Near my apartment I am lucky to have three very good restaurants, which I choose for different reasons. There's the showy expensive one, where I take foreign visitors; the cheap-but-charming one where we go when I don't feel like cooking; and the "ethnic" one (which in France means any non-French cuisine), which is excellent, but whose food I don't crave every day.
I went round to make a reservation at the latter, since they never answer their phone. They are usually fully booked too. I knocked on the door around 3 p.m. and the young girl at the front desk opened it a crack. "Oui?"
"Do you have any places for this evening?" I asked. "For six people, around nine o'clock?"
"Non. C'est sous quel nom?" I heard a voice call from inside. ["What name?"] The chef, who is also the owner, came out wearing his white clothes and hat, frowning. When he saw me, his face cleared up. "Oh, it's you," he said. He waved his hand.
"Yes, yes, nine o'clock is fine. We'll see you soon."
