by Elaine Fox
Even Skip had nothing to say to that.
It was a Thursday night and Roxanne was especially tired, wondering if maybe she was coming down with something, when halfway through the evening Sir Nigel edged uncomfortably into the kitchen, looking around like a kid who’d been summoned to the principal’s office for the first time.
She looked up, surprised to see him. He almost never came through the swinging doors to the kitchen, as if pretending this part of the restaurant did not really exist was an essential part of his job.
“Sir Nigel,” she said, scooping raspberry sauce out of a bowl and into a small pitcher with a spatula. “What can I do for you?”
“He’s here,” Sir Nigel hissed.
She drew a blank. “I’m sorry?”
“He’s here,” he said again, big eyes directed toward the dining room. “Frederick Richards. Reviewer from the Washington Post.”
Roxanne’s heart leaped out of her chest directly into her throat. “Oh my God. Should we tell Monsieur Girmond? We should tell Monsieur Girmond.” She wiped her hands on the towel at her waist and turned to look at Girmond. “Should we tell him?” She looked back at Sir Nigel.
“Of course.” He made a motion as if pushing her. “Richards has just been seated by the fireplace, number twenty-four. I’ll let you know what he orders.”
“Make sure Rita waits on him,” Roxanne directed, turning toward Girmond, then spinning back. “But don’t tell her who he is.”
Sir Nigel gave a curt nod and pushed back out the swinging doors, like a swimmer heading for the surface and air.
Roxanne moved swiftly toward M. Girmond. Just as she was about to reach him, the new sous-chef (who was admittedly annoying, simultaneously obsequious and arrogant) stepped on her foot and dropped a bowl of mussels.
“Watch it,” he growled, before realizing who he was speaking to. “Oh, sorry, so sorry, Miss Rayeaux. My fault. Entirely. I should have been aware of you walking through my station.”
She waved a hand and continued to M. Girmond as Ralph bent to the floor to pick up the mussels. She arrived at Girmond’s elbow as he sliced a duck terrine with smooth, confident knife strokes.
“He’s here,” she said low, not wanting to alarm the rest of the kitchen. “The reviewer from the Post. He’s at twenty-four, Rita will be waiting on him.”
M. Girmond nodded once, quickly. “Thank you for telling me, ma biche.”
She smiled and squeezed his upper arm with one hand. “I know we’ll do great.”
He winked at her, then turned to Ralph, who still squatted on the floor, and said, “Where is the sauce, eh? The orange-ginger, for the terrine.”
“I—yes, it’s right here,” he started to stand, then spotted another mussel and bent again. “If you had only let me know—”
“I called for it three minutes ago! Get up!” Girmond gestured with his knife. “You must pay attention, monsieur. It is all about attention.”
Roxanne slipped back to her station. A minute later she heard the crash of a pan hitting the floor and turned in time to see Ralph dancing around as if he’d burned himself.
M. Girmond was yelling something, and Ralph was yelling something else, and for some reason two of the busboys were running in circles.
She raced over. “What in the world’s going on?”
“I’ve just seen—Oh my God, what was it? A rat?” Ralph was near shrieking. “It had to be a rat. Jesus Christ, I’ve never seen one so huge!”
“C’est de la merde.”
Roxanne was shocked. She’d never heard M. Girmond swear before and she was pretty sure he’d just said the French equivalent of bullshit.
Girmond turned on Ralph fiercely. “There are no rats in my kitchen. My kitchen is spotless. Get ahold of yourself.”
“I’m telling you, it was right there.” Ralph threw a hand toward the floor, where a sticky glaze now oozed underneath the overturned pan. “It made me drop the pan. All my sauce! They saw it!” He pointed to two busboys, prowling near the garde-manger station like hunters.
“Calm down, salaud,” Girmond boomed, his voice so loud Roxanne was afraid the customers might hear him. She hoped none of them had heard his French, because M. Girmond had just called Ralph a bastard. “I don’t care if it was a horse you saw, get me the sauce!”
“Monsieur Girmond!” she pleaded.
He swung to her, nearly decapitating a busboy with his elbow.
“Il est un idiot! Un crétin!” He threw out his hands in exasperation. “Look at him, he wears my sauce. This dish is getting cold!” He turned to his beautiful duck terrine.
“There!” Ralph screamed, hurling a finger outward and knocking over the bowl of mussels he’d just gathered from the floor.
“Number five, order up!” one of the line cooks said. Then, “Shit!”
Roxanne spun and saw a flash of orange, with a large piece of grouper in its mouth.
Her heart stopped as he leaped to the counter and headed toward the red-hot stove.
