Decameron: La cafétéria de l'école [IX/8]
“So I’ve been kicking around this idea for a restaurant,” he says, his messy hair curling around the edges of his backwards baseball cap. He has a paunch that looks out of place with his pastel pants and popped polo. He looks like an overgrown toddler, you think.
“But I need a backing partner. With that neighborhood, it would be a surefire money maker.” He cocks his head to the side and flashes a winning grin, like the money’s already rolling in. You hate to admit it, but he’s right; real estate on that block has hit dirt cheap since the plague reared its virulent proteins in the city, and it would be stupid not to invest now while the getting’s good.
So you sign the deal. It’s a lot to dip from your stagnant investments, but you’ve always trusted Ciacco’s judgement when it comes to food, no matter what you think of him personally. The guy always had a knack for getting his way and eating well in the process. Permits are filed, video meetings scheduled, construction begins. It all looks good. Now you just have to see what genius idea the guy came up with to bring the big bucks in.
God, he’s insufferable. He sends you a video evite that looks like it was produced by a team of Instagram influencers with top-grade equipment and bottom shelf production knowledge. It’s all filters and premade title cards. You meet at the new space to greet the chefs, see the décor, and sample the food. You are seated at a low table-top, with plastic chairs and utensils to complete the set.
“Our first entrée,” he says with an annoyingly over-emphasized French accent, “is a reduction of tomato and other nightshades served warm over sorghum noodles with traditional herbs.”
“That’s vegan spaghetti,” you say, unimpressed.
“Followed by Madagascar-sourced vanilla-infused baked Alaska,” he continues, ignoring your comment.
“Ice cream.”
This doesn’t look good.
“For a side, we will enjoy slow-fried, panko-encrusted jungle bird, tastefully shaped into bite-sized portions.”
And that does it. If he’s not going to take this thing seriously and waste your investment, you’re going to at least have the last laugh. If he wants to play pretend that people are going to shell out top dollar for school lunch à la mode, you’re going to double down.
“I notice we haven’t finalized a drinks menu,” you say neutrally.
His frown is out of place on his usually cherubic face. “The mixologist didn’t understand the vibe of this place. We had a disagreement,” he explains, adjusting that stupid backwards cap.
“I happen to have a contact who would be willing to supply us with free beverages for exposure to this new, exciting theme, at least for a little while,” you explain coolly. “All you have to do is show up and ask for the hard stuff. Make sure to be clear – you want as much of their product as they can make. They’re putting out a new line and I know for a fact that this would boost their business to new heights.”
His frown vanishes, replaced with that obnoxious frat boy smugness. You give him the address of the house down your street – the house where some neighborhood kids set up a lemonade stand. He’s going to show up, looking like a total creep, and ask for some kids to give him “the hard stuff”.
Oh, you can’t wait to see his face when this whole farce of a concept comes crashing down on top of his curly-haired head.
You open one month later, and wouldn’t you know it, the place is an instant success, Juicebox Coolers and all.
Decameron is a newsletter recounting the 14th Century set of quarantine tales for 2020. Read the original story.
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