A Lesson Served Cold

The maître d’ approached their table with poise. “Monsieur, Madame,” he said smoothly, “I regret to inform you that your reservation entitles you to a unique dining experience tonight. Courtesy of the house.”

A hand-written menu was presented—an avant-garde tasting menu designed by Chef Antoine, challenging Tiffany’s assumed sophistication. The first course, a deconstructed amuse-bouche, left her flustered. “Is this some kind of joke?” Mark whispered, glancing nervously at the diners.

“No joke, sir,” the maître d’ replied, perfectly polite.

As the seafood course arrived, Tiffany’s confidence dwindled further. By the time dessert appeared—a stunning yet intricate masterpiece—her frustration was palpable. I stood and approached their table, the room falling silent.

“I hope you’re enjoying the meal,” I said, my smile serene and measured. Tiffany’s eyes betrayed fear—or was it respect? Mark remained silent, stripped of indignation.

“Thank you for dining at Le Ciel,” I continued. “And remember, the sky is vast and limitless. As is my reach.”

Returning to my table, I felt the quiet satisfaction of triumph. The restaurant buzzed back to life, but in that moment, my authority was unmistakable. My empire—and my dignity—remained unshaken.