“Cheeto!” she yelled. “Not on the stove! Get him away from the stove!”
Rafe, the line cook, was nearest. Just as Cheeto was about to reach the burners, the cook swept an arm out and across, propelling the cat, along with several dishes and entrees in various states of assembly, sideways and onto the floor.
Roxanne exhaled and dashed toward the cat, but she slipped on the sauce that covered the floor and had to grab the sous-chef’s workstation. Before going all the way down, she managed to steady herself.
Cheeto had made it to the pastry station and was trotting over its floured surface, eyes alert, tail high, the grouper still in his mouth.
Was it really him? She narrowed her eyes. There were black patches along his side that gave her pause. But what were the odds of another orange cat showing up in the kitchen?
From the pastry station, the cat leapt nimbly to the service counter and glanced at her. She lunged for him, ready to kill, and he took off for the swinging doors. But just as he reached them, Rita pushed through yelling, “I need the Paté de Campagne with the Canapés Micheline for the V.I.P. at twenty-four.”
Cheeto screeched—a nearly human sound—as the door caught him broadside, and he dropped the grouper. He scooted toward the dishwashing station, Manuel in hot pursuit.
Rita stepped on the grouper and slipped, dropping her tray as she hit the floor with a curse.
Manuel, the busboy, threw himself at the cat but missed, colliding with Ralph’s legs and making him drop a knife he’d picked up for God knew what reason.
Manuel screamed as the blade caught him across the fingers. Blood spurted instantly along his knuckles.
“Oh my God,” Roxanne said, grabbing the cleanest towel within reach and heading for the busboy.
Cheeto leaped up onto the workstation of the only person in the place he recognized other than Roxanne, who was clearly going to punish him: M. Girmond.
Unfortunately, M. Girmond was plating a blanquette of veal, which went flying when Cheeto’s front paws hit the edge of the plate.
“What is this animal doing here?” he bellowed.
“What the hell is going on in here?”
Roxanne turned, wild-eyed, to see Steve standing inside the swinging doors.
“People are starting to—holy shit,” he said, taking in the mayhem around him.
Rita was rubbing her back and reading off orders to one of the line cooks. Manuel was dragging himself off the floor with Roxanne’s help, clutching a bloody towel around his hand. And Ralph was scurrying around, bitching as loud as he could, wiping up sauce with one hand and picking up mussels from the floor like errant marbles with the other.
“There is cat hair in my consommé!” M. Girmond roared.
“Oh my God,” Roxanne moaned again, her head on the table. “I am so, so sorry.”
Around her were seated M. Girmond, Ralph and Rita. Sir Nigel and Steve stood on opposite sides of the table, Sir Nigel with his arms crossed, Steve leaning against the
back of a chair.
The evening had been a disaster. They’d had to send George to the hospital with the bleeding Manuel, because he was the only one with a car who could be spared. Several dinners were ruined and had to be started over from scratch—causing a backup that they never recovered from—and cat hair had indeed been found in several dishes, one of which had gone out to a customer and had been returned, with a terse “No, I do not want it replaced.”
M. Girmond was humiliated and furious.
Ralph couldn’t stop excusing himself and explaining how none of it was his fault.
Rita kept rubbing her lower back, convincing Steve—and no doubt Roxanne—that a Worker’s Comp claim was in the offing. And all he could do was watch Roxanne’s misery in silence, unable to come up with one reassuring thing to say that he thought would mean anything. The night truly had been a disaster.
The review, it seemed fair to say, was probably going to be negative. Though they’d given him V.I.P. status, Frederick Richards had ordered several things they had to tell him were out, since the cat had ruined the base stock and the soup, and the sauce for one of the most popular items had waxed the kitchen floor. The reviewer had also had to wait an inordinate amount of time for his food, since the place was packed and both the kitchen and waitstaff had become short-handed.
“How did the cat even get in there?” Roxanne asked, raising her head enough to prop it up with her hands. “He was locked in my apartment.” She straightened suddenly, a look of alarm on her face, and turned to Steve. “You don’t think someone broke into my apartment, do you? And left the door open? How else would Cheeto have gotten out?”
Steve shook his head, having already had that same thought. “I already checked the place out, when I put the cat back. Besides, even if he’d been let out by burglars, he couldn’t have gotten into the kitchen from the upstairs hall. He’d have had to go out one of the outside doors and come back in one of the restaurant doors.”
“Then how did he get there?” She sounded angry at him, but Steve knew she was just upset. He also knew she considered this her fault, since it was her cat. But of course it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault, though he would have loved to have been able to pin it on the irritating Ralph somehow. Steve just wasn’t sure how to convey to her that it was an accident, pure and simple. Just saying it didn’t seem like enough.
