Page 47 of Best Served Hot

“Because of living up to the previous reviewer’s take?” His elbows were on the table. I thought that was supposed to be rude, but it was comfortable, and if he was doing it, I could do it, too.

He shrugged. “A little. I mean, he gave it four stars. The highest rating you can give. But things have changed since then. And I don’t mean the chef or the menu. I mean the times. Of what people find important in their food.” He glanced at me, and I knew he was thinking about the rise of people like me.

“Well, I’m not reviewing today,” I assured him, but that didn’t mean much. Jada Knox had already come here for a review. She’d rated the food highly, saying that it wasn’t stuffy like some of the other fancier French places, but that it was overpriced and not as innovative as it could be. She’d also noted that she was one of the only Black people in the building, including among the staff.

Bennett’s apprehensive expression didn’t budge. “Don’t you remember the big fuss when Pete Wells at the New York Times downgraded Per Se from four to two stars? It was a huge deal. Like a bomb had gone off. People lost their jobs.”

“No, but I remember his review of Guy Fieri’s Times Square restaurant.” He didn’t laugh. I softened. “You don’t even know if you’re going to have to downgrade it yet. Why don’t you eat the meal first and see?”

He nodded once at me, resolute. “You’re right.”

I tried to make small talk until the dishes started arriving, but my usual topics—the weather, the food ahead, how terrible the subway was—didn’t gain any traction. Maybe he didn’t take the subway. Maybe he took a chauffeured car around all the time. “The traffic in New York is terrible,” I said, but the food started coming before I could test my hypothesis.

We ate a fish tartare studded with hearts of palm and sparkling with yuzu, plush and meaty; a sweet, flaky salad of king crab crunchy with apple and a fried apple chip; and seared scallops with a crispy crust served over braised fennel. “So?” I asked when I’d set my fork down. The first two courses had been good enough that I’d forgotten how much I was paying for this meal; the third one was good, but not that good. “Thoughts so far?”

His eyes were still closed as he chewed his last bite of scallop, but they opened at my question. “Extremely good,” he said. “And the service is impeccable.”

As if summoned by the praise, a duo of silent busboys appeared to whisk our plates away and clean up the piece of fennel I’d dropped on the tablecloth and hadn’t noticed. One refilled my water glass without spilling a drop, then they vanished just as quickly as they’d appeared before I even had the chance to thank them.

“I was probably ten the first time my dad brought me and Penny here.” Bennett’s eyes had closed again, as if he were trying to taste the memory, too. “He said he hadn’t wanted to bring us to a place like this before we were old enough to behave.” Not to appreciate it, I noted. “I don’t remember all the dishes we had, but I do remember there was this seared tuna with sesame and seaweed. Very rare in the middle, nearly raw. Perfectly cooked, of course, but that wasn’t how Penny and I saw it back then. She refused to eat it, which made my dad shake his head and turn to me. The idea of biting into that tuna made me want to throw up, but the idea of disappointing my dad and making him shake his head at me like he had at Penny made me want to throw up even more.

“So I ate that tuna, and to my surprise, I liked it. My dad had only said that we should try one bite of everything, but I ate all of it, and for the rest of the meal we analyzed each dish the way I do in my reviews. It was fun. I was good at it.”

“So this is where you realized your calling.”

“In a way.” He finally opened his eyes in time for the next course to show up. The white truffle risotto, creamy and fragrant and probably very, very expensive. The first bite literally melted into my mouth, coating it with velvety richness. I groaned out loud.

Because of all the groaning, actual conversation was impossible until the plates had been scraped clean. “Don’t get me wrong, the food here is excellent,” I said. “But the market’s been trending away from restaurants like this. Do you think there’s still a place for Sebastian and its ilk?”

His eyes lit up, and then they blazed, or maybe it was that his glasses magnified the light and heat. “Most of the people here aren’t the ultrarich. They’re people who save up and come out for a big birthday or an anniversary or another special occasion for the Sebastian experience. The food and the service and the ambience. They come to be treated like kings and queens for a night.

“And don’t get me wrong,” he continued. “I love what’s trending right now. I love that chefs and cooks are bringing creative, exciting food to people for less money. I love that different styles of cuisine are getting more attention and that the major food scene is finally understanding that Chinese food and Indian food and Thai food are as intricate and worth as much money as French food or New American food. I love how innovative chefs are becoming with how they sell their food and how pop-ups and food trucks and things like that are allowing great chefs to share their food with people without the immense resources needed to open a restaurant. I think it’s all great.”

What he was talking about were the types of food I highlighted on my page. And as his eyes flashed at me, I knew it. He was talking about me.

“I just think,” he continued, “that there is room for all kinds of food out there. Don’t you?”

What he was really saying: there’s room for both of us on the scene. The stodgy newspaper reviewer and the influencer.

I realized for the first time that I wasn’t thinking of the former with envy. Because did the small restaurants producing that creative and innovative food, experimenting with all new things and all new styles, feel envy for places like this? Maybe for the financial security their name and reputation provided. But they wouldn’t be able to experiment as much, try new things, with all these bills to pay and that reputation to uphold. Push come to shove, did I think most of them would throw away what they were doing to do this instead?

I didn’t think they would. I didn’t think I would. Jada had been right. We did have unique strengths of our own. We could be real and be great.

I jumped to my feet, nearly colliding with the waitress carrying out plates of venison with cranberry and apple and charred cabbage. The smells drifting off them were delicious, but I was more impressed by the fluid way the waitress managed to sidestep me without so much as a cranberry rolling off a plate. The training here really was amazing.

I noticed Bennett was staring at me, baffled, only once I was already standing. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I blurted, and whirled around. The waitress somehow pointed the way for me with her hands full. I thanked her and rushed off, realizing too late that it probably looked like I was having some kind of gastrointestinal emergency. Wonderful.

But I really needed to collect myself. Take a few deep breaths of the fancy rose-scented candle burning sweetly on the sink. Luxuriate in the toilet paper that was thicker and softer than any of my hand towels. Slip a few complimentary travel-sized bottles of expensive hand lotion into my purse. And really let this seismic change in how I felt toward my life and my job roll through me while I wasn’t expected to keep eye contact and make polite conversation.

I hadn’t looked down on any of the restaurants or food trucks I’d covered on my page. I’d been more impressed by them than these fancy French places. (Though now, I did have to admit, they were pretty good, too, or at least this one was.) I shouldn’t have assumed everybody was looking down on me.

Though let’s be real, a salary and benefits for my food stuff would be really nice. And maybe that’s what my continued association with Bennett and the Scroll would get me, if my follower count kept jumping up and up and up.

Or maybe it would keep going up if I was more honest with my followers, like how they’d loved me and my cooking disaster.

Which meant I had an email to send. I pulled out my phone and navigated to the message the wine company had sent me. They’d checked in a couple days ago to make sure I’d received their first email, since I hadn’t responded.

I could do this. I could be myself. And I could feel good doing it.