“Cold Shoulder”

The dining room at Le Elephante is full, the reservation book has been waiting-list only for weeks, but somehow that doesn’t mean we don’t have people walking in every ten to fifteen minutes or so, hoping for that last-minute cancellation luck. Or, occasionally, the more problematic walk-in: those folks who are VIPS or think they should be. We get them in all stripes: politicians (from both sides of the aisle, in spite of the claim by some to hate war-torn, overrun-by-crime California), celebrities, and my personal least favorite, influencers. I can’t tell you how plummy it would be to never have to hear about how many followers some twenty-two-year-old has on TikTok ever again.

“Celeste? A moment, please?” Harrison is Le Elephante’s Maitre D, and his soft-yet-always-intelligible voice is everything that every other maitre d in Napa aspires to have. Also, his collection of Versace suits. He wears one every single night that he’s on the floor, swapping out only the handkerchief in the jacket pocket to match the season.

I whip up my most glorious ‘sohappytohelp’ smile. “Absolutely,” I purr, folding my hands in front of me and excusing myself from the couple I’d been hobnobbing with. “Pardon me.”

This version of myself, who calls herself Celeste instead of Sunny, wears four inch heels on a brushed concrete floor for hours on end, has her hair blown out weekly and shows up to work in either a pencil skirt or designer black slacks— she still feels like a fun character I play when I’m here, surrounded by mirrors in tasteful and hip champagne bronze rather than played-out gold and tall velvet curtains that frame the wall of windows that looks out over vineyards just beginning to turn their autumn colors. Not to mention, of course, the tempting smells of tout l'artichaut and entrecote d'agneau prepared by a three-star Michelin chef.

The whole thing is a fantasy land, perfectly coifed, but unreal.

So it makes sense that Fancy Celeste feels a little unreal, too. But at least being her is interesting— more interesting than my life outside of here, which mainly consists of taking care of my teenage sister and occasionally visiting the old man that lives up the hill from us, or his three equally-elderly retired thoroughbred horses.

Well, tonight being Fancy Celeste the Lead Host at Le Elephante feels interesting and fun. Sometimes, putting it all on is exhausting. Too many days in a row of that exhausted, overburdened feeling and it’s like I start forgetting who I really am— I know I’m not Fancy Celeste, but the real me, Sunny Jones from Valparaiso, Indiana, who was a horse crazy little girl and loved books and playing Trivia Pursuit with her mom feels really, really far away.

“I’ll see what Ms. Jones can muster up for you,” Harrison says, standing across the wide, dark reclaimed wood host stand from two men in San Francisco formal (expensive sweaters, designer jeans, sneakers) and an elegant brunette in head-to-toe designer couture (Mui Mui—  a girl after Harrison’s own heart, if he swung that way ).  (He doesn’t).

In fact, Harrison has a bit of a twinkle in his eye as he gives the tall man in the green sweater an unobtrusive once-over, which makes me curious to get my own peek. After all, as is common with five-star Napa restaurant Maitre D’s, Harrison has impeccable taste. In fact, I’d say its one of his most prominent professional and personal qualities.

“Absolutely,” I say again, rounding round the desk and flipping open the heavy leather-bound book we still use to record reservations and create our dining room maps, a la 1955. “Let me just see what we have, Mr…?”

That’s when I look up and find that the green-sweater-wearing, dark-haired man that my boss was just eyeing is none other than Jared Jimenez, my ex-boyfriend.

“Mr. Jimenez,” I finish in what I hope is a soft voice, and not simply a pathetic one.

But I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.

Jared doesn’t say anything. Like, literally, he says nothing. His eyes are dark and unreadable as he gazes down at me, six-foot-one and three-quarters of an inch tall and more broad-shouldered than I remember him being (and more stonily cold-shouldered, as well, in this particular moment). 

“Give Credit Where Credit is Due”

The brunette standing next to Jared smiles broadly, first at him, then at me. “Oh Jared, how do you know everyone, like, everywhere?” She turns to me, her arm resting lightly on the host stand, with that air of entitlement and comfort that only the super-rich-from-birth have. “He was so sure we’d be able to get in, and I thought he was crazy. I guess we need to give credit where credit is due!”

