“I write my reviews from the notes I take during the meal. I’ll have my piece ready later tonight.” He pauses. “It never takes me long to write up a disappointing experience.”
“And I’ll get to read it before it goes to press?” I ask.
“An uncommon perk I’m allowing in exchange for triple my usual fee. And of course, my review will stand as it is, with no editing on your part.”
“I completely trust your judgment,” I assure him, resolving to add a little extra to his fee for his trouble, especially given his condition.
After I hang up, I tell myself that Tomasso is a professional. White is one, too. If she weren’t, her restaurant never would have gotten Michelin Star status.
What I’m curious to see is how she deals with what went down at my house on Saturday night, if she’s rattled by it or if she can still bring her A game.
In the business world, failure is a big part of success, or at least it’s what you do with failure. Do you wallow in it and let it hold you down, or do you learn from it?
I want to see how White deals with failure. I want to see what she’s made of.
And so, a little trial by fire is in the making. I busy myself with other tasks but am looking forward to an enlightening phone call later in the evening.
“Her Michelin Stars are well-earned,” Tomasso reports to me shortly after ten o’clock.
“So you’re saying the meal was good?” I ask, a little incredulous. If I were a betting man, I would have put money on White being too shaken up to execute a flawless dish, which, apparently, she had.
“Beyond reproach,” Tomasso confirmed. “I even added in some special dietary requests. They were executed beautifully and in no way took away from the food itself.”
“I see. And you’re sure it was prepared by White herself?”
“Absolutely. She even served me. She said—” And here, Tomasso gave the dusty, coughing sound of someone who doesn’t do a lot of laughing. “She said she wanted to be sure the meal was at exactly the correct temperature when it arrived at my table, so she didn’t want even the tiniest delay in transferring the plate from her own hands to those of a server. Wonderful food. Wonderful chef. My review will reflect, I assure you.”
I thank Tomasso, wish him well on his upcoming surgery, and hang up.
So White doesn’t stay down for long, then, does she? Perhaps.
But I wonder how well she’d stand up to the pressure of playing another game on a court where she’d previously lost and lost big.
It’s close to eleven o’clock now, and White’s restaurant is surely closed. I call it anyway. The hostess confirms that they are, in fact, closed for the day. Would I care to make a reservation for another evening?
“Actually, I’d like to speak to your head chef, Ms. White,” I say.
“She’s not available to come to the phone at the moment,” the hostess tells me. “I’d be glad to take a message down for her, though.”
“My name is Trent Stone,” I say. “Just tell her that and see what she does.”
The hostess gives me her uncertain assent and puts me on hold. A few minutes go by. I drum my fingers on the blotter of the hotel suite’s desk and stare out the window.
“Mr. Stone,” a voice says, the line opening again.
“Ms. White. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”
“If this is about the…damages from the other night, I called my I insurance agent first thing this morning, and they assured me they’d be getting in touch with you as soon as—”
“It’s not about that,” I interrupt. “Or rather, it’s about addressing that in a way that doesn’t involve the insurance proceedings.”
“Okay,” she says cautiously. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I want to see how easily you can get back up on the horse that threw you off.”
“I’m still not following you, Mr. Stone.”
“I want,” I said, “you to come back to my house to cook a meal for me. Again.”
There is a silence for a moment. Then, “But, Mr. Stone, I expected to be the last person you’d want setting foot in your kitchen ever again!”
I say nothing and let her roll the idea over in her mind some more.
“And anyway,” she goes on, “you don’t have a kitchen anymore! You have a kitchen-shaped briquette.”
“That second part is true enough, or at least it was until seven o’clock this morning. Repairs are underway as we speak, and I have it on good authority that the job will be finished before next weekend. The question is, can you be ready by then?”
She hesitates again. “Mr. Stone, I’m not sure how I feel about taking your money…again, after what happened.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t be taking my money,” I say. “I’ll cover the cost of ingredients, but that’s it.”
“So I’d be working for free?” she says, now sounding a little peeved. “What am I supposed to gain from this situation?”
“The same thing I intend to gain,” I reply. “I’m absolutely certain that you can cook well. What I want to know is how well you can cook under pressure. I’ve heard you’re the best. I only want the best.” I consider for a moment. “Besides,” I add with a smile, “you owe me dinner.”
“What if I say no?” she asks. “What then?”
“Well, then I guess we’ll both have to go on, not knowing the answer to a very nagging professional question. You made a mistake,
