Saturday, 25 November 2017
The bullied takes on Goliath in the true horror stories in modern Paris part 50
Any serious managers would be concerned by empty seats in their restaurant, but not Mme. Empathy. She was never into running a decent restaurant. There is a record of her summon to the court following a big petition signed by her former neighbors whose lives had been wrecked by her irresponsible management of her last restaurant. But it did not hurt her one bit because in Paris you can always sell the restaurant permit and make a huge profit. Therefore, it was essential for Mme. Empathy to invest as little as possible. One of it was installing a cooking ventilator without insulating hood (which you would find in any normal restaurant kitchen). It damaged my health, but what did she care? Mme. Empathy was counting the huge profit she would make by selling the permit to a sucker. Sure her reputation follows her everywhere, but she just needs to apply under someone else’s name and partners in crimes she has no shortage of.
However, her brother, I shall refer to him as Mr. Justice hereafter, reminded Mme. Empathy that she would have nothing to sell should this Asian upstairs win her lawsuit. Surely, Mr. Honor, her big protector, would help her out, but wearing down this nuisance upstairs should be the top priority. In fact, Mr. Justice had already chosen to play a delaying tactics by not replying to the court. Of course if he did not reply for too long, the court would annul the restaurant permit without trial, so he would reply in 6~8 months or so. In the meantime, a lot of things could happen.
Indeed, their delaying tactics was wearing me down as they planned. One eye was twitching and I had lost the sense of the tip of my tongue. Things fell out of my hand easily because I could not completely escape the hell ventilator noise. I did not sleep well inside my small kitchen even with lots of plugs staffed in my ears to avoid the all night noise from the kitchen appliances in the restaurant below. My head felt heavy all the time that I could not function well. But it could have been worse had I not taken this traditional anti-toxin potion passed down in Japan. Mr. Pride knew about my suffering but he could not care less. That I was not meekly bowing to his demands was far more unacceptable. The team Restaurant from Hell decided to up their game.
Then appeared this man in our courtyard. I still remember that day in March when Mme. Landlord asked who he was. He came to replace the previous chef (who had quitted claiming that Mme. Empathy was a snake). He smiled sincerely at both of us, promising to make things better for me. Instinct told me to fear him but I was so worn down that I wished to believe this man whom I shall refer to as Mr. Sincere. To be continued.