Lobby Boy

1. The Bueller Hiring

     

                               CHAPTER ONE:

                               T H E   B U E L L E R   H I R I N G

The hotel was anything but a successful establishment.

⠀⠀⠀⠀  It was merely a place for the people whom I never got to talk to or get to know. They would simply find their way to the coffee room or the dining hall (which was looked at being far too grand nowadays due to the lack of guests). They would sit, drink caffeine or wine, read the daily newspaper, get to talking about the most randomised of things, and at the end of it all, eat a sensational meal. The hotel's chef, Bernard, still managed to put his heart and soul into making the guest's dinner - I didn't blame him. If you've been stuck working in the vacant Grand Claudine Hôtel for 15 years, you would take any job with enthusiasm and pride like it's the only thing keeping you going (which for Bernard, it was).

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Ran by my Mother, Jaqueline, the not-so-grand hotel is located in a small town called Montreuil, very near the edge of France. It was the maker and true owner of the business, my Grandmother Claudine's idea to create an ambitious looking building that stood out from the small town houses and harbours. For a while, this plan succeeded. Swarms of town's people and tourists came rushing in, receiving full luxury comfort as well as the good looking lobby boys that Claudine managed to swipe from herself and her two sisters. At the time, my mother was merely a toddler that could barely stand still on her own two baby feet. Nowadays, she tells me her childhood memories consisted of staying in an elegant cradle with my great Grandmother at her side, stitching away at a piece of material.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀My Grandmother was quite the leading woman for her age. Always making sure she was the dominant in the hotel. But anyone would assume so after finding out the whole establishment was entitled after her, along with the word "grand" in front of her first name. Immediately, you distinguish what kind of lady she likes to portray herself as. Luckily for me, my Mother isn't an exact replica.

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ The kitchen, no matter how ridiculously unbusy we were (which was most of the time), was always bustling. With Bernard roaring requests and instructions, steaming pots and pans, and sous-chefs tasting soups and god knows what kind of herbs, there was never a quiet or dull moment in the kitchen.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"Service!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀  A kitchen staff member yelled, to which I left my slouching position on the wall and fetched the dish of soup from the counter. As I picked up the plate with a white cloth covering my hands, Danny spoke from the other side of the bench.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"Busy day huh?" He grinned. I mumbled in disagreement and continued to make my way out of the kitchen through the push doors. The faint, classical music barely covered the lack of discussion throughout the dining hall. As usual, the only tables reserved were by Monsieur and Madam Duval, a mid-aged American couple, and an old french man who always seemed to have a frown upon his wrinkled face.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I placed the bean soup in front of him and he made a gruffing sound. Without taking his eyes off of his newpaper, he stretched out his coffee cup towards me.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"Refill," the man grumbled. I tucked the cloth into my pocket and grabbed the petite cup from his hands.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"With all due respect Monsieur, this isn't a diner," I retorted. He looked up at me before folding his newspaper away and pushing his own dinner cloth into the hem of his shirt; spreading it out so that it covered his chest. Even so, I was convinced that he would find some way of spilling soup clumsily onto himself.