by Sidney Ivens
TEAM TWO
19 Ambiance
20 Concept
39 Total
Damn. That’s almost a perfect 40 score, and if they do well in the food judging, we’re sunk.
Someone’s tugging on my suit jacket sleeve. Elena.
“Your mother would be proud.”
“Let’s not get carried away here. It wasn’t Churchill or the Gettysburg Address.” In the front rows, I can see audience members finishing off the last of their puffs, nodding at each other, drinking their water. “I’m using her. Exploiting who she was for my own personal gain. You called me a shit once, remember? I’m a shit son.”
“I believe she’d want you to use every single one of those recipes. She’d have wanted you to leave Division One.”
“Well, she’s not exactly here to tell us.”
On the screens, Team Six’s scores fade.
Here it comes. My heart rate’s skipping along at Jetski speed. I’ve blown it. I’d gotten tanked, flirted with two other girls in front of my girlfriend and burned my mother’s photos. Serves me right, if our scores are an epic fail. Here come our audience scores.
TEAM SEVEN
11 Ambiance
20 Concept
31 Total
We’ve got the lowest score going into the final round, and there’s no way we can make up the difference.
“It appears a number of our audience members complained they couldn’t see Team Seven’s dining room due to the lighting,” the emcee says. “Unfortunate planning on part of their team.”
That’s a flat-out lie, but Lexi’s got to secure the win. And now we’ve got to stand on stage while the winners are announced, part of my public flogging.
But I’m not thinking about that so much anymore. I’m thinking more about the team. Remembering how much sweat, blood and tears went into this crazy effort. Everyone scrambling, working side-by-side. How badly Chris will feel about dropping that food. I squeeze my hands into fists. Elena risked her job for this.
A scatter of applause starts at the back of the Affluence Room and quickly builds, until everyone is on their feet, wildly clapping.
The chefs from each team rush through the doors and tramp down the aisles toward the stage. Behind them are the six celebrity judges, Garrett Boman leading, his beefy shoulders and thick torso stuffed into a tux as tight as a sausage casing. He walks up to the emcee and hands him three lime-green envelopes.
The emcee waves the envelopes above his head. “I have the finalists, folks—the honorable mention, the runner up and the winner. This is it!”
More wild clapping fills the room.
The lights dim, an effort to settle the noise.
He rips open the first envelope. “Honorable mention, or third place, and this was a close call! Team Five, a fine Mexican restaurant in Ravenswood—Sabroso Encantado.”
A fifty-something Latino man in a suit emerges, accompanied by two younger women openly crying. The resemblance is obvious even from where I’m standing. Has to be his daughters, and I’m happy for all of them. Near the glass podium, he reaches for the gold statue in the shape of a dome serving dish held up by a hand. He says gracias over and over and bows.
Elena leans into me. “You’re almost tap dancing.”
“Eager to get off the stage.”
“Nick.”
But my ears wear a CLOSED sign. I can’t hear any pep talks or spiels. Even if it’s coming from her. What’s more important are our missing pieces. I gaze outward, find Auntie Rob and Chris in the audience and wave at them to join us on stage.
“Before we announce the runner-up and winner.” The emcee clips his heels together in a half spin and throws out a tuxedoed arm. “I’d like to acknowledge our gracious host this evening. Mr. Nick Zaccardi.”
My dad’s sitting in the front row, dead center, in one of his five-thousand-dollar suits. He stands to thunderous applause and bows, smoothing a hand over his suit jacket. People twist around in their seats, and necks crane. Some middle-aged guy near us whispers to his wife: He looks just like he does on TV.
My heart’s hammering. Damn. Dad’s going to be up there for my public defeat. For all I know, Lexi’s streaming this live. I decide to occupy myself by trotting across the stage to help Auntie Rob up the steps.
“Did you see when I dropped the frickin’ steak?” Chris greets me with a grin. His hair net’s gone from his head and is in his hands. “I said to the judges, ‘how about the three-second rule?’”
Auntie Rob smiles. “It made them laugh.”
