by Lisa Patton
Pierre brought them two salads, even though they were only supposed to get one. Peter split their pork on two plates, but gave them each the regular amount of potato and green beans—even though they were only supposed to get enough for one. The amount of bread they ate was a meal by itself and they didn’t order a dessert.
When it was time to total their check, I added in a three-dollar plate charge to cover the extra salad, vegetables, bread, and potatoes. The bill came to a whopping $14.81 including the plate charge, tax, and the half-price coupon.
Pierre returned to the kitchen with the bill and no money to go with it. “Ze man, table nine, es not happy. No pay three dollars.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” I said.
“No, ze man es outside ze kitchen. He wants you.”
“Me? Okay. I can handle this,” I said, out loud but to myself.
“Go get ’em, boss,” Peter yelled from behind the line.
Confident on the outside, but scared to death on the inside, I fluffed my hair and meandered out to the waiting room to greet Mr. Cheap. He and his wife were standing just outside the kitchen door where four other people were waiting to be seated. As soon as he saw me, he started right in.
“I have a complaint, miss, uh, what’s your name, miss?”
“Leelee Satterfield. I’m the innkeeper here. And what is your name, sir?” I shot him a big smile.
“No matter.” The man was well dressed but quite short.
“Well, nice to meet you anyway, how can I help you?” I extended my hand, which he, by the way, did not shake.
“I demand that you take this three dollars off my bill. That’s how you can help me. There is nothing on your menu that indicates that you have a plate charge and I refuse to pay it!” As he got to the “refuse to pay it” part, his heels came off the ground and he got right in my face. We were about the same height.
Here’s the incredible part. Mr. No Matter was wearing Gucci loafers! That really bugged me. Wearing Gucci loafers and refusing to pay his three-dollar plate charge. What nerve. What colossal nerve.
“I see your point, sir,” I said sweetly. “Even after the half-price coupon you still had a balance of ten dollars and fifty cents. I would venture to say that at all the four-star restaurants around here, a plate charge is pretty standard. But I don’t want you to feel like you didn’t get your money’s worth.”
“That has nothing to do with this hidden charge!” He looked over at his wife, dressed to the nines in a mink stroller and Ferragamo pumps. She was standing about five feet away with her head down, digging for something at the bottom of her Louis Vuitton pocketbook. At least she was used to this.
When I realized he was trying to make a scene and that customers like this simply were not worth the trouble, I said, as sweetly as I could, “You know, uh, sir, Friendly’s doesn’t have a plate charge. Perhaps you should try them sometime.”
I thought his ears would start smoking when he blurted out, “Now that you mention it, we would have been better off going to Friendly’s in the first place!” His voice climbed to a shout. “WE PROBABLY WOULD HAVE GOTTEN A BETTER MEAL.”
That did it. He was deliberately trying to insult me so I’d take three measly dollars off his bill. “You know what?” I said, trying hard to remain calm. “You’re absolutely right. Friendly’s would have been a much better choice for you. The most expensive item on the menu is only eight dollars. In fact, the next time you go out to eat, be sure and call me. I know a couple of the waitresses down there and I’ll hook you up with the best table in the house . . . facing the parking lot!”
I stunned him. More importantly, I stunned myself. Who are you now, Leelee? He slammed a ten and a five on the counter of the wait station and hurried off without saying another word. Mrs. No Matter tried to keep up his pace but the heels on her Ferragamos kept her a few steps behind.
The silence in the room startled me and when I looked around, four blank faces were staring my way. And now I was going to have to seat them and pretend nothing had ever happened.
Nervous and flustered, I led the way to their tables. Luckily, the first couple were regulars and already knew that the Peach Blossom Inn was a delectable experience. It was the other two gentlemen I was worried about. They were unfamiliar and the looks on their faces were hard to interpret.
