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Reggie
Burnt cheese, hot chocolate, and red wine.
These will forever be the scents I associate with Paris. Not the delicious, fresh pastries, boutique perfumes, the stunning architecture currently decorated with Christmas ornaments, garland wrapped around lampposts, cobblestone-lined streets boasting red and green accents, or the dazzling, well-lit boulevards and bridges, railings spun with glittering festive lights.
Immerse yourself in the culture, my mother said. Get a part-time job, she lamented. Or my personal favorite: Be one with your surroundings.
Despite the ruse—I’m not really studying abroad, although that’s what my mother and friends back home believe—I followed their advice. I found a quaint little studio apartment near Paris Diderot University, at which I’m pretending to study, allowing me to keep up pretenses with frequent selfies taken on campus. I’m really searching for my father, who disappeared from my life years ago, post-IRS investigation. I firmly believe he’s here, in Paris, and I’m determined to find him.
In addition to the university ruse, I found a job serving tables at an upscale boulangerie. Employment is actually a necessity so I’m able to afford to live in this very expensive city. It was a corner spot, sandwiched between a Tunisian restaurant and a flower shop bursting with color and vivid scents. The boulangerie was under a Gothic-styled building with wrought iron railings on Juliet balconies, just like you see in the movies.
For the first several weeks I indulged in all things bread, cheese, and wine. But after a while, the pungent aroma of burnt cheese, compliments of the ever popular croque monsieur—which is really just a fancy open-faced toasted ham and cheese sandwich—cease to hold their original appeal.
It doesn’t help that I’m lactose—and customers—intolerant. I’ve been popping Lactaid pills like a raver pops mollies.
As for the customers—I’ve yet to find a cure for them.
I sail through the kitchen, the pervasive, overpowering scents of oil, toasted bread, and cooked meat attacking my nostrils. The cacaphony of smells are permanently embedded in my uniform and is nearly impossible to get out of my hair.
“Your order for table eleven iz up.” Jacques’ thick French accent, and his tendency to replace the letter “s” with a “z” makes the simple statement sound romantic. Unfortunately, Jacques is anything but. He’s constantly hitting on me, which is awkward, especially since he hits on every single other server—male or female—who works here. He also happens to be in his early fifties, with a serious potbelly, pervy ’stach, and hair growing out of his ears and nose. Seems like no matter where you go in the world, there’s always at least one skeezy guy who works in the kitchen. Even more exciting is the fact that he hits on me in French, and while I’ve been studying the language for several years, textbook French and actual France-French are not even remotely the same thing.
“Thanks.” I load my arms with plates as quickly as I can in order to avoid potential pervy commentary.
He winks exaggeratedly. “Pas de problem, mon petit chou-fleur.”
I really don’t understand how being called a little cauliflower is a term of endearment.
Elodie, one of the full-time servers appears at my side and breaks into aggressive French. The speed at which she speaks makes it difficult to catch all but the occasional word. I’m fairly certain she calls him a shithead, though. She grabs three plates and tips her chin in the direction of the dining room, indicating I should follow her.
“He’s a disgusting pig.” Elodie is an exchange student like I am, except she’s from Australia instead of the US.
Oh, and she’s actually a student. I just pretend to be for the sake of my mother’s fragile heart.
“It wouldn’t be an authentic international experience if there wasn’t at least one workplace harassment issue, would it?”
Elodie snickers and then schools her expression, adopting a lazy smile as we step out into the dining room. We weave through the tables, heading for the terrace. It’s sunny, helping to temper the December chill. The crisp, cold air makes me shiver, but the heat lamps strategically placed around the terrace make outdoor dining possible. I wouldn’t be inclined to freeze my fingers off out here, but there seems to be an extraordinary number of people who are.
I long for warmer days of late summer, when I first arrived, where I could lounge in a park with a baguette, my lactose pills, and some cheese, resting my head on my fabricated boyfriend’s rippling abs, while I ponder my own existence. Or just get drunk on cheap wine, alone, whichever is more likely—option two, if you’re wondering.
Elodie and I deliver eight orders of croque monsieur to a table of college students, and refill their café au lait and waters. Once they seem content with their food, and the seventy-five-thousand extra things they also need before they can actually consume their lunch, I perform a visual sweep of my tables.
A new patron is seated in the very corner with his back to me. A plain manila folder sits at the edge of the table, a white document paper peeking out. His hand rests atop it, long fingers tapping restlessly, a silver watch adorns his wrist. He’s dressed in a black suit, which isn’t uncommon in here. Our clientele ranges from university students, to business professionals, and sometimes the hospital staff from down the street. But they often order for pick up instead of dining in.
On the floor beside his leg is an old, worn leather satchel. I peg him as a business professional—possibly a quirky one with his posh suit, expensive watch, and his worn-out bag that looks like it came from a secondhand store.
I glance down at my uniform of black dress pants and white button-down. Why anyone thinks white is a good option for the service industry is beyond me. Invariably, I end up with some stain on my sleeve by the end of my shift. Of course, today I already have some sort of reddish orange smear in the shape of a dildo on my left side boob, two inches from my nametag. Aphrodisiac? I tend to agree.
Nothing I can do about it now since I’m already at Business Guy’s table, and a trip to the bathroom to oust the stain will take precious minutes in which my potential tip will deteriorate.
“Bonjour, hello.” I manage to infuse a rainbow of cheerfulness in those two words.
His finger tapping ceases and he lifts his gaze from the menu. I notice a plethora of minute details in the brief moments between my speaking and our eyes locking.
He is quite literally the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. It’s as if one of those sculptures from the Louvre has suddenly come to life and decided to grab a spontaneous lunch here, in this boulangerie. His dark hair is styled neatly to the side, making his hair sweep elegantly across his forehead. The kind I always feel compelled to mess up for some reason. His eyebrows are arched, almost villainous, cheekbones high and contoured, like a model’s. His lips are full and plush and pillowy. Tauntingly kissable. And his jaw is square, sharp, with just the tiniest shadow of stubble.
