It literally means fuck off.
Chapter 6
On my way to yoga I’ve only now realized I have never just sat here and observed. For the past couple of years, I’ve stepped onto this very train, five days a week, with my head literally buried in my iPhone or MacBook, browsing online copies of restaurant reviews: blogs, newspapers, magazines—wherever a review could be read. You see, it would have been extremely taboo to publish an opinion of a restaurant during the same week another critic published one about the same restaurant. I suppose it’s also worth mentioning I was—and still am—a super fangirl of Mr. Gregory Hambrick, an extremely famous food critic here in New York who writes a restaurant review column for a well-known newspaper. I aspired to be just like him. Well not like him personally, but I wanted to emulate his writing style and became pretty obsessed with his reviews—more so after he mentioned me in one of his articles. Well, he kind of mentioned me. Okay, fine. I admit, I’m not entirely certain. But to this day, I highly suspect he did. Mr. Hambrick wrote the article, in question, five days after The Hudson News Bee published my very first review. I remember sitting on the A-Train on my way to work when I read Mr. Hambrick’s review. I was quite taken aback when I got to the end of the article. There seems to be new girl in town who, apparently, writes for a rival newspaper. While she knows her stuff in the area of food, she obviously lacks taste in employers. Truthfully, I wish we could have snagged her first. PM, if you’re reading this, be sure to look me up—that is, of course, when you decide you are ready to write for a real newspaper.
PM—as in Penelope Monroe? Yep, I was pretty confident he was speaking about me. I took a screenshot and sent it via text message to Sebastian who totally concurred and insisted I pick up a print copy to hold onto as a keepsake. I jumped off the train one stop early and grabbed two copies from the newsstand. Once at work, I cut out the article from one of the copies and hung it up on my very tiny, very bare, cubicle wall. I stared at it in awe for a good fifteen minutes. Alright, it was actually about thirty minutes. Then, I gleefully showed the other copy to Garrett just before we entered an editorial meeting. He scoffed when I implied the snippet was about me (he was quite the bitchass). But, I ignored him and made a personal vow to ask Mr. Gregory Hambrick if that was indeed meant for me. I mean, of course, if and when I’m ever lucky enough to meet him. And if I’m not too busy recovering from passing out like all fangirls do.
So today, for the first time in two years, I’m able to sit here and finally do it. People watch. My copious observations are catastrophically mind-blowing: almost everyone has their own heads buried in some sort of electronic device. Anyway, on account of modern technology, people watching is now officially boring. And borderline creepy—thanks to The Girl On The Train.
The train comes to a stop and the accordion style doors open in unison. Like clockwork, NY City commuters rush past me, hop off the train, take a swift jog up the staircase—all hurled into one busybodied bundle—and head off to wherever their final landing place is. All before I even set one foot off the train and onto the gum-stained platform.
I too jog up the stairs, only not as swiftly as the bundle of people before me. Once at the top, I cross the busy intersection, making my way into Central Park. It’s been a few months since I participated in park yoga and was lucky to be able to book my spot online this morning. I can feel my zen completely off its game—my soul craves a yoga-fying boost, much like a vampire craves blood. Especially after Sebastian bitch-slapped me with the news he signed me up to work with Jonathan Knight.
Central Park Yoga is growing increasingly popular. There is nothing better than hanging out with a group of zen-minded individuals, basking in the commonality of our love of yoga and love of the serene oasis that is Central Park. Two years ago, Yoga in the Park was free, but now it has become this sort of exclusive event where you have to purchase tickets ahead of time or pay for a spot on the grass online. Some organize special yoga in the park parties where afterwards you hang out and eat a fancy organic picnic lunch. I’ve never had time to attend one of the parties, but perhaps I will now, and post a review about the organic picnic lunch.
I find my way to the group, right in front of Morse statue. There are at least forty other yogis here, of all ages, ready to breathe and stretch themselves into metaphysical nirvana. I hand the instructor the ticket I purchased online and claim a spot between a young girl and an older man. I unroll my pink-and-white yoga-mat and begin my zen rejuvenation.