When we got to their table (accidentally the best seat in the house, right in front of the fireplace) I attacked the situation head-on. “I have to tell you, I am so sorry for what happened back there. Normally I bend over backward for my customers, but that man was really hard to reason with.” I was still shocked over the way I acted. Firing Helga was one thing and my response was way overdue, but now I was beginning to take on the persona of a tough Northern broad. Daddy would absolutely flip if he could see me now.
The older guy spoke up. He seemed to be about fortyish and his friend looked younger—maybe twenty-five or so.
“Personally, I thought it was great the way you handled it. He asked for it—comparing your restaurant to Friendly’s. I’ve never eaten here before, but hey, even if the food stinks, the ambiance alone is well worth the drive up from Manchester. Even if the innkeeper is a bit fiery.”
“That’s my nickname!”
“I see why.”
“It’s not for this kind of thing, it’s for the red in my hair—Oh, I don’t know why I’m telling y’all this. In any case, I kind of lost it there for a minute. He brought a different person out of me. I’m Leelee Satterfield,” I said, handing them each a menu. “What are y’all’s names?”
“John Bergmann, and this is my cousin Ron Olson. We’ve heard a lot about your place and decided to check it out.” He glanced at the menu. “What’s your favorite dish?”
“Hmmm, that’s hard to say, probably the lamb or the shrimp dijonaise. But truly, I like everything. Oops, I lied, I’m not a fan of calf’s liver. I’m surprised to say it sells very well though.”
“I can tell you’re not from up here; what part of the South are you from?” John asked.
“Tennessee.”
“Ah, yes, the Rocky Top State.”
“Go Vols! Actually I didn’t go to UT but my hus . . . band did.” The word was halfway out and I couldn’t go back. “I’m an Ole Miss girl. Where are y’all from?”
“I live in Manhattan and Ron’s out on Long Island. Our family is having a reunion weekend here and we stole away to dine at a quaint Vermont inn.”
“Actually, we saw your menu listed in the Sugartree Dining Guide and thought we’d check it out,” Ron said.
“Great. I promise you won’t be disappointed. That incident back there has never happened before. I am really very embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. It made it all the more intriguing. I’ll let you know if we’re displeased, you can count on it,” John said, and winked at his cousin.
“Okay, but your first round of drinks is on me. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m cheap. What are y’all drinking this evening?”
“I’ll take a vodka and tonic with a twist,” John said.
“How about a Jack and Coke?” Ron asked. “Talking to a Tennessee girl has put me in the mood for Jack Daniel’s.”
“I’ll be back in a flash.” When I came back with their drinks, the guys kept looking at each other and smiling. They were making me paranoid the way they kept at it. I had to know what in the world was so funny.
“What are y’all laughing at?” I set the drinks in front of them.
“You might as well go on and tell her, John, she’ll find out soon enough,” Ron said.
“What? I’ll find out what? Were those people kin to y’all?”
“No. They have nothing to do with it,” John responded, still smiling. “Normally I would get fired for telling you this but I just can’t resist. I’m from Food and Wine magazine. I’m here to do a review on the Peach Blossom Inn.”
I covered my eyes with my hand and shook my head before slumping down in one of the extra chai
rs at their table. “Of course you’re from Food and Wine magazine. Why am I not surprised? Leave it to me to let a customer have it right in front of a reviewer from Food and Wine magazine.” I shook my head and leaned back in the chair. “But here’s the crazy part. It’s only the second time in my life I’ve ever let anyone have it.”
“Relax, everything is fine,” John reassured me.
“I never even thought about having my restaurant reviewed by a magazine much less yours. I’ve got to tell Peter, he’s my chef. That’s okay, right?”
“Well, no, not normally, but this is not your average night,” John said. “I’ll never be allowed to review again, if the magazine finds out.”
“I’ll just give him a little hint. I promise not to ever breathe a word that you warned me. You secret’s safe with me. But I so appreciate it. I hope you get your money’s worth at least.”
“I’m sure we will, and we’ll start by making up for what you lost on the last check. Bring us a bottle of this Jordan cab to start.”
“Pierre will be right out.” I hurried into the kitchen to give everyone the news.
