Georgia’s Kitchen

by Jenny Nelson

  “I guess a high five is a little excessive.” He dropped his hand. “Low five?”

  She laughed. Sometimes Ricky and she got along so well it seemed a shame they couldn’t just get it over with and fall in love. But he’d never made her belly ping or her neck tingle or distracted her so much she couldn’t think of anything other than how sexy his forearm was. Glenn did.

  Bernard burst through the swinging door and into the kitchen. “Table fifteen. She’s here.”

  Georgia and Ricky looked at each other blankly.

  “None other than Mercedes Sante herself. She’s disguised as a fat carpetbagger,” Bernard said. “On second thought, I don’t think she’s disguised at all. Check out her order—you better make that guinea hen sing like a canary.” He turned to the rest of the staff. “People of the kitchen, the vippiest of VIPs is in our midst. Let’s make everything perfect. And if anyone has some spare ecstasy to slip into her, er, hen, that wouldn’t hurt either.”

  Ricky pulled up the order. “Holy shit, Chef. In addition to the hen, she wants the grouper—when’s the last time we served that? The venison, ditto, the special risotto, ravioli, the lamb, that rabbit no one but Marco likes, Oysters Marco, the beet salad, and the three special apps.” He looked at Georgia. “We’re screwed. Aside from the specials, she ordered the worst things on the entire menu.”

  “It’s Marco’s funeral, not ours,” Georgia said, knowing full well that if the famed food critic wasn’t happy, it was Georgia’s future that would swoosh straight down the toilet. But a great Mercedes Sante review would catapult her into the top echelon of New York City chefs, Food Network–ready, as Marco put it. Even more important, it would enable her to open her own restaurant. With a glowing review, financing would be a cinch; she’d have investors lining up outside her apartment, fat checkbooks in tow. Taking a few deep breaths, she mumbled a quick prayer to Ganesh. Two and a half, she begged the Hindu god and remover of obstacles, just two and a half forks. Please. She set to work.

  Word of Mercedes’s arrival spread as fast as the latest starlet-in-rehab rumor, and the kitchen sprang into high-alert reviewer mode. This was slightly different from high-alert celebrity mode, in that the food mattered more than the booze, and at night’s end not even a smidgen of the check would be comped. The goal was for Mercedes to eat like a queen, and to assume every other no-name diner did too.

  Georgia walked from station to station, staring over the shoulders of the line cooks, scrutinizing the dishes they prepared, sampling sauces, poking meats, stirring pots, sticking her nose everywhere, her spoon everywhere. Her manner was steady and calm despite the oppressive heat and cacophony of clanking pans, clashing blades, grinding machinery, and doors heaving open and closed. Only her hair betrayed her frazzled nerves, poking out like bunches of past-its-prime frisée. The two parallel lines etched between her eyebrows, the “elevens” as Glenn’s mom referred to them, deepened with concentration. Her skin flushed pink, then rose, finally settling somewhere around unripe strawberry.

  She dipped her spoon into the special risotto. “Not bad. A tad more butter to finish.”

  The cook nodded. “Yes, Chef.”

  Georgia looked around. “Where’s my grill guy?”

  No one answered. Leaving the station during service was not tolerated. During a review was unthinkable. She turned to the line cooks. “All hands on deck. Got it? Tell him if he doesn’t get his fucking ass back now, he’s fired. I mean it.”

  The kitchen stopped for a split second. Georgia was known as one of the coolest chefs around. She rarely cursed (mostly because she wasn’t very good at it), wasn’t above plucking a chicken, and made everyone from the new guy washing dishes right on up to Ricky feel appreciated. Sure, she was a bit of a control freak, but compared to the pot-slamming, dish-dumping antics of some of her peers, this was easily overlooked. In return, she demanded full accountability from her kitchen.

  “Sure thing, Chef,” said the cook.

  Georgia grabbed a board of basil chiffonade from the garde-manger, who was in charge of cold apps, and slipped it into the garbage. “Try again. And make it pretty. Please.”

  He pulled out another bunch of basil, rolled the leaves into a fat joint, then gracefully sliced the roll into thin ribbons.

