by Adriana Peck
Then, of course, disaster strikes.
Mason storms out of the Restaurante Porto after Gambio scolds him for delivering a meal late to a table. It’s a very sudden development, and a gasp from the main lobby signals to us in the back that something’s wrong.
Benicio and I scurry over to the partition to see what all the fuss is about. From there, we see the whole scene taking place outside the restaurant. It’s ugly, and everyone can hear what they’re saying through the glass windows.
Gambio lays into Mason outside, jabbing a finger into his lead server’s chest. Mason’s been taking care of the entire lobby alone, so I don’t know what Gambio hopes to achieve with his show of force if he really gets Mason to quit. I’m certain Gambio won’t offer to pick up his shifts, rather, it’ll be the rest of the servers having to pick up the slack. I think it’s a power move more than anything else.
“Mason, I’ve had it with you and your attitude. You don’t own this restaurant, so why are you pretending it’s yours?” Gambio’s practically frothing at the mouth as he jabs his finger into Mason again and again. Their voices are muffled through the glass, but we can strain to hear them from the kitchen partition.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I hear Mason say flatly as he crosses his arms, hoping to block some of Gambio’s prodding. I peer back over to my workstation. I’m supposed to still be slicing up an eggplant for a casserole, but this is far too fascinating.
Gambio is towering over Mason, somehow, even though Mason easily clears him height-wise by six inches. It’s almost impressive seeing Gambio’s stance here, leaning up on his tip-toes and getting into Mason’s face as the owner’s face gets redder and redder with each passing second. I feel horrible for Mason. I wish that could be me out there, taking the abuse for him. But I know if Mason’s on the chopping block, then I’m probably next. It’s the way of the hierarchy here.
“You’re changing up the orders! You’re making things harder for my chefs in the back when you let the customers do this and that to everything on my menu! It’s perfect the way it is! And—and, you’re giving out more free food than I can afford! Why are we giving that table a free pasta?” and Gambio jerks his thumb back towards us inside, clearly pointing to a family of five that’s been staring at them throughout the whole conversation.
Mason glances over at them, sighs, and looks to Gambio. His voice is muffled through the glass now as he lowers his volume, and it’s getting harder to hear what they’re saying.
“Rosa, can you hear anything—” Benicio starts, but I shush him as I strain to listen.
“They’re regulars,” Mason says. I can just barely make out their words. “I thought you knew them. I messed up their first order, so I had Rosa make them a pasta—”
“I really don’t care,” Gambio huffs. “You still shouldn’t be giving out free dishes without my approval. That’s that.”
“Your approval?” Mason bites back, raising his volume as he points a finger accusingly at Gambio. “Since when has that been a thing?”
“Since always!” Gambio roars. “You. Don’t. Give. Out. Free. Food!” With each word, Gambio jabs an angry finger into Mason’s chest. There’s an uncomfortable pause after Gambio finishes, and then the unthinkable happens.
Gambio slaps Mason across the face, open-palm colliding with the head server’s cheek as the smack rings out through the glass and into the restaurant.
There’s a collective gasp, and then the restaurant goes darkly silent. You can hear a pin drop as every table turns to look toward the center of the room. The slap practically echoes throughout the back as the kitchen staff all drop what they’re doing to investigate the partition. Chefs Robby and Julia squeeze next to me, while Benicio covers his mouth in horror and slinks down.
“We’re done for,” Benicio whispers in a hushed tone. Chef Robby shushes the dishwasher, but it’s Chef Julia who responds:
“No, we’re about to find out,” she says gravely.
I look back outside to Mason. He’s rubbing his cheek, deep in thought. I can see the gears turning in his head and I start to wonder if he’s going to scream at Gambio or hit him back. Part of me wants to see Mason deck the old chef. If anyone deserves it, it’s that sad excuse of a business owner.
But that’s not what Mason does. Instead, he unties his apron, hands it over to Gambio. Mason walks past Gambio, disappearing without a word. Without saying goodbye to the rest of us on the staff.
