Strangers in the night

 

I left the office at about 7:30 in the evening not intending to go home but to go to a newly opened very upper-class restaurant. I was to meet Miss Helen Wooden-Peck a plastic surgeon specialising mainly in nose reconfigurations as she called them. Our company was hoping to win a contract and be her publicity and marketing agents.

When I got to the restaurant, the maître d'or greeted me at the door and said, "Good evening, I am Gustav Armoire, may I take your coat Monsieur?"

"No," I replied, "get yourself your own coat!"

"You do not understand, Monsieur," he explained, "I weel only take it for zee safekeeping!"

I declined and he led me to a table where a young lady was sitting. Helen Wooden-Peck had obviously arrived before me. 

I sat down and offered to get some drinks to start with. A man sidled to our table and said, "Good evening Madame et Monsieur. I am Pierre Pied-à-Terre your sommelier zis evening."

"Sommelier?" I asked, "this is a wooden shoe isn't it?"

"No," said the young lady hiding a smile of derision, "that is a sabot!"

"What is?" I asked her.

"A wooden shoe is called a sabot," she explained, "a sommelier is a wine waiter".

Well, that was hardly a good start was it, showing her that I was ignorant and did not know a sabot from a sommelier. So to recover from my faux-pas, (this is a French phrase meaning wrong father, not to be confused with pas-de-deux which means father of twins).

Anyway, to recover from my mistake I suggested she chose the wine; which she did and decided on Château Expensive.

I tried to steer the conversation away from plastic surgery per se and tried to get an idea on how she would like her business advertised and who she considered as her main clientèle.

"Oh ... it is builders mainly," she said, "builders, building contractors, roadworks engineers, that sort of people."

I was about to ask why specifically these people. Are they particularly susceptible to requiring plastic surgery to their faces? Did they perhaps fall over more than any other profession? And are there enough of them to warrant her having a successful business? 

Before I said a word I was interrupted by another man at our table who said, "Good evening. I am Marcel Petit-Pois your personal advisor zis evening. The Maître Chef today is Renard Mangetout assisted by Madelaine Bonne-Appetit. May I suggest your repas?"

"Great," I thought. "This is a novel idea. They have someone suggesting what you'll eat. No doubt he'll pick the most expensive things on the menu!"

Yet again, before I could speak, she interrupted and said, "What a good idea. Surprise me with something typically French!"

"I suggest you start with poussins roti" he said.

I did not know what that was and imagined some sort of rat based dish; like ratatouille. Isn't roti rat in French? Anyway, as per usual she took the lead and agreed and the waiter left for the kitchen.

I picked up the conversation where it left off and asked why in particular those trades people would be her clients.

"They much prefer the mix-concrete that we use," she said, "we are leading suppliers of all sorts of cements and different types of sands. Did you know that there's different sands to suit various projects?"

I nodded politely and said nothing. I did not want to display another set of ignorance to someone who could well award us a major advertising contract. I pretended to understand and wondered how sand and cement fitted in plastic surgery.

She continued to explain about the different kinds of sands and cement as the waiter returned with the poussins roti, which turned out to be little chickens covered with sauce, and not rats as I had imagined.

At that point her cell-phone rang. She excused herself and walked away from the table for a few moments.

I prodded the little chicken on my plate with my fork to see how difficult it would be to carve without making a mess. Especially since it was covered in some brown sauce of some kind.

Unfortunately, my prod was somewhat a little enthusiastic because the damned chicken slid off my plate and flew to the ground some feet away. As bad luck would have it, at that precise moment another waiter passed by carrying some plates and his foot got wedged into the backside opening of the chicken. He walked away towards the kitchen taking with him the chicken stuck to his shoe.

Before I could say anything, the young lady returned to see my plate totally empty as if I had devoured the whole chicken bones and all in a matter of two minutes or so.

She was too much a lady to say anything and sat down daintily attempting to eat her poussin. I must admit, she was very adept at it, and did not even wet her lips with the sauce as she ate.

"Good news," she said, "we just had delivery of twenty tons of high quality cement. That should last us at least a week!"

"Twenty tons of cement in a week?" I thought, "who is she doing a nose job for?  Cyrano de Bergerac?"

I nodded and smiled and said nothing. I was told years ago that the best thing to do when having a meal with a woman is to let her talk, ask questions and look interested. No woman ever said, "What a date that was! All I did is talk about myself!"   

Anyway, the meal continued with me learning a lot about sands and cements.

As we left I suggested, "Perhaps it would be a good idea if you were to visit our offices and meet my boss, Miss Wooden-Peck!"

"Wooden-Peck?" she said, "why did you call me Wooden-Peck?"

"That's ... that's your name," I mumbled.

"I am Taurpaulin MacAdam!" she said, "who is Wooden-Peck?"

I did not answer her and went in the restaurant searching for my missing nose plastic surgeon. She was nowhere to be found. I could not sniff her out from a plate of snails in garlic sauce.

The next morning my boss informed me that I had gone to the wrong restaurant and we nearly lost the advertising contract with Helen Wooden-Peck. Luckily she was very understanding at my standing her out and agreed to go out for a meal with my boss instead.

My colleagues suggested I cement good customer relations with our existing clients instead!