Francis and the Michelin restaurant

A short story from Micro Stories Collection and Short Stories

That evening I impressed upon my boyfriend that I would not accept being late and I had been ready to go way too early. Waiting at home to leave for the restaurant, I had to reapply my lipstick twice as in the meantime I drank one orange juice, one beer, smoked three cigarettes and had some nuts.

“Here, eat some nuts,” I told my boyfriend opening the hand of my stretched arm to let some nuts fall into the palm of his hand. He looked at me, frowning.

“Why, we are going to dinner soon.”

“Aperitivo,” I said munching.

The idea of going to a restaurant featuring with one star on last year Michelin guide was mine. My sweetheart, amour oblige, reserved a table to celebrate a minor happening in my life. The pictures of the dishes looked very artistic, but I doubted they would fill my boyfriend’s stomach, which was accustomed to schnitzel or pizza the size of a large teller. I was not concerned about my stomach, which the excitement knotted at the level of my plexus.

The colourful dishes on the website intrigued me but I had another reason to go there.

Seven o'clock sharp. As the waiter took us to our table, I heard my boyfriend say quietly to remember to walk instead of jumping, which was unfair, he knew I could not really jump with the high heels I was wearing. Instead, I worried about the thick crème carpet, which seemed to me not enough stable for my slim stilettos. I glanced right and left, but the dining room was still quite empty, thus providing less witnesses to my possible fall face down. I though somehow managed to arrive safely at the round table and I sat down. There was so much space between one table and the other that you for a change you could not hear the nearby diners unless they would decide to shout.

With an affable smile we were giving a thin but large white cardboard with blue edges, where the word “Menu” was written in an elaborate calligraphic style. I glance through the few lines, right and left of the open cardboard.

“Hey, there are no prices here,” I complained softly to my boyfriend.

He moved his head on the side, out of the menu and looked at me with a serious face.

“Lucky you, mine has them, and you don’t want to know them,” and hid his face again leaving me wondering.

“Is it very expensive?” I asked worried.

“We knew about it before, right?” he replied, keeping himself buried behind the cardboard.

“Yes, yes, we discussed about it.” I tried to put this worry aside and told myself that it was not just a dinner, it was an investment. A large one, in fact, thinking about my part-time job as an online English teacher and the expensive two-rooms flat which I had to pay alone after my flatmate leaved at short notice.

My boyfriend pushed the menu aside again and looked straight into my eyes, his lips a thin line.

“It just pisses me off to pay 15 € for a bottle of water…”

“Oh.” We did not think about the cost of the drinks. I was speechless and my stomach pit began to close as well. I hid my falling face, wondering whether I would be able to pay all my bills, after that dinner.

Putting the menu aside, my boyfriend told me his choice. I peeked at him, he was smiling. I shyly asked whether the chicken dish was more expensive of the noodle with goat cheese and parmesan.

He bent his body towards my direction.

“Don’t worry, it is ok. I was just not prepared for the price of the drinks. But even if we exceed a little our budget, it is no big deal. This evening is for you, my dreamboat.”

I love him, ah how sweet he is. Basked in his love, I pushed any thought about financial disaster aside and I opted for the chicken as main course and a glass of red. We usually shared a starter the few times we ate at a restaurant, but to taste and experience more of the food, we each took one.

Dreamboat, he called me. Indeed, I had a boat full of dreams, but I struggled to make any coming true. That night, that night had a specific purpose: inspiration. I was a writer, but my inspiration had been dried for a while, I struggled to find meaning or something remotely interesting. One night, escaping the feeling of failure that the white page had been giving me for weeks, I was impressed by chefs of all ages and nationalities speaking about cooking in a documentary about the legendary Michelin guide. The passion they had for their work convinced me that they were worth knowing them, and faulting that, to taste their cooking. It would be like swallowing inspiration under the form of scallops with chestnut velouté and watercress cupcake or parmesan purée on seaweed crackers.

We sipped our (expensive) glass of wine, still excited. I was wearing my black sleeveless dress, which looked very sexy on the model showcasing it on a website, while on me just looked appropriate for an evening out. Josh was looking good, in his bluish shirt and grey suit, the one he last wore for his sister´s wedding, where we met. I knew it was the only suit he had, but each time he wore it, I always felt he was wearing it for me, and I loved that.

We did not wait long for our starter. The smiling waiter put in front of us two large dishes, their whiteness interrupted by the profusion of colours of the starters. We each looked carefully at our dishes, before exploring with the eyes each other’s plate. On mine there were two green salad leaves, on top of that a red paste decorated with an orange sauce (carrots) and a greenish one which I did not remember what it was, a small lovely yellow petal completed the presentation. Josh opted for a soup as a starter and the edge of his dish had been skilfully decorated with a brown sauce, matching the clear beige of the soup, where three pieces of ravioli were swimming in it.

We grabbed our fork and we got started. I ended first. Josh took longer because he had the broth to drink, and he was carefully not to spill it on his suit. It took us approximately 5’. We smiled a little smile to each other, to signal that it was all ok. I even commented that it was delicious, and Josh agreed. I looked around the restaurant again, trying to find out what the other tables were having, a completely useless try as I was short-sighted and refused to wear contacted lenses or glasses. My eyes were just good enough to take in the atmosphere and see someone approaching but recognizing a dish at the table next to us was a challenge my eyes did not bother taking.

The main course was served, again in large dishes, beautifully decorated. The portion was a little larger than the starter, but I was not sure whether it was due to the whole decoration or whether underneath I was going to find more meat.

I looked embarrassed at Josh.

“In the pictures on the website the portions looked somewhat larger,” I said with a pitiful look in my eyes.

“Well, luckily we had some nuts before coming,” he said taking the fork in his hand.

I did the same, very slowly, very carefully slicing the chicken in a smaller piece, the size of two peas, and chew 21 times, to make the dish last as long as possible. By the third and almost final bite, my fretfulness almost brought tears in my eyes. At each successive jaw movement, I wondered about the spark of creativity I expected to get. I chewed slower and slower, but nothing happened, and I blamed it on the ridiculous small portions, which did not allow any glimmer of inspiration to gather momentum and grow until some kind, any kind, of brilliant idea could flash into my brain.

“Francis, are you ok?” Josh asked me, reaching my arm with his hand.

I did not want him to talk to him, I did not want to use my mental faculties to form a sentence, which would have distracted me from the sensations arising from my goddammed Porto glazed chicken roll with turnip mousse and caramelized almonds I desperately tried to feel and transform into something viable on paper.

I felt Josh’s eyes on my while I chewed my last bite, eyes closed.

“Tell me that you are enjoying your food, please,” I heard Josh say, “because this is the exact expression you have when we are having sex.”

I had to swallow on the spot, to avoid any chicken particles to come out of my mouth as I started laughing. That was it. We paid our bill and rushed out in the street overflowing with wet leaves, where we could laugh all the way home, hugging each other tight against the wind. The high of that walk succeeded where the star food failed. The next day a new me sat in front of the white page, ready to challenge its emptiness. I took a deep breath, letting the warm memories of that walk flowing into me, and from there I let them leak all the way to my fingertips, which finally moved keen and freely on the keyboard. I did it. I am writing again.