The Café’s Maitre-de, Maurice, had assured her of the small restaurant’s ability to handle it’s clientele’s need for discretion when she had discussed her needs over the phone with him the day before. The possibility of her husband’s death was discussed and she was told by Maurice that the restaurant would assist her with the discrete disposal of her husband’s body in the event of an untimely demise. Naturally, the Chef-Owner of the restaurant required a rather high special fee for the “non-standard service” that Louise required. Nonetheless, she wanted to see the establishment for herself before trusting the deeply baritoned, oddly French-accented voice of the man who represented himself as the restaurant’s Maitre-de over the phone.

As she walked into the restaurant, the heavy smoked scent of slow-roasted beef, the aroma of sautéing mushrooms and onions in sweet butter and Port wine, as well as the burnt caramel smell of baking breads as the bun’s bottoms browned assaulted her senses. For a moment she was transported in to the mental paradise of her childhood where the soul-fulfilling fragrant goodness of her mother’s kitchen was omnipresent, as was the love and consideration of her mother. The pervasive aroma of the pure raw vanilla essence emanating from the Chef’s baking desserts being slowly cooked to crispy perfection in the restaurant’s ovens filled her nose with their heavenly scent, snapping her back to reality and purpose. The vanilla’s sweet bouquet evoked memories of the perfume of baby powder and disposable diapers, strengthening her resolve. Her husband would either keep his promise to give her a baby of her own or he would die. There would be no compromise this time. As she drew the restaurant’s inviting aromas deep into her lungs, she steeled herself to exhort her womanly due from her morally bankrupt spouse without his permission or willing acceptance. He had made a solemn promise to her upon their marriage and she would see that he would pay the price for breaking his vows.

She glanced around and saw that the ceiling of the restaurant had been arranged with massive, dark wood arches supporting a white, high-vaulted ceiling with a cathedral-like design. Each of the twained dining areas to the right and left of the Maitre-de’s stand had been broken up with free-standing foot-thick planters that served as area dividers to delineate each waiter’s responsibilities as well as to privatize each diner’s experience.

In the middle of the entryway, for the lunch crowd and quick eaters of the quiet time before the dinner rush, was the bar and it’s seating booths and wrapping around it on both sides were the dinner tables proper; there was one section was for smokers and the other section for non-smokers. At the early hour that Louise had chosen for their supper together, both sections were nearly empty, but nonetheless an obsequious Maitre-de stood guard at his post to defend the entrance to his domain like a supernatural creature who had been commanded to guard his owner’s demesne. No patron ever passed the giant, dark olive-skinned Maurice without his personal approval. At the evening hours the restaurant required reservations, but at this hour most would pass the tall, massive, black-garbed guardian’s inspection with a mere off-handed wave of his huge hand. Louise, however, had made reservations for an important meeting with her husband and so had made special arrangements with the Maitre-de to insure that there would be no argument about the seating arrangements or the dishes provided for their supper that afternoon.

Louise closed on the raven-haired Maitre-de, who she estimated stood at least six-foot, six-inches tall. She guessed that the mountain of muscle and bone (there was no discernable fat on his muscular torso) before her weighed at minimum three hundred pounds. She gave her name and identified herself as the person who had made a reservation for herself and her husband, making the servitor crack his Arabic stone-face in an unaccustomed smile. “Ahhhh, yes. Everything is in readiness for you. Your particular dietary requirements have been given to the Chef and he has accepted the challenge. Never before has he done what you have asked.”

He stopped for a moment and said in a desoto voice, “Madam does understand, that for ‘special recipes’ the establishment does add a somewhat large surcharge for the Chef’s efforts. In this case, the surcharge will be ‘quite’ expensive. Although Madam’s credit is good, the management has asked me to ensure that she is quite aware of all the costs of the dish that Madam has proposed that the Chef create. A special Chef’s fee of ten thousand dollars will be required in addition to whatever Madam orders for her meal. The management has required me to advise you that there may be legal….complications as well as…personal costs that you may not have considered.”