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“You read my mind. I’m Lily Olson, and I’m here to meet someone in the restaurant, Abigail Charpentier.”
He thrusts out his hand with a friendly smile. Good grip on him, too. “I’m Brooks Cargill. I am the event coordinator for the club,” he holds up a finger to someone behind me, “and we are prepping for a wedding—
“I’m sorry to bother you. If you direct me—
“No, no. I only mean to say that means I can help you. Follow me.”
“I appreciate it.” I follow Brooks, noting his wedding ring, as we make our way through the place. He takes me to the host station and asks for Abigail’s table, then guides me there. “Abigail?”
She smiles and nods, then stands, shaking my hand. “Nice to meet you, Lily.”
“Brooks, thanks again for your help.”
“My pleasure. Enjoy your evening.” He leaves us to it, and we sit down.
The restaurant portion of the club is equally grand, with white tablecloths and proper place settings, candles on the tables—not those tacky fake-flicker lights, and nice, low music on the speakers. Music is such a controversial topic for restaurants these days, and I’m glad to see they fall in line with my tastes.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me here.”
“Of course.”Anything for a job right now, and this is a better location for an interview than most.We order our drinks—her, a Chenin Blanc, me, water. “I’m sure you have a thousand questions.”
Abigail smiles, and it’s then that I notice she’s pretty in a plain way. Like every single feature is precisely what I would expect of a yacht club member. Dark blonde hair, slender, light freckling on her cheeks like she used to get too much sun, and a rock on her finger that could provide all the shade she would ever need. Her clothes are the plain beige things so many truly rich people wear—there’s even a loose string on her sleeve, as if to say she doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her or that she doesn’t spend time noticing things like that.
Our drinks come and after a sip, she leans in, like she’s divulging a secret. “These grapes were harvested too soon. Drinkable, but,” she gives a subtle shake of her head in distaste.
“Too acidic?”
Her bright brown eyes sparkle with recognition. “You know your wines?”
I shrug. “My sommelier—excuse me, myformersommelier—used to hold classes for my staff, so we’d be prepared for questions. He was a good instructor.”
“You have staff, and yet you want to nanny?”
“Sorry, I thought you got my CV.”
She smiles and shrugs. “I prefer to hear things from the person I’m hiring, not a piece of paper. People tell you more.”
“Oh.”Great, spent all that time making a CV for nothing.“Well, I am a chef—wasa chef.”
“You’re kidding! That’s amazing. My husband comes from a long line of vignerons in France, and we are going to visit his family’s vineyard for a month and half soon, which is why we need a nanny.”
“To go with you to France?”
She shakes her head. “The kids have school, and I’m not about to pull them out of Billingsley for that long, but I can’t not go, because my husband’s family is having several major events over that time.”
“That makes sense.” I can’t help but enjoy her energy about food. Anyone who enjoys food as much as I do is alright in my book.
Until we order.
Then she asks a bunch of questions of the server, dictates the temperatures of her foods, and all the other things that kitchen staff has nightmares about. The kicker is when she says she has a wheat allergy, but then brushes aside the server’s advice regarding a bechamel for her filet. He rightly points out that it’s wheat flour based, but she doesn’t care. “It’s fine, thank you.”
My inner critic is rolling my eyes, but outwardly, I just order my salad and plain pasta. The server is clearly relieved by my simple request and leaves quickly.
“This is the best restaurant in town, and that’s what you order?” Abigail asks.
“Doing what I do, it’s hard not to be picky about restaurants, no matter their reputation. If they do the simple stuff well, then it’s striking. If they can’t manage the simple stuff, then I’m glad I didn’t try to get a job here.”
She smiles knowingly. “I think it was Anthony Bourdain who said it best—that if a restaurant cannot do a cheese omelet right, then there’s no point in trying anything else on the menu.”
