“Dangerous question.”
“Why?”
“Because now if you hate lunch, I have nobody else to blame.”
I smiled.
“What would you order?”
“The roasted tomato bisque is excellent.”
“How excellent?”
She considered.
“My grandmother made tomato soup when I was growing up.”
“High standard?”
“Extremely.”
“And?”
“This one is good enough that I don’t feel disloyal recommending it.”
I laughed.
She continued.
“The halibut is very good today. But if you want something with weight, the dry-aged ribeye with rosemary butter is the best thing on the menu.”
I knew the ribeye.
I had approved the supplier change six months earlier after food costs became unreasonable.
“What does it cost?”
Naomi told me.
It was the most expensive entrée on the lunch menu.
“Medium rare.”
“Good choice.”
“Add the soup.”
She wrote it down.
“And bread, please.”
“Absolutely.”
She turned to leave.
“Naomi.”
She looked back.
“Yes?”
“You didn’t blink.”
“About what?”
“The steak.”
She looked genuinely confused.
“It’s expensive.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t…”
I stopped.
I did not want to make her answer an accusation I had not made.
She understood anyway.
“You sat down at a table in a restaurant and ordered lunch.”
“Yes.”
“That’s what tables are for.”
She walked away.
I sat there staring at the menu.
That’s what tables are for.
Such a simple sentence.
Yet fifteen minutes earlier, Shaw had looked at me and made an entirely different calculation.
Not what I had asked for.
Not what tables were available.
Not how I should be served.
Where should this man be hidden?
Which employee matters least?
Naomi returned with bread.
“Soup should be out shortly.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I watched her move through the dining room.
She had three other tables.
At one, an older couple was sharing an appetizer.
At another, two businessmen were looking at laptops while eating.
The third was a mother with a teenage daughter.
Naomi treated each table differently.
She did not perform the same script.
She asked the older man whether his knee surgery had gone well.
She quietly moved a water glass away from one businessman’s computer before he knocked it over.
She brought the teenager extra lemon without being asked.
Small things.
Unmeasured things.
Then Shaw intercepted her near the service station.
I could not hear the first sentence.
I heard the second.
“Why are you wasting so much time back there?”
Naomi glanced toward me.
“He ordered the ribeye.”
“So?”
“He’s a guest.”
Shaw leaned closer.
I could not hear him.
Naomi’s face tightened.
Then she nodded and walked away.
Shaw looked toward my table.
Our eyes met.
He looked away first.
Interesting.
The soup arrived.
Naomi set the bowl down carefully.
“Please be honest.”
“About what?”
“Grandmother standard.”
I tasted it.
The soup was excellent.
Balanced acidity.
Enough cream to soften the tomato without turning it sweet.
“Your grandmother should be nervous.”
Naomi smiled.
“She would never admit that.”
I tore off a piece of bread.
“How long have you worked here?”
The smile faded slightly.
“Almost two years.”
“You like it?”
She paused.
That pause was answer enough.
“I like serving,” she said.
“That wasn’t exactly my question.”
“No.”
She looked toward the kitchen.
Then back at me.
“Restaurants are complicated.”
“I’ve heard.”
She studied my face.
For a moment, I wondered if she recognized me.
She didn’t.
“What did you do before this?”
“I worked at a hotel.”
“Why leave?”
“My mother got sick.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She adjusted the edge of the bread plate.
“I needed a schedule with fewer overnight shifts.”