I’m not surprised, but still. My heart aches. Mason left me without a goodbye. I’ve got his number, of course, but part of me wishes he would have at least looked my way before storming out, leaving me Robby, Julia and Benicio to deal with Gambio’s rage ourselves.
“What?” Robby hisses as he watches Mason storm past Gambio. “How can he do that?”
“What do you mean, how can he do that?” Julia asks. “I’d do the exact same if I was in his position.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Robby argues. I turn to the pair of chefs. This disagreement is a first for them. I could have never imagined they wouldn’t be in-sync over every little thing that happens in the Porto.
A few patrons get up and leave mid-meal. Some throw cash on the table as collateral, and some do not pay at all before getting up to leave. They’re obviously put off by the slap. Gambio watches from outside as half of his restaurant patrons walk out on him, some electing to not pay a single penny for the meal they’d been eating. Gambio looks at us in the partition, red-faced with nostrils flared. The kitchen staff scatters, myself included, running back to our assigned positions for the night. Only Benicio stays at the partition, still hunkered down in shame, and I wish I had a way to comfort the guy. He probably takes even more abuse from Gambio than anyone here. I’d never considered that.
After all, what good is family for when you’re in the money-making business?
Gambio comes back inside without saying a word, but he doesn’t come to the kitchen. Instead, he stays out in the lobby of the restaurant, still talking to the patrons that stuck around. I guess he’s going to take the orders, now. To my total surprise.
The dishwasher goes back to his station in total silence, the same as the rest of us. We all get back to work, finishing whatever dish was interrupted by the slap. My eggplant casserole seems disgustingly unappealing right now. None of this looks any good. In fact, not a single dish on the menu appeals to me anymore.
As I slog through ticket after ticket, I keep looking back to the partition, hoping to see Mason reappear. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, Gambio’s the only one taking orders out there, and I see the tired owner drop off a new ticket every few minutes. No laugher comes out of the lobby. No jokes. Just muttering and silverware clinking against plates. I can sense the energy out there, and it’s bad. I bet the patrons that stuck around after the slap are eagerly awaiting their checks so they can hustle out of there. Gambio’s business is going to suffer for this, I can already tell.
Looking behind me, I can see that Chefs Robby and Julia aren’t talking at the moment. Not a good sign. Benicio’s washing his dishes a little slower than usual.
“Rosa?” I hear my boss bark from the partition. “Got a second?”
My stomach turns. I feel my palms clam up as I walk toward the partition. “Yes, Chef?”
“Mason’s gone. You’re going to need to fill in for him. I can’t manage this lobby by myself out here.”
I look behind the chef, out at the restaurant. The half of the patrons that stuck around after the slap has halved itself again, leaving only a quarter of the restaurant patrons remain. They look angry. It’s ugly out there, alright, and part of me wants to ask Gambio what’s so hard about serving six different tables at once when he’s personally hosted an entire restaurant alone before. But part of me knows that Gambio was affected by Mason leaving, and I feel an odd sort of sympathy for the old chef, even though I don’t think I can hate him any more in this moment.
“You need me to take orders?”
/> Gambio nods. “You will.”
I guess I don’t have a choice in the matter, then. I nod back.
“Tell Robby and Julia to finish my dish for me. I’ll check on the remaining tables. You can take care of station—” I cut myself off before I start to give Gambio orders. The owner blinks, and then retreats back into the kitchen. I hear a door slam and a lock clicks, and I can safely assume that Gambio’s in isolation in the back office for the night, leaving me alone to take all the orders from the front of the house.
I sigh, looking out at the six remaining tables. I see now that four of the six tables already have food that they’re chowing down on, so I check on the other two tables to see if they’re ready to order.
One table asks for the check. A younger couple, I think they’re probably still in college. They’ve only had a couple glasses of wine, but I can see the look in their eyes that begs me to let them leave. I print out their check, they sign it. No tip for me.
The other table orders chicken alfredo, a dish that anybody could make in their sleep after spending just a week in an authentic Italian restaurant. I pass the order back to Robby who huffs as he reads the card. No biggie. It’s something he and Julia have made a thousand times before. I look back out to the restaurant. Five tables remain.
