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My professor did not like the story because it lacked a "point" to it. In a way, I failed as a storyteller in writing this story, because I did have a point. I just did not convey it well enough. The story badly needs a revision. Until then, enjoy "The Pamplemousse Grille" for the experience it describes instead of its literary merit... or lack of. ;)
The restaurant’s humble exterior and modest location are easy to overlook, especially in contrast to the diner down the block that advertises “Seafood Market Restaurant” in vermilion lettering. The Pamplemousse Grille’s pride is more of the quiet kind however, the kind that relies on quality and merit rather than fanfare. Opened for business a mere two years ago, the restaurant has already developed a reputation for unparalleled excellence in service, and utterly exquisite entrees – but at a price. Dinner for a party of six can easily run up a check of over a thousand dollars.
~*~
A friend of mine, Todd, tells me that class is a trait that you are born with, not taught.
“You can’t learn class,” he said, like a parent teaching a child the basics of life, “you either have it or you don’t. And trust me. You, you have a lot of class.”
Of course, he was being generous because he was trying to convince me to do him a big favor. He needed a date for an important dinner with a client the next night, at an upscale restaurant owned by another client of his. The party included Todd’s boss and his wife, his client and her husband, and Todd. All Todd needed is a female companion.
“Why can’t you go alone?” I asked.
“Because then I’d have them at a disadvantage,” he said. “I won’t have anything personal there, but they will.”
“What, you mean like a wife or something?”
“Yeah.” He was patient as he explained the intricacies of business etiquette – why he needed this dinner to build trust between his new potential client, why the client was worth so much effort in the first place, why he needed me there as a china doll to keep the conversation in the realms of the personal instead of business.
“I’m so out of your league,” I pointed out, “I’m a social klutz. You definitely don’t need me to screw this up for you then.”
“I trust you. You’ve got class,” he repeated, “All you have to do is stick your nose into the air a little.” Into the ponderous silence that followed, he added, “It’ll be a good learning experience for you.”
In the end, it was more out of curiosity to experience the restaurant than sympathy for his predicament that I agreed to accompany Todd to his informal dinner.
~*~
Todd opens the glass door to the Pamplemousse Grille, stepping aside to allow his client Gail and her husband to enter before escorting me in with a hand resting on the small of my back. There are two men standing just before the reception desk, attired in matching dark suits. Both are tall, immaculate, and with a briefcase could have easily passed for executives at a corporation. They nod and welcome the new guests with gracious smiles, until they notice Todd. Their smiles become warm and genuine, and one of them greets Todd by name.
We are shown to a table in quiet corner. There are not a lot of other patrons, only a few other tables are occupied. But then again, it is Tuesday night, and a restaurant like the Pamplemousse does not need a lot of customers to turn a brisk profit. Gail and I scoot to the inside of the booth, the men taking their places at the end. An extra chair is reserved in case Todd’s boss is able to extricate himself from the meeting he is embroiled in and make it to the restaurant. A bright-eyed and mustached Hipanic busboy in a spotless white shirt and suspenders brings out glasses of water, and a wicker basket of French bread and biscuits is set in the middle of the table.
Then our server hands us our menus.
~*~
A large, round man with a kind face, Jeffrey Strauss owns and operates the Pamplemousse Grille. Taught by two Frenchmen, Jeffrey is a master chef with credentials that include having once been the chef for the presidential Reagans. These days, he is more likely seen in the kitchen of his restaurant supervising his bevy of cooks as they help create the masterpiece entrees the restaurant is known for.
The atmosphere of the restaurant itself is austere, but with a touch of warmth and welcome. Copper stands holding translucent glass candleholders decorate the tables, the glass blushing from a deep aqua near the bottom to a pale green foam near the top and providing color to an otherwise somber beige setting. Tiny round candles nestled within the candleholders bring a cozy candlelit glow to every table. The large paintings that grace the walls are reminiscent of an impressionist rendering of Helnwein’s “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”; they are not too baroque, being unframed and somewhat common in subject, but still tasteful enough that they become soothing rather than distracting.
