The owner of Chez Juan greets me by swearing about my tardiness when I get to work. This routine occurs every day, even though the time is just past four, my shift doesn't start until four-thirty, and the restaurant doesn't open until five. I don't mind, though. I love my job, the pay is good, and we both know that his business would fail without me. I have a skill he needs. After twenty years of waitressing, I've discovered that I can look at someone and instantly sense what they want to eat, even if they don't know it themselves.

Juan Chung, a brilliant, classically-trained chef raised in a Chinese-Hispanic family, opened a restaurant with a small but eclectic menu. He offered gourmet-prepared home-style food from around the world. The meals were all delicious, but his guests were confused by an ever-changing menu sporting dishes like Mapo Doufu, Seafood Paella, Ratatouille, Hui Gho Rou, Bouillabaisse, Gan Bian Niu Rou Si, and Cassoulet with Duck Confit. Chez Juan floundered because so few people knew what to order.

It's been nearly a year since Juan learned of my unique ability and hired me as a last, desperate ploy before his money ran out. Juan pays me a percentage of each evening’s revenue to simply write down everyone's orders. The rest of the staff serve the meals and interact with the customers. Chez Juan's gimmick is that it does not have a posted menu. Patrons don't order anything. They simply show up and are fed whatever I think they want to eat, which might involve a Catalonian Tapas appetizer coupled with a French main course and a Sichuan side dish.

No one knows what they will eat until it arrives at their table, yet everyone always raves about their meals. Juan's business went from bankrupt to booming, and numerous international food magazines have glowingly reviewed Chez Juan over the past two years. The articles never mention my name, but I don't mind. I'm having fun and am making more money than I have ever earned in my life.

Even though tonight is a Tuesday, it’s Season, and the place is packed by six. I hear Karl, our maître d', arguing with entitled snowbirds who didn't bother to make reservations as I write down dinner orders for a table of six. Moments later, I feel a slight tug on my sleeve as Karl whispers a request to come to the front stand immediately. I apologize to my guests while a server smoothly steps in to take their drink orders. Then I follow Karl to his station and gasp at the face of my stalker.

The man sees me walking with Karl and immediately askes in a thick accent, “Are you, Eve Adams?”

I reply, “That’s my name, but I prefer to be called Jeannette. How may I help you?”

“I urgently need to speak with you, Miss Adams. Please come with me.”

My earlier panicked feelings have returned, but I’m in a public space surrounded by friends.

“Listen, I don’t know you, so we are not going anywhere together. Besides, I’m working, so I must insist that you leave.”

“Miss Adams, I must speak with you tonight. It is a matter of life and death.”

This guy is tenacious. We could call the cops, but that would take a while, and several of our guests are already looking anxious. I decide to act before Juan comes out of the kitchen and blames me for the disturbance.

“OK, I’ll meet you at our bar for a few minutes after my shift ends at eleven. But you need to change into acceptable attire and clean yourself up. You smell like a camel.”

I turn and walk away without waiting for a response, although I hear an appreciative chuckle from Karl. The man is gone when I glance back, and I doubt he’ll be able to bathe and find a decent set of clothes by the time we close. Even if he does, I’ll confront him on home turf with friends to protect me. My primary concern is that this guy knows where I live, but I force that thought out of my mind for now because I have three tables full of customers.

This evening was more hectic than usual for a weekday, and I'm relieved to find my smelly Arab stalker nowhere in sight at the end of my shift. Jake, our bartender, pours me a beer as I settle onto a stool with a sigh. There are only four seats at the small bar, primarily used by people waiting for their tables. The only other customer is a gentleman in a Giorgio Armani suit at the far end nursing a Scotch.

I nearly spill my drink as the wavy-haired, olive-skinned man looks up from his smartphone and asks, “Are you ready to talk now?”