“Well, of course they know Jared,” the other man, slightly older, blond, says. I glimpse a Rolex on his wrist instead of the usual Apple Watch. Old money, then. Unusual in the SF Bay— probably from out of town, like Jared is. Guess I was wrong about the SF formal thing. 

“We’re honored to have Mr. Jimenez dine with us, of course.” Harrison is trying to read the room. To be honest, this is actually his best quality— he’s amazingly perceptive. Which makes covering up the shake in my hand and the swallow of my throat really, really hard.  “What do you say, Celeste?”

Harrison isn’t really asking a question. His tone is clear. These folks will be seated without a wait. The slight raise of his eyebrow goes on to say that later, he’ll have the rest of the story with a glass of the house red, thank you very much. 

In this moment, I wish I had his powers of observation. Is this gorgeous woman Jared’s new girlfriend? My eyes quickly dart to her hand, which she has conveniently settled right in my field of view. A shiny, and, might I add, enormous diamond gilds her left hand. Okay, scratch that. Is this gorgeous woman Jared’s fiancée? Or is she with Blondie?

“Party of three?” I ask. I’m cool as a cucumber, because this is fine. Nothing could be more okay than this moment, in which I encounter my ex-boyfriend for the first time since the very loud, very public breakup that cost both of us our jobs, our dignity, and, for me at least, any semblance of desire I had for relationships where my heart and occupation were linked in any way. Given that I work six days a week, that pretty much meant swearing off relationships altogether, but that was also fine.

It was also absolutely not at all a problem to find myself trying to squeeze in now-celebrity-chef Jared Jimenez on a Friday night at Le Elephante, the restaurant that booked out all year within minutes of opening its books every fall.

Yes, this was all just fine.

I look down at the seating map and do some quick calculations in my head. I could move the fourtop that was going to be on table twenty-three to twenty-eight instead. That was unfortunately Alex’s section instead of Emily’s. Not as good a fit, given that the 7:45 reservation was the main vintner from Bond Winery, and Alex wasn’t nearly as experienced with his wines as Emily.

However, I happened to know that Lorenzo isn’t quite as stodgy as his occupation might imply, and was unlikely to give Alex too much trouble. Plus, he’s notoriously late, which he only gets away with because Tamara, our general manager, wants to be able to have the best of the best from Bond's cellars. All of this means there’s a chance I’ll end up being able to seat him at his original table anyway, so for tonight at least, his lack of punctuality actually works in my favor.

Or, rather, it works in Jared’s favor.

It certainly can’t be both.

“Actually, I believe we’re expecting a fourth,” I glance up from the map to see Ms. Miu Miu’s hand with the baseball diamond on it lightly settle on Jared’s arm for the barest of moments. “Jared, is Ashley joining us?”

Did he just glance at me before answering? I can’t tell. I look back down at the book and write down a couple of notes about the changes, my handwriting unusually choppy. Harrison’s eyes are seering into the back of my neck.

“No, she’s not,” Jared says in his low, confident voice. It’s the first time he’s spoken since this whole fiasco began, and I can’t help it— his voice makes me look up. When I do, he holds my gaze steadily. His eyes are still unreadable in terms of how this reunion-of-sorts makes him feel— but there’s something knowing there. 

That’s when I realize: Jared is not surprised to see me. At all.

“She’s not feeling her best tonight, it seems,” he’s speaking to Ms. Miu Miu, but he’s still looking at me. Beside me, I can practically taste Harrison taking it all in, sensing the history and the unsaid words. Good lord. The last thing I want to do is spend my evening explaining to my Maitre D that one of the stars of Dining Greats of America is the one that got away and my sole reason for moving from New Orleans to California, but I’m not going to be able to get out of it, not now. He’s seen too much.

Yet another man who’s too damn smart for his own good.

“Oh, I hadn’t heard,” Ms. Miu Miu shrugs. “What a shame. Well, yes, then I suppose it is just us three.”