Here, there are dessert wines on the dessert menu, and bottles of wine are still carefully dusted with a soft peach cloth by a maitre d’ and the label inspected by the hosting guest before the cork is popped and the wine is served. The clink of silverware is as soft as the quiet laughter and easy conversation. There are no prices on the menus; instead there are numbers marking the relative value of one dish to another. Regulars to the restaurant will know that the number 8 next to the lobster ravioli represents twenty-five dollars. They will also know that the appetizer consists of three two-inch squares of pasta artfully arranged with three scallops and three spears of asparagus sprinkled with wild mushrooms on a heavy white plate that probably cost more than the ingredients of the food it serves.
Guests at the Pamplemousse Grille are definitely not trying to get their money’s worth in mass quantities of food, however, the way they might at the Claimjumper several miles north in Carlsbad. They’re paying for the culinary skills of Jeffrey Strauss the former Reagan chef, and for the experience of a classy dining setting that the restaurant offers – a setting perfect for impressing business clients.
~*~
Gail takes one look at the napkin holders and bursts out laughing, holding up the small, hand-painted wooden pig with the napkin cloth twisted and looped through a hole in the middle of the pig’s belly.
“Is this a reminder of what we’ll be like after dinner?” she jokes, though it is obvious from the excited sparkle in her eyes that she is already impressed with the restaurant.
Her husband Ed smoothes the front of his faded cotton blue-and-white-striped shirt, eyeing the upscale setting of the restaurant and glancing at Todd’s tie and my sleeveless dress. “I think I’m a little too casual,” he comments. No one mentions the vibrant mesh of half a dozen colors that Gail is sporting with her rayon blouse.
We order drinks. Coffee for Todd, iced tea for the rest. The
maitre d’ wanders by, hands clasped behind his back, inquiring after our
satisfaction at the table. He and Todd exchange pleasantries while
Gail and Ed look on with amusement, discovering that Todd is on a first-name
basis with this man also.
The maitre
d’ winks at the table and promises us a night of VIP treatment. Gail
laughs girlishly and Todd smiles, obviously pleased at the impression he
is making on his client.
We are buttering our slices of bread and biscuits when a tall, portly man wearing a face darkened by at least a day’s growth of whiskers approaches our table. He is the one thing that almost seems out of place here, in a rumpled white shirt and apron. He rests a hand on the back of the booth behind Todd and beams as Todd introduces him simply as Jeffrey.
“How’re you doing? Good, good,” Jeffrey says. “I just got through catering a banquet of five hundred,” he explains.
Expressions of sympathy are offered, and he nods a smile to each of us. “Yes, well, enjoy your dinner,” he says, politely but with the smug air of a man who knows the outcome of a mystery thriller. He pauses while Gail is distracted making a comment to Ed, and leans down to murmur a few words for Todd.
“Jeffrey is the cook and owner,” Todd explains after Jeffrey has disappeared behind the swinging double doors to the kitchen. “I’ve helped him out a few times and done some work for him. In fact,” he chuckles, “I’m coming back next week to set up a new computer server for him.”
Gail nods, biting into a slice of bread lathered in unsalted butter and herb spread. Todd gestures at one of the appetizers on the menu. “Last time I was here, Jeffrey made me try this sushi dish. He wanted to know if it was good enough for the menu.” Todd laughs. “I guess it was. I’m his guinea pig.” He leans forward in a conspiratorial manner. “Jeffrey used to cook for the Reagans,” he confides.
Gail arches a steel eyebrow. “Really?” she says. She is duly impressed.
As the appetizers are served, Gail remarks with delight how pretty everything is. She tackles her crab cakes with all the relish of a six-year-old at McDonald’s eating french fries. Ed sits quietly on the sidelines, sipping his iced tea. Gail urges him to try a crab cake.
Ed shakes his head. “I’m just waiting for my beef,” he says, complacent.
Gail laughs, and her husband smiles benevolently as she tells us, “He eats like a bird, but he’s a meat and potatoes kinda guy.”