So that’s what they were laughing at. I blow out some trapped air, relieved.
The announcer returns and pats his blond hair back into place. Rug, hair, you choose. He raises both arms. “Runner up, and in second place: Team Two, Division One!”
WTF? I do a double-take. Div1 is the runner-up? Has the Earth spun off its axis?
My father jokingly reaches for the gold-domed statue but waits for Lexi to cross the stage. Now she’s in a tight black leather mini-dress and exaggerates a lower lip pout. Before she can launch into another rap verse, the emcee seizes control of the mic and claps his pale pudgy hands together.
“And now for the winner!”
Has to be the Thai restaurant that wins. They worked just as hard as we did, so good for them. I suck air into my lungs and wait for an encore of lutes and bright-costumed dancers.
“Tailgaters?!”
The word trips off the emcee’s lips and bounces off the silk-papered walls. Confused, he turns to the others on stage, eyebrows lifted to his hairline. “Tailgaters? Can that be right? Tailgaters is the Italian place, when he spoke of his mama?”
The sound coming from Chris can best be described as a “whoop,” and Auntie Rob is crying, wiping her hands across her face. Elena’s got her hands clasped together, jumping up and down like a lottery winner.
The food won. Had to. We’d have to get a perfect score in the food category to pull this off.
Mama did it.
Mama.
At the podium, one of the judges, Garrett Boman—you know, the cable show guy who clamps a hand around the necks of male business owners to yell at them—is the first to speak. “I gotta tell you, this food has soul, and it’s the place I’ll take my own family to. And one final thing. I was told there were pizza puffs, and I missed out?”
The audience laughs and claps even louder.
A spotlight lands on us.
I’m biting hard down on my tongue to keep from losing it, and my lower jaw shakes. Elena reaches for my hand. And I reach for Aunt Robbie’s and she has Chris’s. By now, Cos, Tiffany and the baby are with us. All of us lift our hands together like some sappy movie. It’s all we can do, is hold each other up. We’re tired and stunned and speechless.
On stage, standing next to Boman, Lexi’s holding the largest trophy and a plaque, smoke nearly coming out of her ears. When she opens her mouth, it won’t be a word or scream they’ll hear, it’ll be a diesel train horn. She’s that pissed.
It’s going to kill her to hand me that piece of metal.
Lexi leans in the microphone like she’s about to style a song:
“Sorry, but Tailgaters is disqualified.”
The room erupts in conversations, everyone clueless as to what the hell is going on. On stage, behind Lexi, my father’s rearing up like a racehorse that’s being restrained with a flimsy riding bit. Behind Dad is the emcee, his cotton hair and lime-green bow tie visible, eyes open wide.
At the podium, Lexi raises two talon-like hands in an attempt to tamp down what’s she’s caused. “Tailgaters did not follow the competition’s rules. The proprietor violated them at every turn. He was caught on a crosswalk spying on the other contestants. He entered an entirely different menu from what his restaurant name implicates, filing as a sports bar, but his menu suggests Italian. And finally, he cheated by providing the audience with a sampling of his food.”
On stage, a female production assistant in black whisp
ers to the emcee, who slides around my father. “Wait.” The emcee is still mic’d. “Can this be true? Our disputed winner is Mr. Zaccardi’s son? His own progeny?”
More rumbles stir among the audience, and the producers got what they’ve wanted, a reality show controversy. Accusations of nepotism are just around the corner. This can’t go anywhere good, and loitering on stage makes us a bull’s eye. I take one polite bow of resignation, Elena at my side, dark strands of her hair catching on my suit jacket sleeve. She and I walk toward the stage steps, and the team follows.
Once on the main floor, we’re mobbed.
Thirty or forty people crowd around us, congratulating us as if we secured the win. They make room for the fifty-something actress, one of the judges, who’s surprisingly friendly. She wags a finger at me. “You give me the recipe to that cake, right here and now.”
A smiling brunette around forty wearing a navy coat touches my arm. “You made me think of my mom, and how much I miss her.” A guy raises his Tailgaters napkin. “This the address, son? The missus loves Italian.”