An hour and thirty minutes later, I stand in BookBender, a trendy Manhattan bookstore, across the way from Central Park, sipping a spinach, banana, and pomegranate smoothie. Yoga left me feeling incredibly renewed and redefined, as though I had some sort of a psychedelic mental-orgasm. Whatever the case, it has sprung forth a good measure of comprehensibility.
I now believe I can pull this off—be an effectual restaurant consultant to Jonathan Knight, offering invaluable insight to him and his restaurant…just as soon as I find this book that, according to what I researched on Google, should help. Oh yes—here it is.
Restaurant Consulting for Dummies.
Yep. That oughta do it.
Chapter 7
“I can’t believe you actually spent twenty-five bucks on this book,” Sebastian says, arbitrarily perusing the pages of Restaurant Consulting for Dummies.
The two of us are having lunch at a trendy diner downstairs from Manifique. He FaceTime’d me as I was leaving BookBender to see if I was available for, “a working lunch to review and strategize my role with the Firm,” is how he prefaced it. I agreed since yoga successfully steamrolled my temporary aversion toward him.
Although, at this moment, I’m glaring at Sebastian, feeling a tad perplexed. I mean why is it so hard to believe I paid for the book? Honestly, I need it. Surely any right-minded individual understands my dilemma. It’s not like I can put on a hat that says “restaurant consultant” and—poof—I’m instantly a restaurant consultant. If that’s the case, I’d ecstatically put on a hat that says Doctor, Lawyer, Carrie Bradshaw (strolling along the busy sidewalks of Manhattan with that fashion-savvy confidence), Adele (love her), a Food Network Contest Judge (not any one in particular), Beyoncé (love her too), or even a freaking dog groomer. Okay, might as well scratch dog groomer—but only because I’m highly allergic to most dogs.
“Well, don’t get your boxer briefs in a bundle, Sir Sebastian. I didn’t actually spend twenty-five bucks on it.” I matter-of-factly proclaim, before piggishly taking a bite out of the tuna on rye sandwich the cute girl behind the front counter recommended. “BookBender was having a massive sale today. I paid only eleven dollars and sixty-five cents on it.” I reach into my BookBender bag, boastfully revealing three more items I purchased. “I even got this lovely journal and pen, and this resourceful cookbook called Take Out Food at Home. It has a chicken marsala recipe I think you’ll appreciate.”
“Well, muchas gracias, babe—plumb sweet of you.” He takes a sip of his Shirley Temple and winks at me. “It’s so ladylike of you to pick me up a little somethin’ somethin’, even when you probably felt like throwing crap in my face.”
He’s right. I actually did imagine throwing crap in his face. It just so happened to be my visual mantra during yoga.
“Yeah. But I’m totally over the whole Jonathan thing now. Which is why I got the book. I’m adapting to my new title. Restaurant Consultant.” The two words roll off my tongue as though they are some kooky adaptation of a foreign language.
Sebastian smiles wryly, takes a final bite of his kale and apple salad, then reaches into his spiffy Boconi messenger bag, unearthing a large white envelope labeled Kennedy Prescott. He covertly slides it over to me, as if the envelope holds information meant only to be seen by highly classified eyes.
Maybe it does.
Sebastian raises his eyebrows and gestures his head in a motion that seems to suggest, “Go ahead now. Open it.”
“So, can’t I finish my lunch first?”
“Working lunch,” he adamantly reclaims. “Just open it up and take a look,” he adds, catching a quick glance at his watch.
I sneak in the last bite of my dill pickle, wipe my hands and mouth with a napkin, and animatedly tear into the mystery envelope.
And right after I pull out a small stack of papers, held together by a dark blue star-shaped paper clip, I glance up at Sebastian questioningly.
“What’s all of this?”
He leans back into the booth cushion, carefully nursing the rest of his Shirley Temple. “It’s your employment package.”