  “Lovely,” Georgia said. She’d worked in too many kitchens where the head chef berated his cooks into creating what he wanted without offering a word of thanks or the tiniest smidge of a compliment. Never, no matter who was sitting in the dining room, would she become That Chef.

  After wiping up the last drop of misplaced sauce, she green-lighted the appetizers. The servers came to pick up, and a doe-eyed girl who looked like Bambi and talked like a trucker gave her a thumbs-up.

  “She’s drinking like a mother-fucking fish,” she whispered. “That’s gotta be a good sign.”

  Georgia nodded. Drinking was good. It meant Mercedes was thoroughly enjoying herself, and if she wasn’t, whatever she didn’t like might be a little hazy when it came time to put pen to paper.

  When the app plates came back to the kitchen with nary a scrap in sight, Georgia allowed the smallest of smiles to escape her lips. The cooks had prepared three versions of each entrée, and she chose the best-looking for Mercedes’s table, waiting until the last minute to sauce and garnish. She eyeballed the entrées one final time before their tableside debut, drizzling extra green-peppercorn sauce on the venison and rearranging the sprigs of spiny rosemary on the lamb. An old boss had dubbed her Chef Georgia O’Keeffe, and she still considered presentation one of the most important elements of restaurant food. The waiters whisked away the entrées, so beautifully plated it seemed almost a shame to eat them, and she watched them go, then took a step back and stretched her hands to the tin ceiling.

  “Nice job, Chef.” Ricky patted her back. “You done good.”

  “You too, Rick. Whatever happens…” She left her thoughts unsaid. Whatever happened would set the course for the rest of her life. It was that simple.

  Two and a half hours later, Bernard finally poked his head into the kitchen. “She just finished her third caffè corretto. She’s gone.”

  The kitchen burst into applause, whooping and hollering. The grill guy let loose an earsplitting whistle. According to industry lore, the number of grappa-laced espressos Mercedes drank equaled the number of forks she intended to bestow upon the restaurant. Busboys knew not to clear her espresso cup until a manager had checked to see if it was empty or half full, a full or half fork respectively. Three forks were more than anyone had hoped for, including Georgia, who could practically taste her own restaurant. Even Marco always said he’d be happy with two.

  “She must have a wooden leg, and a bottomless expense account. She and her four friends polished off a round of gimlets at the bar, a bottle of Dom, a Ribolla Gialla, and two Barolos.” Bernard chuckled. “Whatever it takes, sister.” He looked around the room, pausing on Georgia.

  A waiter burst through the kitchen door pushing a trolley laden with champagne flutes. The drinking portion of the evening had officially begun.

  Bernard continued, “Cheers to all of you on a job well done. On behalf of our boss, Marco, and yours truly, you all were magnificent. And you, Georgia, especially.” He picked up a glass and raised it in her direction.

  She smiled, feeling her face grow hot.

  Ricky handed her a glass of champagne. “Good news, Chef.”

  “Three forks is better than good news, Rick. It’s—”

  “No, I mean Glenn’s here. In the dining room.”

  “He is? He’s here?” She took a sip of champagne and stepped through the swinging door to greet her fiancé, feeling lighter than she had in a long time.

  “There she is,” Glenn said in a loud voice, a smile spreading across his face, his pale blue eyes fixed on Georgia. “My favorite three-fork chef.” He stood at the bar, drink in hand, surrounded, as he usually was in social settings, by a group of people. He was not the kind of guy who’d
ever lack for someone to talk to at a cocktail party.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” Georgia reached up to push his hair behind his ear. She loved his hair. Black, straight, shiny, not even the teensiest bit of frizz, so unlike her own.

  “So am I. Three forks? This is incredible, George!”

  “I know. Can you believe it?”

  “Of course I can.” He put his empty glass on the bar and pulled her into him, placing a long, soft kiss on her mouth. No sooner had they stopped kissing than he drew her into his chest and kissed her again.

  “Wow,” she said, pulling back slightly. “I should get a three-fork review every day.” She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, but her coworkers were too busy basking in their glory and in the free-flowing booze to notice much of anything.

  “You should,” Glenn said. “More champagne?”