So is Gail, really. The couple come from El Paso where, as Ed informs us with a grandfatherly twinkle, the steaks come by the pound. Both are down-to-earth, no-nonsense types of people, even though Ed fades into the background as is appropriate while his wife conducts her business. Ed seems content where he is though, sitting back behind his spectacles with the relaxed air of a man in retirement.
By contrast, his wife is animated, her laughter loud and sometimes shrill, but always hearty. She wears the oversized jewelry of silver and turquoise that is common throughout the Southwest. Gail’s vivid attire suits her; she is a dynamic package of energy, different from the matronly aura that her stout figure and graying hair projects.
Our dinner arrives. Todd sets aside his coffee for his lobster stew. Ed perks up as a sizeable steak is placed before him, stirring from his spectator role like a boa warmed by the sun. Gail falls silent for the first time in the evening as she stares at the prime rib of pork she ordered. The large chunk of blackened pork is at least two inches thick, seeming to weigh at least a pound and a half. The meal looks daunting, especially for someone who just polished off a platter of crab cakes and lobster ravioli. She glances over at my salad.
“Oh, your salad is too pretty to eat,” she says instead.
The salad is indeed unlike any other salad that I have ever seen. In the middle of the arrangement, leaves of watercress are topped by strips of yellow and red bell peppers and surrounded by black and white beans of some sort, tiny green beans, pink onions, boiled red beets, and a chunk of grilled tuna – all resting on a large plate painted in a mixture of brilliant colors that rival Gail’s blouse.
Our server makes a cursory check of our silverware and drinks, then executes a tiny half-bow. “Enjoy,” he says, bowing out gracefully.
~*~
Ed is the only one among us who cleans his plate. Todd looks at Ed’s empty plate and chuckles, “Eats like a bird my ass.” Ed merely smiles the pleased and contented smile of a well-fed man.
Gail still has much of her pork left, though to her credit, she did make a valiant effort. She comments on how well-seasoned the meat was, and Todd nods.
“Refrigeration,” he remarks, cryptically.
Our server sets the dessert menu before us, and Gail groans. “I can’t,” she protests even as she flips open the menu.
The desserts are even more elaborate than the entrees. The maitre d’ places a heavy white plate between Gail and Ed; they’re sharing a heavenly creation of praline cake topped with whipped cream and raspberries.
Gail pauses to admire the calorific culinary art form before her. “Oh my,” she says, “this is too pretty to eat.”
The maitre d’, overhearing her, grins.
~*~
As we leave the restaurant, Gail looks back over her shoulder. “The Pamplemousse Grille,” she muses out loud, rolling the strange word over her tongue.
Todd offers another bit of trivia. “It means grapefruit in French.”
“Grapefruit, huh?” Gail chuckles. “Interesting.” Ed opens the door to the car, and she hops into the backseat of the BMW.
Todd drops the couple off at their hotel amid profuse expressions of thanks.
“Tonight was a wonderful treat,” Gail declares. Her husband nods
in agreement. The couple had been astonished and pleased when they
realized that Jeffrey would pick up the check for our dinner. In
short, we just had a free meal.
Gail shakes
Todd’s hand, then seems to think the better of it and pulls him to her
in a brief, hygienic hug.
~*~
Todd tells me that Jeffrey is looking for a second location to open another restaurant. The Pamplemousse Grille is thriving, and Jeffrey wants to expand.
“Thank you,” Todd says then. With all seriousness, he informs me that I probably just made the difference between a simple contract, and a contract that will renew itself for the next five to ten years – all because he was able to court Gail’s favor at the dinner the previous night and present himself as a stable investment.
“And you were perfect,” he says, “I knew you could do it.”
“At least I didn’t spill anything,” I sigh.
“You had a lot of class,” he says again. “They were impressed.”
I think of Gail’s “too pretty” comments, of the austerity of the candlelit table, of my self-conscious reticence during dinner. There were far more intricacies to the world of business etiquette than I probably noticed, intricacies that would take time and experience to learn. Young and naïve as I am, however, I doubt that it is my maturity that captured another long-term client for Todd.
“I think it was the restaurant,” I say instead.