After a long evening of Murphy’s Law mishaps I needed a beer. For the first time in a very long time I wanted a good, cold one. The last customers hadn’t even left before I raided the fridge and pulled out a Corona Light. I went over to the bar, cut myself a big ole lime, squeezed it inside, and plopped down on the stool in front of the washing machine. I was totaling up the dinner checks and sipping away when Roberta came over to call Moe.
“Look at you. Long day, huh?”
“Yuup, Roberta, it has been and I deserve every sip of this.” I held it up, took a big swig, and told her, “Go get one for yourself, in fact grab one for everybody. Want a beer, everyone?” I called out. “They’re on me.”
“Sure, make mine a Guinness,” Peter yelled from the oven.
“Hey, I know, let’s all go to the Moose Head,” Jeb yelled with shrill excitement in his voice. “Right after we close.”
“Sounds good to me,” Roberta said, and hung up the phone. “I bet Moe’s already there; there’s no answer at home.”
When the restaurant finally closed, I’d had two beers already and that’s right at my limit. Everyone headed up to the Moose Head and Peter and I were the only two left to lock up.
Peter rapped on my apartment door just as I was getting ready to come out and tell him to go on without me.
“I’m not going to leave you here by yourself,” he said.
“That’s okay. Go on, I’ll catch y’all another night,” I said. “I’ve got stuff to do around here and besides, Mandy couldn’t stay.”
“I’m not leaving you alone. Here, I’ll get you another beer. You still drinking Corona Lights?”
“I guess so.” I grabbed my baby monitor and followed him back into the kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t want to go with everyone else? The Moose Head will probably be more fun.”
“Naah, I’ll pass. It’s no big deal to me. A Guinness is a Guinness whether I drink it here or there. Besides, when do I get a chance to party with the boss? I might just learn a thing or two.”
Peter and I never left the commercial kitchen. I sat on the stool by the phone and he hopped up on the washing machine in front of me. He told stories about when he was little and how he had grown up an Irish Catholic in New Jersey. We talked about my childhood, too, and how I had been a ballerina. At one point I actually got up to show him a tour jeté and how I could still do the splits. I should have known right then and there that I was in trouble but for some reason I kept on drinking and got tipsier and tipsier.
I even hopped off the stool, went over to the bar, and poured myself a big ole snifter of Grand Marnier. What in the world was I thinking? I absolutely knew better than that but my God, I hadn’t done anything fun since Baker left me. After pouring it, I handed the Grand Marnier over to Peter and instead of sitting back down on the stool I used it as a step up and scooted in next to him on top of the dryer. To make matters worse I proceeded to embarrass myself completely by saying stuff like, “Baker will never have it this good again.” I held up my snifter and said, “Here’s to Mud Season, blackflies, and black ice.” Then I toasted “Tacky ski resorts, snow bunnies, and women who need face-lifts to attract younger men.” Peter toasted and laughed right along with me.
“So, as long as we’re talking dump stories, want to hear a really good one?”
“Sure, why not,” I said, beginning to trip over my words.
“I got dumped for my little brother.”
That stopped me dead in my tracks. It even seemed to sober me up a bit.
Peter stared ahead, expressionless, and avoided looking at me. It was quite uncomfortable.
Searching for the right words to say, I reached out and touched his leg. “That breaks my heart for you.”
“Tell me about it.” He still wouldn’t meet my eyes. “That’s the kind of shit you don’t ever want to be a part of. It messes with your head in a way that stays with you. But . . . it’s all in the past now.” He turned to look at me. I could tell he was deeply hurt even though he was trying to hide behind his forced smile.
Our calves were touching, ever so slightly, and when I lifted my hand off his leg, he shifted in his seat and now our legs brushed against one another all the way down. My foot hit somewhere around the middle of his calf and I playfully kicked him. He responded by wrapping his leg over mine and lightly pinning my foot down.
“Owww.”
“That doesn’t hurt, you big baby.”
