“Why’d you move back?” I piped out.
“Opened a restaurant here about a year ago.” He grabbed a piece of cherry pie, shoving it into his mouth without tasting it. “Descartes.”
His French accent was on point. So were my n*****s, which apparently approved of his grasp of the French language. “Really? I hadn’t heard.”
“The Michelin people did. Gave it three stars. The first restaurant in the state of Maine to receive the honor. Just won the James Beard Award for it, actually. Guess that levels things out.”
Sarcasm was a good look on him. Hell, a trash bag probably would be too.
Also, why did he have to be good at everything he touched? It was completely exasperating to someone like me, whose life was a string of failures, interspersed by bodega runs and late-night trips to the laundromat.