“Right this way, if you please,” I grab the wine list and lead the way through the vaulted, beamed dining room, my mind on all the wrong things. I don’t point out any of the features of the architecture, or ask them about their travel plans, or introduce the sommelier as she passes.  All I can think is:

Jared knew that I worked here before coming in tonight. I’m sure of it. 

I’m suddenly quite self-conscious of the way my second-hand Dior skirt swishes over the tops of my calves, and my ridiculously teal four-inch heels, and the way my long blond braid sweeps between my bare shoulder blades. Fancy Celeste wears a luxe costume like this every time she comes to work, and sometimes it feels like armor, even when it's made of cashmere and silk. But tonight, my outfit feels too skimpy, too vulnerable. Why had I not worn the black slacks instead? Or called in sick and stayed home to watch Murder on the Orient Express with Michelle, like she’d begged me to do?

I take a breath and pull out Ms. Miu Miu’s chair for her, pointedly ignoring the fact that I can feel Jared’s eyes on me, and collect myself. I’m not the woman I was back when we were together. I may not really be this version of me, the one he’s seeing now, either, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him see it. He might be a famous celebrity chef now, but I know about the time his first attempt at flambeing bananas foster nearly burned down our entire apartment building in the lower 9th Ward and about the three round, dark freckles on his left ass cheek under those Prada jeans.

I will not be cowed. I will not be wowed. I will be calm, cool, polished, and professional.

This is absolutely evident by the way I murmur as I pull out his chair, my lips close to his ear so only he can hear me, “What the fuck is this?”

I’m behind him, so I can’t see his face— but I can feel his mischievous smile, even if I can’t see it.

“Tsk tsk, Sunny,” he murmurs, seemingly unperturbed. “I thought you’d be happy to see an old friend.”

“Giving the Benefit of the Doubt”

fuckfuckfuckFUCK

I take a step back, coming to my senses.

I can not do this again.

I can’t lose my temper with him in the middle of the dining room. No matter what he says, or doesn’t say, or the fact that he’s here at all— none of that matters. What matters is me, and my responsibilities, and the fact that even if I once threw everything out the window for this man, I am not the same woman now, and I will not do it again.

Calm, cool, polished, and professional, I tell myself.
I catch Jared’s eye. There’s a definite twinkle there.

Calm, cool, polished, professional. It’s my mantra, and its much better than inwardly screaming swear words at myself. I take a calming breath with each word as I repeat them. Calm. Cool. Polished. Professional.

“My name is Celeste,” I say, then move all the way to the other side of the table, ostensibly to pull out a chair for the other gentleman— excuse me, the only gentleman here— but he’s already seated, looking around the room speculatively.

I take in Le Elephante’s grand dining room with him, as if seeing it through his or Jared’s eyes for the first time, and feel a rush of pride that yes, indeed, this is where I ended up once it all went down with the man in front of me.  Le Elephante was, hands down, the most famous restaurant in America, and while I might not be the chef de cuisine to one of the biggest celebrity chefs in the wold, I was still absolutely at the top of my game here. Never mind that it was at least as much luck as merit that got me here. Never mind that I swore I’d never work in the fine dining industry ever again, and had found myself here once again in spite of that. None of that mattered. Here I was, surrounded by monogrammed, starched flax tablecloths, long-stemmed roses in crystal vases, with glasses of St. Eden Red and Darioush Cabernet Franc in impeccable Lalaique stemware dotting tables here and there. Our breakup had left me devastated, but I had gotten over it, and arrived.

Even if I do feel like I’m working undercover or something most of the time.

I quickly offer the wine list to the blonde man at the table, rather than deal with Jared again. He’s looking down at the papyrus-esque tasting menu, but there’s a smug lift to the corner of his mouth.

I can’t believe I ever found that cute.

Part of Le Elephante’s secret to success these many years, why it has continued to sell out season after season even an old-fashioned ten-course tasting menu running $450 a plate (before wine and gratuity) was our deep and longstanding connection to the wineries of Napa— meaning that the wine was as much a part of the dining experience as the food, and our sommelier (the unfortunately named Rosalee Tuckus) had as much to do with creating the daily menus as Marcos, our executive chef.

