“Oui, madame. Pardonne.” He placed a long, narrow placard in her hands. “You would like to order for the table?”
She slid her rhinestone glasses onto her face. “I’m going to order for myself. The rest of them can take care of themselves. And I’m thinking that a fine Chateau Mouton Rothchild would do quite nicely this evening.”
While Virginia dithered over vintage year and blend, Victor folded his hands on the table and smiled. “So, my lovelies, tell me about your home visit. Did you dazzle your host family?”
Dawna bounced gleefully in her chair, causing her bustier to plunge toward wardrobe malfunction territory. “We welcomed three new Mona Michelle converts into the fold! Bobbi and Krystal and me had sample products with us, so we—”
“—convinced our hostess that we could erase years from her face with our concealer gel and foundation,” chirped Krystal.
“So we did freaking amazing makeovers for her and her two daughters,” Bobbi enthused. “By the time we finished, they—”
“—were beggin’ us to sell them our entire line of daywear products,” gushed Dawna. “We left a few samples with them, Victor, but if you really want to make a killing, you gotta—”
“—create an international arm of Mona Michelle!” cried Bobbi.
Jackie came to attention beside me, shooting an adoring look at the blondes before preening like a starlet expecting to be named best actress in a foreign film.
Victor nodded his pleasure. “Personal initiative and enthusiasm for the product, ladies. This is why we lead the industry in sales. Your performance continues to exceed my expectations.”
“Hey, Patricia.” Woody waved his menu at the steward. “One of our entrees is listed here as ‘Poison Grille.’ I’ve got two questions for you. Number one: What kind of poison is it? And number two: How do I know it won’t kill me?”
Patrice threw a nervous look in Woody’s direction. “Poison, monsieur? No, no. That cannot be. Excusé moi, madame. Just for a moment.”
“I haven’t finished with you yet,” snapped Virginia as Patrice circled the table to assist Woody.
Victor smiled at his bevy of beauties. “Don’t be modest, ladies. I know great ideas need a spark to ignite them. Which one of you was the spark who envisioned the makeovers?”
“I did!” echoed the three blondes in near perfect unison.
Jackie stared at them aghast, her jaw falling with the speed of an excavator dropping its clam bucket.
“All three of you came up with the idea?” asked Victor.
They braved whiplash as they took sudden measure of each other. “We kinda … brainstormed,” cooed Bobbi. “Idn’t that right, girls?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dawna agreed. “When we were checkin’ out that cute little seaside town, that’s exactly what we were doin’. Brainstormin’ and shoppin’.”
Oh, sure. Like they could multitask at such an advanced level.
“And that’s when it happened,” declared Krystal. “Zzzzt! The three of us got zapped by the very same idea at the very same time. It was almost like … like a religious experience.”
A pilgrimage to Lourdes was a religious experience. What the girls were peddling as gospel was an outright lie. I kicked Jackie under the table.
“A printing error,” tsked Patrice as he hovered over Woody’s shoulder. “Not Poison Grille. Poisson Grille. Fish, not poison—a delicious pan-fried tilapia with reduced tomato and white wine sauce, presented on carrot mousseline and saffron rice.” He poised his pencil over his order pad. “Is that your selection, monsieur?”