The question of supplies—a key one for any restaurant—is gradually fine-tuned. The trick is to combine freshness and reasonable prices with the available storage capacity—which, in the case of La Belle Saison, is extremely limited, with the mini-fridge already filled with all the dairy products. Annoyed by any wasted food, Mauro now works hard to find the exact quantities he needs. He tweaks the amount, tweaks it again, tweaks it until it’s almost perfect, the evening tapas providing a tasty solution for the lunch leftovers. In this way, he does the shopping for only three meals, and no matter what, he is in the kitchen by ten o’clock.

9

Fatigue

After that, I didn’t see him for four years. Or rather, I didn’t see him the way we used to see each other before La Belle Saison: no boat trips on the shimmering waters of the Lac Daumesnil, no nocturnal cinema in Bastille, no swimming in the pool at Buttes-Chaumont, no lazing in the park, no evenings spent sprawled on a couch listening to music at his place or mine. If I wanted to have a moment alone with him, the only way was to turn up at the restaurant at the end of the dinner shift, between midnight and one, when the last clients were standing on the doorstep, congratulating him—It’s art, Mauro! Lucullus Mauro! We’ll come back every week, Mauro!—though without convincing him to leave his kitchen and chat with them; no, all he did was stick his head out and, wiping his hands on his apron, look at them, nodding with his chin while his lips articulated an inaudible Thanks. The dishwasher finished up, the commis chef put on his leather jacket, Jacques tidied the bar, Mauro poured himself a coffee and finally offered me a flat cheek: How are you? So I would sit on one of the stools and start to tell him; Mauro would ask for news about certain people, the gang of six and Mia, his ex-girlfriend—when I talked to him about Mia, something still seemed to light up in his eyes—but other than that, he spoke little, just monosyllables and half smiles, and after ten minutes he would turn on the computer to place orders at the grocery store on Rue de Charonne, clicking on multicolored files, typing in quantities of Gariguette strawberries or red kuri squash, so my words drowned slowly in the bluish light of the screen, until finally I would fall silent. One night, I ended up telling him softly: Okay, you’re not listening, I’m going to leave, but he shuddered, as if shocked by an electric current, and put a hand on my arm and said loudly: Stop—I’m shattered, can’t you see?