all in French. I knew a few words here and there but not enough to understand every ingredient and item listed. That would no doubt be a problem.
The hostess hung up the phone and gave me a curt smile. “Sorry, we aren’t hiring.” Her gaze rested on the resume in my hand.
I hadn’t even said a word yet. Did I look that desperate? “Oh. Well, can you please give this to your manager? In case something opens up?”
She rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed that I was still standing there. “I guess.”
I tried to thank her, but she was already back on the phone. And something told me that the second I turned around my resume would be in the waste bin.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the next one on the list—an Italian bistro a few blocks down. Forgoing the thrill ride of the taxi, and to save money, I chose to pound the pavement instead. My heels were only three inches, but they were cheaply made and by the third block, I could already feel a blister starting to form.
“Hi, I’m here about the server position.” I exclaimed a little too eagerly.
This hostess’s smile seemed a bit more genuine, but she couldn’t hide the pity in her eyes as she looked my outfit up and down. “Thanks, hon, I’ll make sure my manager gets your resume.”
On my way back out, I couldn’t help but notice the long line of gorgeous men and women seated along the banquette, waiting to be interviewed. Back home, if you were polite and eager to work, you’d get hired in a heartbeat. It seemed the expectations here had more to do with looks than anything else. Not that none of those people weren’t qualified, but there wasn’t a plain Jane in the entire bunch.
The next three restaurants I went into were a repeat of the last. Always a forced smile and a, “Sure, we’ll pass this along to the manager,” even if none of them had any intention of doing so. It’s likely they’d take one look at my short resume and toss it in the trash anyway.
The thing was, I knew food and wine. My summer abroad opened my eyes and my palate to a brand new world of exciting tastes and experiences. If someone would just give me a chance… I wouldn’t be able to live here for very long if I didn’t have a job. I may have failed in my relationship, but I refused to fail at this. Plus, my family didn’t think I could cut it in the real world and I was determined to prove them wrong.
It was almost five o’clock in the evening and my feet were burning, but I still had two places left on my list. I was afraid if I waited until tomorrow, I’d lose my nerve. There was only so much rejection a girl could take.
The next place was fancy. While every other one I walked into today seemed to copy each other in décor and offerings, this restaurant stood out. It had an old-world vibe to it like something out of a classic Hollywood film. The furnishings were dark and warm with a cherrywood finish. Massive chandeliers, spanning six feet wide, decorated the vaulted ceilings, and the walls were painted a dark chocolate brown.
This restaurant was exquisite. The music was orchestral and just loud enough without drowning out the buzz of conversation. A warm sensation tickled my belly. There was something special about it. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but despite the obvious display of wealth and luxury, I felt comfortable here.
“Welcome to Dolce Sale. How can I help you, signorina?” A middle-aged man with gray speckled hair peered over the podium at me.
I was in awe, still taking in the aromas wafting from the open kitchen—scents of truffle and red wine reducing into a glaze. “Dolce Sale,” I repeated. “It means Sweet Salt. That’s brilliant.”
The man’s smile widened, and his eyes lit up. “Ah, you speak Italian?”
I shook my head. “I know a few words here and there.” I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. I got his hopes up for nothing.
“You know the important ones,” he teased. As he leaned forward to get a closer look at me, I noticed a nametag on the lapel of his suit that said Enzo.
I smiled and handed him my resume. “I’m looking for a job. I know I don’t have a lot of experience but I’m a quick learner and