Page 60 of The Frog Prince

More people arrive, crowding the small entryway. Formaggio isn’t a big restaurant, and the only way they accommodate a crowd is by squeezing the maximum number of tables into the small corner space, taking advantage of two narrow walls with lots of little tables sandwiched between hard wooden chairs and a long upholstered bench.

The hostess finally leaves the couple she’s seated and returns to the podium at the entrance.

“Ready?” she says brightly.

“Yes,” I say.

“No,” Paul contradicts, lifting a hand to slice me in two. “I’d like to speak to the manager immediately.”

The hostess’s eyes have gone cold. “Then you’ll have to wait a minute—”

“I’ve already waited nearly thirty minutes.”

“You’ll have to wait one more. As you can see, I have people to seat.”

And picking up more menus, she warmly greets the four people standing behind us.

The foursome get a center table, too.

“It’s a power play,” Paul mutters furiously. “This is just a goddamn power play.” Then he stops a passing busboy. “Where’s your manager? Get your manager. I want to talk to him now.”

“¿Cómo?”

“Your manager.” Paul’s getting even hotter. He speaks louder. “Man-a-ger.”

A fifty-something-year-old man in a dark suit appears. “May I help you?”

“Yes.” And Paul is suddenly mollified. You can almost see his ruffled feathers smoothing. “I had a reservation for seven and—”

“What time did you arrive, sir?”

Paul’s look of satisfaction fades somewhat. “Seven.”

“You were here together at seven?”

“No. I was here. My… date… was running late.”

“I see. And did we not have a table available for you?”

“You did. It’s back there somewhere,” and Paul gestures to the wall at the back. “But I don’t want to sit back there. I want a center table. It’s what I requested when I made the reservation.”

“Table thirty-seven,” the hostess murmurs, having returned. She leans across the podium, pointing to the diagram of the restaurant interior.

The older man nods. “There isn’t the center table available, but we’ve a lovely table for you waiting, and we can seat you right now if you’d like.”

“Yes. Well…” Paul swallows, looking far from comfortable. “Okay.”

ChapterEleven

The manager takesthe two menus from the hostess. “If you’ll come this way,” he says, and leads us to our table. Table37. Right in the middle of the long wall, right where Paul didn’t want to be.

Paul hesitates at the table as the manager waits silently, expressionlessly. This is what he does for a living. He can wait all night if necessary.

“Where would you like to sit?” I ask Paul, desperately ready to move beyond the seating stage of dinner. I hate tension—avoid conflict like the plague—and I can’t bear to continue in this vein.

Paul shrugs. “I don’t care.”

“I’ll sit on the booth side, then,” I offer, and I slide carefully between tables and settle into the booth, the seat sinking slightly.