Curiously, I remove the paper clip and review the stack of papers that consist of the following:
1.A detailed report on Jonathan Knight’s business goals
2.A Confidentiality Agreement
3.A Compensation Agreement for Independent Contractors
4.A printout containing a Restaurant Consultant job description
5.Manifique’s Code of Conduct and Ethics
6.A list of Manifique employees
7.Four pages torn out of Vogue London featuring young women adorned in fancy businesslike attire
“You can review and sign the Agreements and Code of Conduct and Ethics and just give them to me anytime before next week when you officially start,” Sebastian says, bringing my attention from the stack of papers and back to him.
“Right. And what day is that exactly…when I officially start?”
Sebastian takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and delicately mumbles under his breath, “Monday morning.”
I raise my eyebrows and widen my eyes, showcasing my astonishment, then swallow the lump of shock that’s positioned itself in the center of my throat. “So soon? Wow, I’d thought I would have at least a few weeks to fully prepare.”
Or perhaps try to perfect my restaurant-consulting skills on someone else—someone who is not Jonathan Knight. Reasonable thought, right?
“You have the rest of this week and the weekend to research and prepare. You’ve got this, Penelope,” Sebastian says, sounding quite convincing.
He reaches back into his messenger bag, adding, “Ooh, I can’t believe I almost forgot to give you this, as well.” His blue eyes glisten, flamboyantly exemplifying his amusement.
He tosses over another envelope, much smaller than the mystery one. It contains a corporate credit card, a wad of cash, and a cute little Manifique employee badge that says Kennedy Prescott—Restaurant Consultant.
Playfully, I attach the name badge to my T-shirt, but mentally question the wad of cash and the corporate credit card. I suppose my facial expression provides Sebastian a clue of my uncertainty because he explains soon after, “I know you’re wondering about the bundle of dough and the credit card.”
I offer a gentle nod in agreement.
“Okay, girlfriend, we’ve gotta work fast to get you all primed and prodded for your assignment.” He rubs his hands together, gearing up for some big-time revelation. “That being said, you’ve got a couple of pre-assignments to complete prior to Monday.”
“Primed and Prodded? That sounds like a kinky book title. You know, like a follow-up series to Fifty Shades, perhaps?” I say, mocking Sebastian’s seriousness.
“Penelope, I’m being totally for real now—concentrate, woman! First, the corporate credit card. Some time before Monday, go back to Diamonattos. Tonya is eagerly awaiting your arrival. Use the four pages from Vogue for inspiration and she will help you get some new business-consultant-like outfits. Use the corporate credit card for that.”
“Okay. Sounds easy enough. What about the wad of cash?”
“Right. That. So, I need you to go to Jonathan’s restaurant.”
“Wait. What? When? I assumed I was to meet with him Monday.”
“Yes, well you are to meet with him then.”
I beam a contentious gaze at Sebastian, striking him like lightning.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, “B-but,” he stammers apprehensively at first, “given your history with Jonathan—well with the restaurant specifically—I strongly suggest your Monday morning meeting is from a fresh perspective. A clean slate, so to speak.”
“A clean slate?” I pause for an instant, pensively evaluating his advisement.
The last time I was in Jonathan Knight’s “esteemed” restaurant was just over a year ago.
And it was crap.
All of it.
The food, the decor, the staff—the entire experience. I walked—no, I fled his restaurant with a horrible impression. One I won’t soon forget.
So perhaps Sebastian makes a good case. A clean slate is in order. A tall order.
“Okay, you’re right, especially if I am going to be of service to him.”
“Oh wonderful! So you’ll go now?”
“Now? As in right this moment? I-I can’t go now,” I protest.
“Sure, you can. Going now in that outfit, is perfect. You totally look like some normal girl, out for a bite to eat.”
Just then I realize I’m still dressed in my yoga-in-the-park gear: yoga pants, a long T-shirt, Sketchers, sunglasses, and an I Love New York baseball cap.
“Right again,” I mumble. “But I just pigged out on lunch,” I mention, clearly looking for another way out.
“Penelope, you know how this shit works. You go and freaking assess the situation. Service, and whatever else it is you people look at. You don’t have to just eat.”
