Tonight was a disaster. After the first few days of the new menu, Francesca thought they’d found a rhythm. But everything that could go wrong tonight, had. And it was only eight o’clock. There were still several more hours before closing.
Aidan had been called away from their conversation to the news their sous chef had come down with the flu and would be out for several days. That meant Aidan had to work extra hard to ensure things went smoothly because his second in command wasn’t there. And that was only the beginning.
The reservations were booked solid for both the six and eight thirty seatings. A party of eight had mixed up their reservation and showed up tonight for a reservation they had last night. After much back-and-forth, they’d agreed to eat in the bar. Francesca had been called to deal with the situation and offer the guests a complimentary bottle of wine, which was the only thing that seemed to calm them enough to avoid a complete meltdown.
Once they were settled, she thought the evening was back on track. Except one of the wait staff raced to the bathroom, looking green. Apparently, he also had the flu. So now they were down one wait staff, which may have been a recoverable issue on a typical night, but this was the night Pamela Morgana was dining. She was expected any minute and was due to be seated in their now sick waiter’s section, so the entire waitstaff had to redistribute their tables so the next most experienced staff was assigned to Ms. Morgana.
Francesca moved nonstop, discussing wine with guests as everyone seemed to want to order a bottle tonight, rather than individual glasses. She’d passed the door to the kitchen on the way to the cellar for a particularly rare vintage and heard Aidan shouting orders like a drill sergeant. He didn’t seem happy about the presentation of the food coming off the line. The only saving grace was that none of the tables looked likely to be the sommelier award judges. Thank goodness.
She returned from her trip to the cellar and nearly crashed into the hostess. “Francesca, we just sat a table of three that look judge-y,” the young woman panted. “They’re all wearing somber suits and no one has smiled once.”
Oh shit.
“Ok, get back out to your post. I’ll serve this wine and scope out the situation.” Please, God, don’t let that be them.
Francesca took a moment to compose herself, then walked gracefully out to the restaurant. She tried to appear casual as she glanced around, spotting the table in question immediately. The trio was studying the menu intently, one of them making notes in their phone occasionally. That had to be them. Of course, they picked the very worst night to arrive.
Francesca got through her table service as quickly as possible, then intercepted the waiter near the kitchen. “Your newest table could be the judges,” she whispered.
He nodded. “I suspected as much. I’ll do my best,” he said wearily. “It’s a madhouse tonight but I’ll try as hard as I can to give them an exceptional experience.”
“Thank you,” Francesca replied. She knew he would do his best even though he was likely terrified. He was the greenest of their waitstaff, only working for the restaurant for six months. He was a great server but hadn’t had enough experience serving high-profile clients to steel his nerves in the face of pressure.
Francesca heard a buzz of conversation rise in the dining room. Oh no, what now? She peeked her head out to see Pamela Morgana, decked out in a beautiful gown with a plunging neckline, walking towards her table, her entourage trailing behind her. She knew how to work a room, that was for sure. Heads swiveled as she walked and the excited titter of conversation followed in her wake.
The hostess sat the group and ensured they were settled, then the waiter appeared immediately to fill water glasses and take drink orders.
“Darling,” she heard Ms. Morgana greet the waiter, her voice pitched to be heard. “I’m here to see that gorgeous chef of yours. Please tell him Pamela is here and would like to discuss a private menu with him.”
Francesca bristled. A private menu? The actress made the phrase sound dirty somehow. And had the nerve to think she was entitled to special privileges just because she was famous. Francesca didn’t listen to the rest of the conversation and instead busied herself rearranging wine bottles in the wooden racks that lined the hallway. They were both decorative and functional, as most of the wines the restaurant served were available within easy reach.
“Francesca,” the waiter interrupted her ruminating on his way to the kitchen. “Ms. Morgana’s table would like two bottles of our reserve Cabernet.”
“Our reserve? The one thousand dollars a bottle wine? And two bottles?”
“Yes, two to start,” he clarified.
Francesca resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she made her way to the cellar stairs. Their most prestigious label was kept secure in her private cellar. She’d barely reached the top step when another waitstaff flagged her down.
“Francesca, the table of three would like to speak with you about our wines. They have some questions.”
The table that could be the judges wanted to speak with her? Francesca’s heart raced. It wasn’t atypical that a guest would ask the sommelier’s opinion, but she couldn’t help but hope this was a good sign. Of all nights, though, for them to arrive. Between the staff illness and the celebrity antics, this was not a good representation of their restaurant.
“Alright, I’ll be right there as soon as I deliver the wine to Ms. Morgana.”
When Francesca returned, she noticed Aidan was at Pamela’s table. He was laughing at something the actress had said and leaned in close to respond. Pamela put a possessive hand on Aidan’s bicep and Francesca nearly growled. Aidan didn’t mix business with pleasure? Apparently that rule only applied to her and didn’t extend to gorgeous actresses.
Francesca squared her shoulders and approached the table. “Ms. Morgana, I have your wine,” she announced smoothly. She resisted the urge to tear those dramatically manicured fingers away from Aidan. Instead, she expertly uncorked the first bottle and poured a small amount in the actress’s glass.
Ms. Morgana drew a dismissive gaze over Francesca, then turned to her wine. She took a delicate sip, swirling it in her mouth. Finally, she turned to Francesca. “This will do, darling. Thank you.” She waved a hand to indicate Francesca should pour for the table, then turned back to Aidan.
“So, handsome, what time are you done here? I have the helicopter so I can fly you to LA for a nightcap and have you back to this provincial town for breakfast.”
Francesca’s stomach lurched at the blatant proposition. Did men really fall for her fake charm? She risked a glance at Aidan, who was grinning broadly. Apparently, they did.
“That’s a tempting offer, Pammie,” he said. Pammie? “Except I’ll be here quite late. Maybe another time.” He offered a warm smile and a lingering kiss on her cheek before returning to the kitchen.
They seemed to know each other extremely well. Francesca resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she concentrated on pouring the wine. The potential judges were only two tables away and could very well be watching her every move, so she needed to remain professional. Even if the thought of pouring their most expensive bottle of wine over Ms. Morgana’s head was becoming more appealing each minute.
She squeezed behind the actress’s chair in order to get to the side of the table by the window. She had to pause midway to open the second bottle of wine. One more glass, then she could retreat from this crazy spectacle. She glanced over to the table of three, who were deep in conversation. The lone male in the group looked up to meet her eyes. Francesca nodded, then returned to her task. She needed to make her way over to that table next. Keeping them waiting was not good form.
Francesca tipped the full wine bottle to pour into the glass just as a man at the table behind her stood up and pushed back his chair. He hadn’t looked behind him first to notice her, so he bumped into her just as the wine had started to pour out. She fell forward and was able to catch herself before she went headfirst into the table. She wasn’t able to correct her arm in enough time to salvage the wine. Instead, it poured directly onto the blush silk of Ms. Morgana’s slinky dress.
Oh no. Francesca may as well kiss her career goodbye.