Mr. Baudelaire was by the kitchen, which was banging away as loudly as ever. A waiter flew by with a foot-tall flaming phoenix ice cream sculpture that smelled especially sweet from the caramelization. The phoenix fire flapped and shook out its fiery hackles with a life of its own.

Mr. Baudelaire screamed something in French about roasting one of them next, turned around, noticed Mr. McPaidrac, and suddenly had the most angelic smile that could grace a balding, towering, late-middle aged man.

“Merci beaucoup,” he said in French with an overly gracious smile, stepping away from the door to shake his hand. “Pleasure to see you and yours again. I’ll send my regards to the chef.”