I giggle internally and move past his “you people” remark. Yet, once again, Sebastian makes a good point. I’ll go to specifically appraise the restaurant’s service, decor, menu, food—to evaluate the experience as it is now and attempt to remove the pitiful recollection of my last visit—now etched in my memory like a bad tattoo.
Sebastian looks at his watch and eases out of the booth. “Look, I’m gonna be late for my afternoon meeting. Are we good here? Will you go today? I mean, I truly think you should. Use the cash to pay for your transportation and for the meal. I highly suggest you Uber.”
“Alright. And yes, it’s all good. I’ll go now.” I slide out of the booth, gather my belongings, and walk out of the diner with Sebastian.
“Great, doll face. Update me tonight back at home?”
“Of course.”
Sebastian gives me a hug then runs toward the elevators, making his way back up to Manifique’s headquarters.
The sticky humid air New York is known for in July hits me like a freight train as I exit the building and climb into the Uber car.
Why did you agree to do this? You’re a Food Critic not a Restaurant Consultant, my spunky conscience taunts, while my more sensible conscience argues, Don’t worry, your minor in Food Studies, your keen business sense, and innate passion for food have more than prepared you for this.
For the entire twenty-six minute drive into TriBeCa, I blindly stare out the window, lost in my own sequence of thoughts. Which side of my conscience is right? Spunk or Sensibility?
“Um…Miss?” The Uber Driver’s voice breaks up the pungent scrimmage in my head. “We’ve arrived. Your destination—Knight and Daze Grill and Bar.”
Chapter 8
I enter Jonathan Knight’s restaurant—Knight and Daze Grill and Bar—with exuberant confidence. As if the world is mine and mine alone.
Okay. Not really.
In fact, I’m still on the sidewalk, near the entrance—right where the Uber driver dropped me off only moments ago. Since then, I’ve been pacing the industrial concrete, back and forth with my phone glued to my ear, pretending to be engrossed in an important phone conversation, as unsuspecting passers-by maneuver their way around me.
I can’t seem to bring myself to open the doors and walk in.
I know—I’m utterly hopeless.
Well maybe hopeless is a bit melodramatic—even for me. Truth is, my nerves are shattered, as though someone reached inside of me, grabbed all of my nerves, and dumped them onto the ground, breaking them into minuscule fragments that will un
doubtedly take ages to restore.
Yet, in an effort to keep from appearing like a crazy woman to all of TriBeCa, I decide to plop down onto one of the park-like benches outside of the restaurant’s main entrance. Ironically, the last time I was here, I sat on this exact bench as I waited for the restaurant pager to vibrate when my table was ready. It was a one-hour wait back then, despite my reservation. And sitting here now brings forth a vivid reflection of that evening.
I had previously dined at just about all of the restaurants in TriBeCa and was fervently prepared to dine at Knight and Daze, one of NY’s finest eateries. The streets of TriBeCa were livelier than ever—a warm Spring night in April—the last weekend of the TriBeCa Film Festival. The Festival seemed to call attention to an already trendy part of Manhattan. A pleasant mix of creatives visiting from out of town, celebrities, and residents colorfully garnished the streets, shops, and restaurants.
Observing their cheerful faces put a smile on my own, even though I was feeling especially down. Garrett was to join me that evening—well actually, he was to join me for the entire weekend. We had booked a night’s stay at the Sheraton, a festival film screening the next day, and to jumpstart the weekend, we reserved a table here. Our dinner reservation was to be all pleasure—no business. Writing a review was not at all part of the plan. But Garrett cancelled at the last minute, claiming he encountered some sort of an emergency. Had the scumbag been cheating on me back then?
Even though Garrett cancelled, I decided a weekend getaway to TriBeCa was something I didn’t want to pass up. Once I arrived that Saturday, I was famished and was looking forward to a fabulous meal and experience at Knight and Daze; to my disappointment, it was far from what I expected.
I shake the flashback loose from my head, reminding myself I’m here now to forget all of that—to embark on a journey that will produce a much different, clean-slate perspective.
The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles (Delectables in the City Book 1) Page 5