Chapter 5 - The Arrogance of Table Nine
Downstairs, the atmosphere at Table Nine had reached a fever pitch of self-congratulation.
Max Strand sliced through an eight-ounce portion of Japanese A5 Wagyu with his silver steak knife, chewing with his mouth slightly open as he gestured across the table to his chief legal counsel, Donald Keller.
“I’m telling you, Don, it’s all about leverage,” Max said, wiping grease from his chin with his napkin. “You have to let these people know where they stand the second they step out of line. You give an inch to a waiter, he forgets he’s serving you. You give an inch to a union rep, he thinks he owns the factory.”
Keller, an older man with graying temples who had worked for Max’s father for twenty years, looked thoroughly uncomfortable. He picked at his roasted asparagus, his eyes darting toward the other patrons who were conspicuously avoiding looking at their table.
“Max,” Keller murmured under his breath, “did you really have to pour the whole pitcher over the boy? The entire dining room saw it. It’s... unseemly.”
“Unseemly?” Max laughed, a sharp, barking sound that caused a couple two tables over to flinch. “Don, that kid was sleeping on his feet. He spilled water on my bespoke cuffs. Do you know how much this Italian cashmere costs? More than that loser makes in three months of carrying bread baskets.”
At that moment, Winifred glided to the table, her face an unreadable mask of five-star hospitality. Behind her, two young servers wheeled an antique silver gueridon cart carrying a chilled bottle of 1996 Chateau Margaux cradled in silver netting.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Winifred said, her voice like silk. “Compliments of the house. With our deepest apologies for any... disruption to your evening.”
Max’s eyes lit up. He glanced at Keller with a smug, triumphant grin. “What did I tell you, Don? You see that? You put these places in their place, and they roll out the red carpet. They know who pays the bills here.”
Max turned to Winifred, leaning back like a king holding court. “Tell your manager I appreciate the gesture. What happened to that clumsy idiot who was serving us earlier? Did you fire him yet?”
Winifred carefully uncorked the vintage bottle, the deep, rich aroma of black currant and leather rising into the air. She poured an ounce into Max’s glass for the taste test.
“He is no longer on the floor, Mr. Strand,” Winifred replied smoothly.
“Good,” Max scoffed, lifting the glass and swirling it vigorously. He took a sip, his eyebrows raising in genuine delight. “Now that is what I call wine. Keep them coming. And make sure the check goes on my corporate card. I want the write-off.”
“There will be no check tonight, sir,” Winifred said, offering a small, polite bow. “The entire table has been comped by the executive owner.”
Max let out another loud laugh, slapping the table. “Look at that! Free four-grand dinner just for setting the help straight. Don, take notes. This is how you run a business.”
Keller didn't smile. He looked at the vintage bottle, then at Winifred’s chillingly serene expression. A cold knot began to form in the pit of the old lawyer’s stomach.
“Max,” Keller whispered, leaning forward the moment Winifred walked away. “High-end restaurants don't comp four thousand dollars of wine because a guest threw a tantrum. They do that when they’re preparing to sue you for assault, or when...”
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“Or when they know I’m about to close a forty-million-dollar deal with the building’s owner,” Max interrupted, checking his gold Patek Philippe. “It’s eight fifty-five. Rook’s assistant texted me. The boardroom is on the third floor. Finish your steak, Don. Let’s go collect our check.”
***