Of the handful of tables remaining, two more ask for their checks. I oblige them, and they sign the bills without a tip. No tip for me again. Part of me knows that if Mason was still here they’d be tipping him plenty, but now the patrons don’t want to give a single penny to an owner who slaps a server in the middle of a packed rush.
And I certainly don’t blame them.
When Gambio comes out of his office, there are only two tables occupied in the lobby. It’s eight-thirty, the prime time of the restaurant where every table is normally filled. Gambio looks out in the lobby and nearly bursts a gasket.
“Rosa! Why is my restaurant empty?” I hear him shout from the partition. I’m taking the check from one of the last two tables when he shouts this at me, and I almost break down laughing. How can he not know? How does Gambio not understand that his actions have consequences? I wonder how on earth the chef managed to keep a restaurant open for this long. Walking back over to the partition, I get ready for an earful.
“Chef, they left because you—”
“Because I what?”
I sigh. This is going to be fun. I cut to the chase: “Chef, you slapped the head server and he walked out in full view of the customers. Word travels fast online. I’m not surprised this place is a ghost town after that. I’m only surprised it didn’t happen faster.”
Wrong choice of words. I see Gambio’s face get even redder as he starts to shake. I know what he’s going to say before he even says the words.
“Rosa, you’re fired. Pack your things and get out.”
Eleven
When I make it back to my apartment, life feels lonelier than it ever has before. No restaurant. No friends, no job. I don’t know what else I could possibly lose.
I pull out my phone, consider calling Mason to see how he’s holding up. I still have his number from the other night, and I haven’t texted him yet or anything. I’ll have to awkwardly introduce myself, letting him know it’s me and…bleh. I’m not in the mood for that.
I tell myself I can text Mason tomorrow. In the meanwhile, I’ve got things to worry about. Rent. Utilities. Gas. Internet. Thank god I don’t have a car payment, or I’d be in deep doo-doo right about now.
I look at all the boxes in the apartment, still piled up in stacks that reach the ceiling. I figure now is a good time to finally get started on unpacking. After all, I don’t have to be up for work tomorrow, and if I get evicted due to missed rent I can always re-pack everything up again.
Grabbing a pair of scissors to use as a box cutter, I slice open the first box I see. It’s full of DVD’s. Old movies. Some home movies, too. I pop a DVD open that reads “Rosa’s Graduation”, find my DVD player and hook it up to the dinky flatscreen that I’ve been resting on the floor for now.
It’s a tape from my culinary school graduation. The footage is grainy, from an old handheld recorder that my parents always used during special occasions. Hey, at least it’s not a VHS, right? But everyone’s there for me as I get ready to walk the stage to get my diploma. Ma and Dad are there with both sets of Grandparents. All my cousins are there, too. Jackie, Joey, Johnny, James and Janice. I can see them all as Ma pans the camera around the stadium where the ceremony is held. Everybody’s cheering as name after name gets called, and then eventually…
“Rosa Bertolini!”
And then my family goes nuts. Joey’s standing up, roaring as he cups his hands over his mouth. Janice sweetly claps from her spot, remaining seated as she golf-claps my achievement. Dad’s whooping, and Ma’s camerawork gets shaky while she cheers for me as I collect my diploma.
“Rosa,” I hear her say tearily under her breath. It’s a little hard to hear her, but I can make out her shaky words as she continues to film me. “Rosa, you can do anything you set your mind to. Remember that. Your Ma believes in you. So does Dad, and the rest of the family. Never give up, Rosa, because I know you can do great things.” I exit the frame, heading out the door marked EXIT to be with the rest of the graduates. The DVD cuts off here, taking me back to the homemade main menu.
I start to cry. Ma always believed in me, no matter what anyone else says. Even though she’s gone, I can still feel her presence around me. It’s comforting. I know that even with this speed bump of losing my job, I know I will find a way to do what’s right for me.