  “Did someone say champagne?” Marco walked over with a bottle of Cristal and refilled their glasses.

  “We made it into your Cristal club,” Georgia said, raising her flute. “I’m flattered.”

  In Marco’s champagne hierarchy, he and his fabulous friends drank Cristal, cooks and servers drank Veuve Clicquot, and busboys and dishwashers drank prosecco.

  “You’re always in, Georgia, you know that.” He turned to Glenn. “How’s it going, chief?” He threw out his hand for the half-high-five/half-handshake that was the universal greeting of thirtysomething metro men.

  “Pretty good, man. You?” Despite professing to hate Marco’s guts for having slept with Georgia, Glenn acted cordial, even chummy, with him. A little chilliness would have been fine with her.

  “All good. You heard your fiancée got us three forks?”

  “I did.” Glenn rested his hand on the small of Georgia’s back.

  “So what’s the plan? We gotta celebrate these forks.” Marco took a quick survey of the room. “All of us. Together.”

  “Actually, we have to go to the Rumpus,” Georgia said. “It’s a small bar on Rivington. My best friend is playing there and we promised we’d go, so—”

  “Cool. I love the Rumpus. We’ll all go,” Marco interrupted.

  “Oh,” said Georgia. “Great.” Lo, who was used to singing and strumming for single-digit crowds, would probably fall off her barstool when they entered.

  “Hey, chief, you’re a lawyer, right?” Marco asked Glenn.

  “Attorney, yeah. Entertainment law.”

  “Want to do me a solid?” Marco didn’t wait for an answer. “I have this new lease I need someone to eyeball. You mind?”

  “It’s not really my thing, but sure, I’ll check it out.”

  “It’s in my office. Don’t worry, Georgia, I’ll bring him right back.”

  Glenn squeezed her hand and set off behind Marco.

  “Where are those two going?” Bernard walked over as they slipped into the crowd. “Locker room?”

  “Marco’s office. He has some lease he wants Glenn to look at.”

  Bernard watched them for a second. “So, good work tonight, Georgia. Really great. Marco is damn lucky to have you.”

  “You too, Bernard. This place would run about as smoothly as a FEMA rescue operation without you. I’ve never worked in such a tightly run place.”

  “Then it seems a toast is in order.” Bernard lifted his glass. “To us. A good team.”

  “Good? Three forks and we don’t even rank great?”

  “You’re right. To us, a great team.”

  They touched glasses just as Ricky, sipping his trademark tequila sunrise, popped over. Despite the drink, he didn’t seem to be in a festive mood.

  “I don’t mean to spoil your moment, guys, but do you really buy this three-espresso, three-fork crap?” He looked from Georgia to Bernard. “I mean, I know Mercedes is no Bruni, but doesn’t it seem sort of JV?”

  “‘Jay’ what?” Bernard asked.

  “Junior varsity, amateur, for her to announce the rating before the review comes out? And the whole theory comes from a blog written by a guy who bused at like five restaurants she reviewed in six months. Do we trust a guy who worked five places in six months?”

  “A blogging busboy came up with the theory?” Georgia said. “I hope he’s at least been promoted.”

  “It’s more than five places, Ricky. I’d say nine, maybe even double digits.” Bernard shrugged. “Besides, Mercedes looked pleased as punch when she left tonight. Or drunk as punch. Now if our esteemed boss can keep his hands off her daughter, we’ll be on our way.”

  “What daughter?” Georgia asked.

  “The very pretty, very nineteen-year-old NYU girl Marco’s been salivating over since meeting her at Lilly last week,” said Bernard.

  “How do you know she’s Mercedes’s daughter?”

  “Well, for starters her last name is Sante. Also, she told us.”

  “Us?” Georgia said. “You and Marco?”

  “A bunch of us went out after close. Marco was buying.” Bernard shrugged again.

  “Even he couldn’t be so dumb,” Georgia said. “Even Marco couldn’t ruin his shot at three forks by doing something stupid with Mercedes’s daughter.” She looked across the room, spotting Glenn and Marco leaving Marco’s office. They were engrossed in conversation, trading hand slaps and chest pokes like a couple of old drinking buddies. She turned back to Bernard. “Right, Bernard?”

