Luca, a man of forty-five, owned a small restaurant with ten tables, and it was losing money. Tonight an inspector from the food guide was coming for the first time in ten years, and the stars he gave would decide whether the restaurant survived. But on Thursday morning Luca woke up with a blocked nose and could not smell his coffee. By noon he could not taste his own soup.
Bea, a girl of fifteen, washed pots at the weekends and was always sniffing the pans. In despair Luca said, "Taste this." She said at once, "It needs more salt. And the sauce is too sharp." He hated being corrected by a teenager, but all afternoon he let her taste everything: the soup, the fish, the apple tart.
At eight o'clock a small quiet man in a gray raincoat sat at table four and ate in silence, one dish after another. At the end he asked to see the cook. "I could not taste anything today," Luca said honestly. "I owe this dinner to my dishwasher." The inspector smiled. "I know. I saw her through the kitchen door." The restaurant got its star.