“It does so.” Not sure why I brought the subject back up but in a lighthearted way I asked, “So are they . . . is she still your brother’s girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Well, that’s good. Right?” I tried in vain to unpin my foot.
“She’s his wife.” With that, Peter slid down off the washing machine and slowly walked over to the fridge, reached inside, and grabbed another beer.
I didn’t know what to say; it was obvious he was still in great pain. I thought about how selfish I’d been to talk only about myself; I never once, all summer, inquired about his past loves. He never mentioned them but I never made it a point to ask. As cute as he was I guess I assumed he’d never had girl problems.
“Do you wanna talk about it? I’m a really good listener.”
“I don’t think so, but thanks. Hey, I’m hungry. Let’s raid the walk-in.” Peter strolled over and opened the handle of the huge refrigerator and waited for me. The two of us stepped inside. He handed me the container of jumbo shrimp, then grabbed the huge vat of cocktail sauce and, of course, the pâté. He knew by now to include Gracie, who had been curled up right underneath me, silently awaiting her own midnight snack.
Stuffing shrimp cocktail in my mouth as fast as I could get them in, you’d have thought I hadn’t eaten in days. I knew I had no business drinking that Grand Marnier but it was too late now. When I saw two Peters spreading pâté on a Carr’s wafer, I knew I was in big trouble. That was the last thing about the night I can remember.
When I opened my eyes the next morning I was in my bed but I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten there. I tried to recount every last detail, but my mind came to a dead end when I got to our midnight snack.
I happened to glance over and notice that the shoes I had worn were perfectly placed in my closet. I never would have done that; I would have kicked them off out in the hall. I lay there a little longer imagining every possible scenario. Hard as I tried I couldn’t remember a thing.
I jumped out of bed, and boom, lay right back down again. My head hurt worse than it had since I drank PGA punch at an SAE toga party at Ole Miss. The room twirled like it does after fifteen pirouettes. And here’s the worst part—I was only wearing my panties. I grabbed the cordless phone that sits on the windowsill and called the inn, hoping like crazy that Roberta would answer.
After three rings Peter answered, “Peach Blossom Inn.” I hung up, waited five more minutes, an
d called right back. Four rings and then the same voice. This time I had no choice but to disguise mine, and with my best Northern accent I said, “Hi-eeee, is Ro-birt-a there, please?”
“I’ll get her for you. Roberta, phone’s for you,” Peter said.
A couple of minutes later she picked up. She must have had her hand in something. “Peach Blossom Inn, Roberta speaking.”
“Roberta,” I whispered, “can you come to my apartment?”
“Is that you, Le—”
“Shhhhhhhhh,” I said, as loud as I could, before she got “Leelee” all the way out. “Don’t say my name, for goodness’ sakes.”
Now she was completely silent. I scared the poor thing so badly that she couldn’t say anything at all.
“Roberta. Roberta, can you hear me?”
This time all she could do was grunt.
“Good, come quick and hurry, hurry.”
Within seconds Roberta was rapping on the inside door. I leaped out of bed this time, grabbed my housecoat, and ran over to open it, holding my head.
I scooped her in and shut the door quickly behind her. “You have to find out what I did last night.”
“What you did? What do you mean?”
“I got drunk and passed out.”
“Nuup, not you, Leelee.”
“Oh yes I did. After y’all left for the Moose Head.”
“I was wondering what happened to yous.”
“Peter kept me company. We talked some, laughed some, drank a lot, and then we raided the walk-in. That’s the last thing I remember—raiding the walk-in. Then I woke up this morning and my shoes were neatly placed in my closet.”
“You wouldn’t have done that.”
“That’s my point! You’ve got to find out for me.”
“I’ll give it a whirl but I don’t know how much I can uncover.”
“Just try, Roberta, please. Gladys Kravitz would be proud.”
A nod of her head told me she was pleased with her assignment.
“But don’t be obvious. And for goodness’ sake, DON’T TELL GEORGE CLARK!” I gently nudged her out the door, and added, “One more favor. Please bring me lots of Coke.”