Through the glass doors I watch one, his head tipped back, just so, in companionable mirth. Like the moon, he pulls his sea of acolytes forward. They lean in with appreciation. The laughter is measured, not brash enough to disturb the serenity of Chez Raymond.
Out there in the ceremonial arena, waiters glide soundless across the marble floor. Deals are quietly made and liaisons arranged. Back here in the kitchen, we are the swan’s legs, a frantic paddling below the surface.
Chef calls “service”. I spit in the tournedos before carrying it out to the charismatic man.