"Here. You try."
He thrusts the rib toward me. Juice runs down his wrist in dark, shining streams, dripping onto the floor between us. Steam rises from the exposed meat in a slow curl.
"I am vegan."
His face freezes.
The grin doesn't disappear so much as it locks in place, like a clock that's stopped. The rib hovers between us. A drop of rendered fat falls from it and lands on the toe of my left clog.
"You are... what?"
"Vegan. I don't eat meat. I don't eat animal products. I run a plant-based fine dining restaurant directly across the street from this..." I search for the word. "...situation."
He looks at the rib. Looks at me. Looks at the rib again. His brow furrows into that rockslide configuration.
"But this is beef."
"Yes. I can see that."
"From very happy cow."
"The cow's emotional state is not the issue. The issue is that your outdoor fire is pumping smoke directly into my ventilation system, your sparks are threatening my dining room, and I have a reservation for twelve on Thursday that I will NOT lose because my hundred-euro tasting menu tastes like a campfire."
He takes a bite of the rib himself. A massive, wet, crunching bite. Chews with his mouth open.
"You want to try just a little piece?"
My hand moves before my brain approves the action.
I don't swat the rib. Ilaunchit. My palm connects with the underside of the bone, and the force of the strike sends the entire tennis-racket-sized slab spinning out of his grip and across the room, where it slaps against the exposed brick wall with a wet, meaty thwack and slides down in a slow, greasy trail before landing on one of the rough-cut tables.
Boris stares at his empty hand.
I look at my palm. A smear of rendered fat glistens across the skin, dark and fragrant, and my stomach clenches because my body, thetraitor, registers that the seasoning profile on this barbecue glaze involves smoked paprika, brown sugar, and at least three chili varieties I'd need a full minute to identify.
I wipe my hand on the back of my chef coat. The back, where no one will see the stain until I can burn this garment and start fresh.
"Are you listening to me? At all? Even slightly?"
He's still looking at his hand. Then at the wall. Then at the rib on the table. His expression cycles through something I can only describe as the five stages of grief compresses into four seconds.
"You hit the beef."
"I redirected it."
"You hit Borog's beef. Off Borog's hand. That was best rib. Corner piece. Bark wasperfect."
"And in about thirty seconds, your bark is going to be the least of your problems." I unclip the clipboard from under my arm. It's been there this whole time, pressed against me, because I don't leaveVerdurewithout it. Prep lists. Vendor contacts. Reservation confirmations. And, as of 6:47 this morning when the smoke woke me from a dead sleep in my apartment above the restaurant, a freshly printed copy of the City of Paris zoning regulations for the ninth arrondissement.
I flip to the relevant page. Tab twelve. Yellow highlight. I've had this document for three years. It has never once been deployed in anger.
Until now.
My finger stabs the page so hard my nail bends.
"Article L.421-dash-3. Commercial establishments operating within the ninth arrondissement mixed-use residential zone are prohibited from maintaining open-flame cooking apparatus on public walkways, sidewalks, or any exterior surface within fifteen meters of a neighboring business's primary ventilation intake."
I jab the page again. Another highlight, orange this time.