I go to bed, more determined than ever to follow my dreams. Starting tomorrow, I am going to take control of my life. I’ll do what I want. I’ll get the cookbook written soon, I’ll publish it, and then I’ll never have to deal with another Gambio for as long as I live.
The next day, I spend the afternoon unpacking all the boxes. I finally make my apartment feel like home. Boxes of dishes are unpacked to be put away in the kitchen cabinet. Plates, pans, coffee mugs, the whole nine yards. I have some sparse food populating my fridge. I take out a container of nearly-expired cottage cheese and finish it up with a bagel after plugging my newly unboxed toaster in.
The whole day I feel strong and confident. I can’t believe getting fired could do this for my self-esteem. It’s liberating. No more Gambio, no more angry customers, no more work.
And yet, with all my heart, I find myself thinking about Mason more and more as the day goes by. The sun sets, and I find myself alone in my apartment. It’s lonely, lonelier than last night was. I imagine it gets worse with age, loneliness. It sucks, to be perfectly honest.
Mason. Mason’s probably hustling, looking for a job to pay his bills. I pull out my phone, scroll through my contacts. I hover over Mason’s name, hesitating. What if he doesn’t want to talk to me anymore? What if the drink offer was just a joke, something spur-of-the-moment that he’s now regretting? What if he doesn’t pick up?
I throw caution to the wind. Then I dial his number.
Twelve
I don’t give a rat’s ass that Gambio slapped me the other night. Hell, I’d been thinking about quitting the Restaurante for the past few months now, and that was finally my golden opportunity to walk out and ditch that soul-sucking job. So I took it.
And I take what I want.
When life gives you lemons, throw those lemons right back at life, because you don’t have to take shit from anyone that you don’t want to.
The next morning I head downtown after catching a cab. I don’t have a car of my own, so I have to rely on the kindness of paid strangers to take me where I want to go. It’s fine, I never wanted to own my own car or anything.
The cab drops me off at the square downtown, and I start walking, looking for any signs of need of employment. Most the restaurants down here should be looking for help. And the news about Gambio’s going to spread fast, so I assume the rest of the staff’ll be looking for work, too.
Might as well get in ahead of them.
I peruse the usual spots. Big Momma’s Kitchen said they’ll call me back sometime if they need help, so I’m taking that as a no. I stop by The Place Down the Street, but they were closed for newly-designed renovations. Death by Chocolate was the only place that offered to line me up with an interview, but I see the manager touch a cupcake without washing his hands first. So that’s going to be a resounding hell no from me.
Then a crazy thought smacks me, right in the forefront of my mind.
My whole life I’ve dreamed of opening a restaurant of my own. Maybe it’s time I look into that. I’m sick of the Gambios and working for tips. I need something more out of life, and opening my own restaurant can do that for me.
I check my bank account for the umpteenth time today. I’ve got about six months of finances saved. That’s good, but not great. I’ll probably have to talk to a bank about a loan for a venture of this size. Still, good but not great are odds I’ll roll with.
Of course, if I want to apply for a loan I’ll have to have a spot in mind. So I continue my stroll downtown, now looking at buildings for lease. I see “FOR SALE,” “FOR LEASE,” and “FOR RENT” signs plastered on empty buildings and doors. This is where I find my future. This is how I follow my dream. With each step I take I grow more and more confident.
For some reason, I suddenly think of Rosa and what she’d think of all this.
Sure, she’s annoying. Peppy. So bubbly you’d be afraid to bump into her out of fear she’ll pop. But she grew on me. I hated to leave without at least giving her a nod.
Oh, well, shit happens. And she’s got my number. She can text me if she still wants to get that drink. I don’t know what I was thinking with the offer, but she seemed to like it well enough.
And it’s been a while since Carly, that’s for sure.
My ex, Carly, used to work in the kitchen. She was the last Head Chef at the Porto, actually. She and Gambio got along fairly well, until one day when she burned alfredo sauce during a dinner rush. Gambio got heated, chewing her out in front of everyone. And then she stormed out, balling up her apron and throwing it at Gambio before practically running out the front doors.