  “Right,” he agreed. “Even Marco couldn’t.”

  A caravan of cabs turned onto Rivington, lining up in front of a storefront bar with blacked-out windows. A sign over the door spelled out THE RUMPUS in Day-Glo graffiti. In case there was any question as to how the bar derived its name, a mural of Sendak-style monsters hanging from trees, gnashing their teeth, and letting “the wild rumpus start” covered the entry. It was a fitting venue for the Marco staff, who tumbled out of the cabs and onto the sidewalk, gathering in front of a bouncer half sitting on a barstool parked outside the door. He held a roll of cash in one hand and a heavy-duty flashlight in the other and didn’t bother looking up as the group descended on him. Georgia had been sandwiched between Ricky and Bernard on the bumpy ride across town, and she jumped out of the taxi behind Ricky while Glenn, who’d insisted on taking the front seat, paid the cabbie.

  Music from the bar spilled onto the street each time a new patron passed through the door. Georgia got a text from Clem, her other best friend, who had arrived and was waiting inside.

  “Ready?” Glenn said as the cab sped off with a new fare in the backseat. He’d barely spoken to Georgia since leaving Marco’s office and had spent the entire taxi ride pounding out e-mails on his BlackBerry, leaving her to wonder what could possibly be so important at Smith, Standish and Lockton that it couldn’t wait until morning.

  She nodded. “Is everything okay? You seem a little jumpy.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “Let’s go in.”

  He peeled out a ten for their covers and handed it to the bouncer. “For both of us,” he said, continuing in without stopping.

  “ID?” the bouncer said. He had little eyes and protruding lips and wore a puffy jacket, which made him look even beefier than he was. He propped his foot against the door just as Glenn’s hand reached the knob.

  “I’m thirty-four, man. Give me a break.”

  “ID?” the bouncer repeated, shining his flashlight in Glenn’s eyes.

  “Jesus Christ.” Glenn pulled his wallet from his pocket, turned his back on Georgia, and began thumbing through it. “Here.”

  The bouncer took his driver’s license and stared at it for a few seconds. “What sign are you?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  The bouncer shook his head.

  “I’m a fucking Gemini. Now get that flashlight out of my face and let me in.” Glenn raised his hands, and for a second Georgia thought he was going to shove the guy.

  The bouncer dropped Glenn’s license to the ground. “Whoops.”

  Glenn stared at him,
then at the license, then back at him. His hand curled into a fist. Before it could go anywhere, Georgia grabbed his arm and stooped down to pick up his license.

  “Here,” she said, handing it to Glenn. “And here’s my ID.” She held it in front of the bouncer.

  He didn’t take his eyes off Glenn, not even to glance at her birth date. “Have a good night, sweetheart.”

  She steered Glenn through the door and into the bar, not stopping until they were safely camouflaged behind a bunch of the line cooks.

  “What the hell was that? You were about to hit that guy! You don’t hit people!” The music was so loud she had to shout, but she was so mad she’d have shouted anyway.

  “That guy was a tool,” Glenn yelled back.

  “He’s a bouncer, Glenn. Of course he’s a tool. Since when do you pick fights with bouncers?”

  In the seven years they’d been together, she’d never seen him so much as elbow someone for getting too close on the subway. Now that he was a thirty-four-year-old attorney about to get married, it didn’t seem the best time to start punching people out.

  “I didn’t start with him, he started with me,” Glenn said. “Did you see the way he—”

  “It doesn’t matter who started what, Glenn. It was stupid. And since when do you even care if someone starts with you?” She glared at him. “You could have been hurt.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Or sued.”

  That got his attention. It wouldn’t do for a soon-to-be-partner at Standish to be implicated in something so street. An illicit affair, maybe, but a barroom brawl? Not so much.

  One of the cooks turned around, holding a shot glass in his hand. Georgia immediately pivoted in the other direction, but it was too late. “Chef! Chef!” he yelled. “Come do a shot with us!” The others followed his lead, motioning for her to join them.

  She waved to them over Glenn’s shoulder, smiling and nodding and pretending not to hear what they were saying. Fortunately, the charade worked, and they downed their shots without her.