“Tailgaters is the name of your joint?” A man in a goatee calls out. His girlfriend punches up her black-framed glasses and beams.
No sign of the glitterati or ridiculously priced clothes, but regular people holding onto their coats and purses. Ordinary Joes and Joans and an actress who acts real. Real’s everywhere. My demographic no longer leans single professionals, the physically fit and fierce.
It just leans human.
Elena’s head pressed against my shoulder, and I glance around. Aunt Robbie’s being patted on the back. Someone jokes with Chris about the dropped food. Cos curls a protective arm around his wife, while she positions the pink blanket around her baby.
I raise an arm. “Folks, can everyone please make room?”
Mouthing “thank you,” Tiffany nods at me, and she and Cos manage to make their way to the doors, where I see her mom and dad waiting.
That’s a shot to the gut, an unexpected pang, watching her parents rush to greet them. Giant smiles plastered on their faces. Outstretched arms.
Like so many times, I look for him—like I used to look when I knew he wouldn’t be there to watch me sink a three from half-court, or cheer during the debate match where I scored highest. Other kids rolled their eyes when their parents gushed over the smallest thing and looked at me with envy. My Dad was the Cool Kid. The Celebrity. But what I wouldn’t have given for my father be like theirs, waiting in the family van after practice, engine idling in the frigid parking lot. Through the years, I’d look and find a blank chair.
Tonight he’s up on stage, smiling for cameras. Dad looks tired under the hot lights. Lexi’s kvetching at the microphone and his fatigue makes me feel sorry for him. The second she’s aware a camera’s trained on her, she stops griping. She plants a hand on her hip in a red carpet pose, careful that her smile doesn’t show her gums.
Behind them, well-edited montage plays on all three screens, clips from Division One and the Z logo. They’d likely created this video weeks ago. The fix was in.
But the knowledge doesn’t break me into Dumpty pieces. I’m surrounded by people who care. People who helped me tonight. The people I love.
I whisper to Elena that I’ll be back. Her mouth opens and she’s about to speak, but she stops when she follows my gaze to the stage. I kiss her on the cheek and slip between several people, making my way through the crowd to reach my father.
Where I’m promptly blocked by Lexi.
“You were disqualified.” Lexi’s fists are on her hip, her black leather mini as stiff as she is.
I glance past her. Bodyguards block a few audience members from the podium, securing the isolated bubble of my father’s life. Most people have left already, the massive room’s eighty percent empty, a couple of chairs are knocked over.
“I just want to talk to him.”
“He’s busy.”
I cup my mouth to yell. “Dad!”
He’s been flirting with a pretty autograph seeker. My father twists around, and his eyes narrow on me.
We walk toward each other in a gunfighter showdown. The family resemblance’s clear, but his dark hair has more gray, I’m taller and more fit. His suit cost diamonds while my latest threads came off a rack.
We stop halfway across the floor, and lights glare in my eyes. By now, the stage has cleared. Only the stragglers remain—those cleaning up, production assistants moving equipment.
“You lost.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“You cheated.”
He’s doing what he always does, rubbing in my catalog of wrongs, my defeats. The old bitterness flares up and a checklist of grievances burns in my brain. But arguing won’t change anything. The past is sealed with stone and mortar. From tonight going forward, I’ll own the problems and the benefits. Roll up my sleeves and dig in. Climb my own ladder. As the great Vince Lombardi said, “Life’s battles don’t always go to the stronger or faster man. The man who wins is the man who thinks he can.”
“You’re right,” I admit. “I didn’t follow the rules with the pizza puffs.”
“No. Those were good instincts.” My father glances down, pursing his lips, suit jacket bunched around hands shoved in his slack pockets. “People were hungry and thirsty, sitting all that time. I was telling Alexandria, you host a restaurant contest and do the judge tasting off-site? When the judges are celebrities?” Dad gives a disgusted laugh and shakes his head. “The first team she disqualified is suing me.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
He lifts his chin. “Yeah. Well. Dog eat—” He stops, frowning. “Gotta run. Labor dispute issues at a property in Cincy.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
He gives a surly frown. “I don’t have time for your smart-ass mouth.”
