We were sitting in a Spanish restaurant in the Loop when the waiter approached. I could see from the look in Tarantina’s eye that she was going to toy with him. It wouldn’t matter what he said or did. He could be the best, most attentive waiter in Chicago, but she was going to find some way to wind him up.
‘Can I bring you the dessert menu?’ he said.
‘One second,’ she replied, picking up her phone. She was acting like she’d received a text, but I knew for certain she hadn’t. Her blue-lacquered fingernails shot across the screen, pretending to reply.
‘Just one second…’
I caught the waiter giving a tiny roll of his eyes. I felt for him. All through the meal she’d found ways to rile him. If only he knew, I thought, how she was going to pay for this later, it would go some way to placating him.
She put the phone down. ‘What did you say?’ she asked the waiter.
‘Would you like to see the dessert menu?’ he repeated.
She looked him up and down. He was a touch on the flabby side. ‘I leave dessert to others.’