Page 59 of The Frog Prince
The first time I circle the block looking for parking, I see no sign of Paul, which could be good—or bad, depending on how you look at it. By the time I park and jog toward the entrance (thank goodness I’ve started to work out; I can actually jog a block without blowing up), Paul’s waiting out front, wearing a black turtleneck, black jeans, and black boots. It’s his literary look, but I’m reminded of “Sprockets,” an oldSaturday Night Liveskit.
I rush toward Paul, apologizing profusely, and his cheek muscle pulls, and I’m crossing my fingers, hoping this is a smile.
He opens the door for me, tells the hostess his date has finally arrived and we’d like to be seated.
The hostess, a pretty young Italian girl, most likely a local university student and not Italian at all, studies the restaurant layout a moment and then, with her wax pencil, assigns us a table at the back.
Paul leans over the desk. He’s seen where we were going to be seated. “Isn’t there another table somewhere?”
Pretty hostess looks up, smiles. “No.”
Paul has seen all the empty tables beyond her shoulder in the restaurant, as well as unmarked tables on her layout. “The restaurant isn’t even half full.”
The hostess doesn’t even glance down at the layout. “Those are being held for specific reservations.”
“We have reservations.”
I tense. The energy doesn’t feel particularly good, but the hostess’s glossy smile never wavers. “A half hour ago.”
Paul leans farther across the stand. “Iwashere.”
She doesn’t budge even though Paul is clearly invading her space, a conscious or unconscious attempt at intimidation. “As I’ve already told you, our restaurant requires all parties must be here before being seated.”
Paul shoots me a look. It’s what could be called a dirty look. I feel like shit. If I’d been here on time, none of this would have happened. “I’m sorry,” I pipe in. “It’s my fault. I was late getting off work—”
“Not to worry,” the hostess says, tone friendly again. “We have a table for you, and I can seat you right now.”
“But I don’t want that table,” Paul says, pointing to the numbered table on her floor plan. “I want a good table. That’s why we made reservations—”
“We’re going to honor your reservations,” the hostess interrupts, “if you’ll just come with me.”
Paul stares her down. “To a center table.”
This is not going to be a good evening, I realize, and every instinct is screaming for me to run. Get away. Survive. But I don’t run. I’m too worried about hurting Paul’s feelings, which worries me, because the atmosphere here is crap.
“Sir,” the hostess attempts.
“No,” Paul cuts her short. “I was here. I want to be seated at the table I requested.”
“I’m sorry, that table has been reassigned.” The hostess is looking beyond us to the couple entering through the front door now. “Good evening,” she calls cheerily. “Welcome to Formaggio. How many, please?”
Paul plants himself in front of her. “What about us?”
The hostess looks almost surprised to see Paul still standing there. “What about you?”
“Ourtable.”
“You’ll have to wait a moment now. I’m going to go ahead and seat these people now.” And she takes two stiff menus from below the desk and escorts the couple to a center table.
Paul splutters. He’s mad, very mad, and I don’t know what to say or do. I barely know him. We’ve had just that one night as a group, and then our conversation earlier in the week.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Paul, watching the hostess from the corner of my eye, anxious for her to return and seat us. Paul’s practically frothing at the mouth now, muttering things about incompetent waitresses and women, and how he ought to ask for the manager, and this wasn’t the kind of treatment he expected from a place like Formaggio.
The hostess doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to return, though.
In fact, as I watch, she settles her hand on the back of the woman’s chair and laughs, shaking her head a little. She looks serene. Happy. Relaxed.
Just the opposite of Paul, who is about to blow a head gasket. I will say this for Jean-Marc. He might not have loved me, but I never had to worry about how he’d behave in a public place. And I’m worrying very much right now about Paul.