“I mean it.” I extend my arm for a handshake. “I want to congratulate you. The contest was a success. Next year will be even better.”
Reluctantly he takes my hand and I give it a firm shake. The slight slump in his shoulders and deep creases of his spray tan make him look tired. Older.
“I don’t get this.” He grimaces and scratches a cheek. “You lost.”
“I had my shot. Best I could ask for. I had the opportunity and I appreciate the invite.”
“But I didn’t invite you. Alexandria did.”
“I’m sure she had her reasons to include me.” To hit my face with some major humble pie, but it has liberated me instead. I’ve got Elena and my own place, a grand slam. I’m one lucky bastard.
“What’s that shit-eating grin about? Oh. Now I get it. You’re plotting something. Going behind my back. You want to come back to Division One.”
“I’m not playing you.” I hold up my hands. “There’s no angle. I’m going to make my own way. Then I’ll know I really earned it.”
“I’m late.” He turns, spotlights bright on his back, the stage bathed in blue and black.
“Wait.”
He pivots, eyebrow raised.
“Dad.” I let out a long breath. “If you total all the time you and I actually spent together over the years, it might add up to forty minutes. We barely know each other.”
“You know my money.”
“You’re right. I spent it and took advantage.”
“What’s with you? I know. That girl put you up to this. This—Elena.”
Cool. He remembered her name. “Take care, Dad.” I lean in to try to hug him, but he deflects the move by twisting and turning away his shoulders. The rejection stings, but it doesn’t crush me. All I feel is sorry for the guy. No one ever taught him how to give a real hug, just a phony one for cameras. I also realize that one attempt at a hug won’t close up the chasm between us.
But it feels real. Awkward and real.
I turn to leave, my dress shoe heels clicking on the stage floor, and his voice stops me.
“So this is it. What you’re leaving your life for.”
I pause
. “I’m not leaving it. I’m starting it.”
After the positive buzz from the contest, most of Saturday involved planning, reopening under the Italian chophouse theme. Now Sunday afternoon coated Chicago in a drizzly gloom, a March rain plopping on her umbrella. Again Elena found herself back at the former bookstore-turned-into-restaurant, looking through one of the three large arched windows.
Inside, another eerie glow flickered, a single candle’s flame from a table at the back of the room.
Nick had insisted she come alone. But she hadn’t listened and brought along a surprise. From the sidewalk, she waved at them to stay in their vehicles until she gave the signal.
She opened the front door, unable to see much past the first fifty feet. Most traces of Tailgaters were gone: the sports bar decorations, the TVs. Blank brick remained, tables and chairs pushed against the walls. In the shadows, she could make out Nick’s chest and the button placket to his light blue business shirt. Muscled arms rested at his sides, he gripped the edge of the white-skirted table. Usually he greeted her with an enthusiastic kiss, his trademark grin.
He’s tense. Where had Friday’s euphoria gone? He wasn’t frowning or smiling, just looked—expectant—as though he were an investor watching the stock ticker.
Had he received bad news?
The silence spooked her a little and she decided to boldly walk toward him, keeping her face as blank as possible to hide the surprise waiting outside. “Only one candle this time?”
“My candle finally met its match.”
She scrunched up her face.
“Not so punny, eh?”
“Stop, or I’ll leave,” she teased. His humor relaxed her a little. She looped her jacket around the back of the chair opposite him and pulled her Hermes scarf free from her neck. She leaned over to tuck her damp umbrella under the table and plopped down. “Is this a disturbing new habit, sitting in the dark?”
“Still recovering from Friday.”
“It can’t be your hangover.”
“Lexi’s rap lyrics.”
She laughed and dug a little at the edges of the white candle, at its pooled warm wax. Next to the round candle sat his mother’s recipe box. “Chris said he’s going to frame his hairnet. It was crazy, wasn’t it? We pulled it off.”