It was a busy night in the Pink Macaron. Like most nights, crowds of important looking men and women swarmed the small street corner on Dreamlit avenue dressed in their Friday evening best, buzzing with chatter as they formed a crude line to the door of the most popular french restaurant in the history of french restaurants. It was everything a french restaurant should be; outside it had the look of a quaint stall at the market, or a pastry shop. A few clusters of shiny black tables and matching stools surrounded the restaurant, where several important looking couples in their Friday evening best sat sharing a bowl of Soupe à l'oignon, or a buttered and flaky croissant. Out of the roof jutted a sweet, pink and white lined cloth overhang, underneath of which was the dinging glass door, which, of course, was home to a very curly, very loopy lettered, Open sign. But the inside was far from quaint; it was grand and elegant and chic and everything a french restaurant should be. Suited waiters and waitresses danced around white cloth tables and refilled tiny glasses of blood red wine; guests laughed and fiddled with their mustaches and tried to sound french; and, of course, the chefs tasted and shouted, gesturing wildly to whoever was unfortunate enough to have made the dish. ‘More salt in the soup!’ ‘This needs a touch of paprika!’ ‘No, that’s far too much. You’ll have to make a new batch!’ But, most nefarious for their hollered corrections and belittling scoldings was none other than the head chef of the most popular french restaurant in the history of french restaurants himself, Chef Maxime. On that particular Friday night he was as bossy and imperious as ever, but his mind was not on the overly peppered Soupe à l'oignon, but the beautiful girl who was busy slaving away at the dishes piled so high he feared they would topple and smash her pretty face. “Hello, miss dish washer,” said Maxime, somewhat nervously fidgeting with his white apron. “I came to inquire about those dishes. Don’t you think that it is inevitable that they will fall?” He asked, eyeing the dishes with caution. The girl finally turned around, wiping her hands on her apron and shooting a barely detectable look of disgust at Maxime. “The name is Amanda,” She said through clenched teeth, “And seeing as I have had five years of experience washing these very dishes I think that I would know when they are coming dangerously close to toppling.” She finished, whipping a flyaway strand of her chestnut brown hair behind her ear and turning back to the pile. What a fool, thinks Maxime, blushing as red as it’s possible to go. Amanda, Amanda. That’s her name. Oh, so pretty sounding… but seeing as he was a very successful chef in a very successful restaurant, he did not give up. “Did you know that I’ve, um, this restaurant has two Michelin stars?” He finally settled on, patting the stitched stars on his apron proudly. “Yes I do know, considering that I work here.” She said, not bothering to look at him. “I really don’t mean to be rude,” She remarked rather rudely, “But can you please leave me be? I get paid per dish, you know.” “I don’t mean to be rude,” thought Maxime happily. That’s a step, isn’t it? He barked orders with more spirit than ever before and a smile on his face for the rest of the day.
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