Which is why it strikes me as surprising— odd, even— to see Jared’s blonde companion frown down at the wine list. The moment cuts through the dullness in my mind that appeared when Jared did. This is a definite frown, not just the grimace of confusion we often get (fine wine can be very confusing, which is why Rosalee is rumored to make nearly as much as Marcos), or the normal long-and-thoughtful look. This is a frown.

No one frowns at our wine list. Was something wrong with it? Had I accidentally given them one that had a spot on it or something? I peek to make sure its clean, but of course it is.

Blondie shakes his head, and I reassess. This guy is voluntarily dining with Jared. Maybe he’s just a jerk?

“I’m happy to have Rosalee, our sommelier, come over in just a moment if you have any questions about the wine list,” I say, putting on my ‘sohappytohelp’ smile once again. It’s getting a workout tonight.

I look around the room, thinking that I’ll have to warn Rosalee about this table when I send her over. After all, she’s a friend. I can’t send her into the snake nest unaware.

“We’re happy to have you give us your recommendation,” Jared says, looking up and smiling. It’s a smirk-smile.

I still can’t believe I ever found that cute.

“Rosalee will be here in just a moment,” I tell him. I look around again. My stomach is beginning to make strange feelings and sounds. Where is she?

“You must have at least one,” Jared goes on, a little louder, but on the surface still as relaxed as ever. “A Zinfandel, perhaps? Seems perfect for a cool night like tonight, doesn’t it?”

Bastard. He knows I’ve always loved a good Zinfandel.

Ms. Miu Miu looks over Blondie’s shoulder at the wine list, and I decide then and there that if she’s anyone’s fiancé, it’s actually him and not Jared. There’s a certain familiarity in the way their bodies shift closer, “the innate intimacy of people who’ve already slept together,” as Harrison would say. He claims to be an expert at spotting secret lovers coming into the restaurant, although this is, of course, impossible for anyone to confirm.

“There’s very few white wines,” Miu Miu says, disapprovingly. “Kind of surprising, given how popular they are at the moment.” Blondie grunts in response.

Really? A entire couple devoted to hating our wine list? What is with these people?

“We have the Screaming Eagle Sauvignon Blanc,” I say. “As well as the Domaine de La Romanee-Conti, which is a Chardonnay.”

“Which would you recommend?” Jared’s smile is friendly and fake as hell as he repeats his question. Of course I can’t afford either of these wines, even with the generous employee discount that Le Elephante gives us. The only way I might ever taste one of these wines is if someone left part of a bottle, which would be crazy, even for rich people. Not to mention, even if that were to happen, with wines this expensive, the server would nick it before I ever had the chance.

As the chef de cuisine of Chez Nouveau, Jared most certainly could afford any of them— not to mention having the wineries bring him samples for free in the normal course of business. But they’re way out of my league.

Before I can think of a response, Blondie interrupts.  “I don’t suppose you have a cider or craft beer in the house.”

My eyes widen slightly.

Is. This. Man. Serious.

Le Elephante has never, ever, served beer or cider of any sort in its fifty years of operation. We serve wine. We’re a three-star Michelin rated French Cuisine restaurant in the heart of Napa, for godssakes. Each dish on the ten course menu comes paired with a specific wine suggestion (and one alternate)— other than the dessert course, which is paired with a dessert wine or a tiny but exquisite cup of espresso. We also have select top-shelf liquors from the bar, for those who fancy a martini or tom collins or something of that sort while they wait for their reservation, should they come early. We offer both still and sparkling water between courses. Those are the options. That’s it.

Calm, cool, polished, professional.

“Let me just see if I can catch Rosalee’s eye—“  I scan the dining room with a tad bit more desperation, and finally spot her at a table on the far side of the dining room, talking to two gray-haired women in floor-length gowns. Judging from the pursed lips and thoughtful nodding of the women she’s talking to, Rosalee is clearly discussing the merits of a bottle of something at great length.

“Let me pick the first bottle,” Jared smoothly takes the wine list from Blondie’s clutches, scans it, and pauses to point at something. “How about this one?”

For a moment, I think about giving him the benefit of the doubt— he’s just saved me from an incredibly awkward moment with Blondie the Beer Lover. But then I realize—

Oh, damn him.