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I couldn’t be too combatant. I needed this job. But if I wanted to survive it, for my sanity’s sake, I couldn’t just take his shit and pretend I liked the stench.
Beside me, someone banged on the door. I glanced at it, my embarrassment heightened when I caught sight of Dana and another employee through the glass panel on the locked door.
They were trying to get into the employee room, but at the sight of me, they stopped and stared as I approached the cart.
I could feel Bastiano’s amusement from across the room as I obeyed him in front of an audience. My anger flared.
We could have easily done this job interview in his spacious office, but he knew what time it was and had deliberately chosen a public area—at a time when employees were showing up—to publicize my humiliation.
“Problem?” he asked, and even though I couldn’t see him, I could hear the satisfaction in his voice.
My fists tightly clasped the bar of the cart, and I tried with all my might to transfer my humiliation into it and ignore the crowd.
When I turned around and pushed the cart to him like his personal fucking maid, I had a saccharine smile pasted on my face.
Like I wasn’t fazed by his radical brand of assholery.
“None at all.” Keeping the smile on my face felt like stepping in quicksand and giving my consent to sink. “Forgive me. I’m used to being around gentlemen who’d never let a lady exert herself.”
The wheel of the cart wobbled, and my smile faltered. The amusement on his face increased.
“If this is your idea of exerting yourself, perhaps the exercise will do you more good than harm.”
I opened my mouth to respond, a witty retort resting heavily on the tip of my tongue, but I forced myself to swallow it. I couldn’t win this fight.
The best I could hope for was for it to end already and minimize my casualties.
I pushed the cart a little faster, hoping he wouldn’t notice my eagerness to end this interview and see it as a victory. Each squeak of the wheel was a blemish in my armor, adding to my demise and his building pleasure.
By the time I reached the table, I felt like I had lost a proxy war.
“These are our bestselling dishes. Find me a wine pairing for each one.” He deliberately lifted the remaining metal lids slowly, each dish’s revelation bringing conceit to his eyes.
A ‘nduja and guanciale charcuterie.
All-belly porchetta.
Duck confit.
These were all dishes that were best suited for red wines. He had given me a limited selection of whites.
Jerk.
“These pairings shouldn’t be too hard for someone of your talents.” He leaned back in his seat, making me feel like a zoo animal on display.
Was it too much to hope he wouldn’t throw rocks at me and demand I perform?
“Not at all.”
I forced an indifferent expression on my face as I inventoried my poor selection and poured a glass of wine in front of each dish.
Gewürztraminer for the charcuterie.
Crémant for the porchetta.
Marsanne for the duck.
They were good selections. Not what I would have normally chosen, but the best given the circumstances.
