Truthfully, I was pretty much always hungry—there was way too little snacking between meals in this country—and by the time Marcel got back to our table, I was plotting a major distraction to steal somebody else’s bread. Sébastien kept a firm hand locked around one of my wrists under the table.

Marcel took our order eventually, but only got as far with it as the next table before he had to sit down for a drink. He was persistent, though, and toast by toast, he slowly worked the room toward the kitchen. Just when I was getting excited, some bastard at a sidewalk table waved dramatically, and Marcel wandered past us out the door. I stared after him with my mouth open like a baby bird suddenly bereft of a worm.

Sébastien and I slid deeper into our increasingly-less-charming-and-more-uncomfortable Métro benches, wondering if it would be remotely acceptable to get up and walk out of the restaurant if the owner had given us a bottle of champagne more expensive than our intended meal but forgotten to let us eat. “The review is due the day after tomorrow,” I said. “I’ve got to eat something. I can’t tell them I couldn’t do the first one because the owner wouldn’t feed us.”

A miracle occurred, in the form of the chef, a strained-looking man about our age who appeared in the kitchen doorway, weighted down with plates. The chef had given up hope of anyone coming to carry his creations to their intended tables. He must have spotted a kindred look of strain on our faces when he passed, because his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Have you ordered?”

“We did a, er, very long time ago, but I think maybe we should order again,” Sébastien said delicately.

The chef pressed his lips together in an alarming gesture of internalization and shot one glance at the owner before asking us what we wanted. Sébastien was impressed. Didier at Le Relais would never have shown such self-discipline.

We were even more impressed with the food when the chef brought it out to us some time later. A baked Camembert rested on a bed of walnuts and greens for the first course, later followed by confit de canard with pommes sautés, all traditional bistro food and all set apart from other bistros by its quality. I had expected at the very least burnt-black potatoes at this point. The cook was going to get an ulcer if he didn’t vent his stress on something.

Out of solidarity, Sébastien took it upon himself to serve as waiter for our table. As he leaned into the kitchen to get water and offer an encouraging word to the cook, Marcel made another of his peripatetic stops beside our table and gazed at those broad shoulders.

“You know, I like him much better than your last guy,” he said approvingly.