over his shoulder and mouthing, Call me. The room slowly began to make its normal noises again.