“A local following is sometimes best,” said Paul. “Anybody can be famous if you put him on television—but what counts is the opinion of the people down the street.”
Hugo sipped at his coffee. “This book you’re doing—this film—about our place.”
“Yes?”
“Will it make our restaurant famous?”
Paul nodded. “For a while. But you know something, that sort of fame doesn’t last. People will talk about it for a few months—maybe for a year or so. But then they’ll forget. You’ll have to carry on looking after the ordinary people who come to your restaurant from not too far away. Or passing trade—the people who see that sign on the road, the one that says, what is it?”
“Highly Recommended.”
Paul laughed. “Yes, that one. Perhaps it should say something different.”
“Very highly recommended?”
Paul thought for a moment. “No, not that. How about The Second-Best Restaurant in France? How about that?”
Hugo grinned. “It would give me something to work for.”
“Yes, we all need that, don’t we?” He paused. “Although some of us already have it—and don’t know that we do.”
Hugo stared at him.
Paul looked up. The morning sky was blue and empty, and wide as any ocean. France, France. A swallow dipped and swerved, in pursuit of invisible prey, some tiny flying insect, or simply because the wind was in its wings and the air all about it was warm and buoyant. France.
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The Second-Worst Restaurant in France Page 23