Steve exhaled. “Listen, Roxanne, this isn’t such a tragedy. The place was still packed tonight, most people loved their food and the reservation book is still full for the weekend. So you get one bad review. Big deal. The fact that people are lining up to get in to this place ought to be more important.”
“The people did love their food, didn’t they?” M. Girmond echoed.
“And there, Mr. Serrano,” intoned Sir Nigel, “is exposed the extent of your ignorance. Having the majority of your experience in what could only be termed a ‘beer joint,’ you obviously have no idea how the real culinary world works. A bad review from a reputable publication could be devastating for future receipts.”
M. Girmond made a pained sound and took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with two large fingers.
Steve gave Sir Nigel an exasperated look. “That’s a big help, Nigel. I’m sure that makes us all feel better. Thanks for backing me up.”
“I will not ‘back up,’ as you say, a false statement.” Sir Nigel sniffed. “Reality must be faced.”
“I’m with Steve on this one,” Rita piped up. “We ran our asses off tonight. We did the best we could and most people were happy with the food, even if they did have to wait a little while for it. So what if some fancy-ass reviewer didn’t like his paté?”
“He did not like the paté?” M. Girmond cried.
“I had nothing to do with the paté,” Ralph said.
Rita glanced worriedly at M. Girmond and wound a finger around one of the long dangly earrings she wore. “I don’t know if he didn’t like it. He just didn’t finish it. But maybe that’s because the other appetizers arrived first and he was the last to get his. He didn’t want to hold up the entrees.”
Roxanne moaned and put her head back on the table. “Oh God. This is all my fault. I am so, so very sorry.”
Steve wanted to shake her. She needed to take this as the mere pothole it was. They weren’t going to go under because of one bad night, or even—Sir Nigel be damned—one bad review.
“Or maybe he just didn’t want to fill up on the appetizer,” Rita added, her expression increasingly anxious. “He had a little bit of everything, from soup to nuts. He had to save room.”
“I didn’t serve him any nuts,” Ralph said. “Do we really serve nuts?”
“You know,” Rita continued, spearing Sir Nigel with an irritated glance, “if I’d actually known who the hell the guy was, maybe I could have done something different. I don’t know why you didn’t tell me.”
“That’s my fault, too,” Roxanne said. “I didn’t want you to get nervous. And you, all of you, worked so hard. I just—just—”
“Look,” Steve tried again, “this isn’t the end of the world here. We did huge business tonight. Huge. So we had a problem with the cat. Maybe we could call the Post and explain to the guy—”
Sir Nigel’s snort cut him off. “Oh yes. Excellent idea, Mr. Serrano. Let’s call Mr. Richards and explain that there was an animal in the kitchen during dinner service. That will do us a world of good.”
Steve shot him an angry look. “It was an accident, for Christ’s sake. Half the evening was an accident. We’ve been favorably reviewed by every person who’s come through those doors until tonight. And tonight was a fluke.”
“An unfortunately timed fluke,” Sir Nigel said dourly. “And you, Mr. Serrano, do not help things by sousing customers at the bar. Do you know how that looks to the diners waiting for tables?”
“What the hell are you talking about now?” Steve’s back was ramrod straight as he turned again to Sir Nigel. Could the guy possibly think his dire pronouncements were helping? Steve was almost ready to crawl across the table and grab him by his prissy little vest lapels.
“That older gentleman you serve shots to every night until he can barely stand up.” Sir Nigel’s face was pinched with disapproval. “Do you really think we need a whiskey-swilling drunkard—”
“Ew, whiskey. I never drink whiskey,” Ralph said.
“The white-haired guy?” Steve couldn’t believe it. Nigel was really getting low now, to lay this at his feet. “Hey, he doesn’t harm anybody. And he pays his tab. And he drinks thirty-year-old single-malt scotch. Do you know how much that costs? It’s one of the most expensive drinks we have.”
“So you’re making very nice tips,” Sir Nigel concluded. “And the fact that you have to pour him into a cab every evening doesn’t concern you?”
“Actually, the fact that he’s here every evening is what concerns me. And he frequently eats dinner at the bar. He’s one of our best customers, if you want to know the truth. And I don’t pour him into the cab. He’s old. He doesn’t drive after he’s had a couple.”
Sir Nigel’s lips compressed into a disapproving line. “He is old. He should probably not be drinking at all. He could die at that bar and then where would we be?”
Steve laughed at the absurdity. “Now you’re worried customers are actually going to die here? Don’t you think that’s going a little overboard?”
“Steve!” Roxanne’s voice got his attention. “Sir Nigel. Please. This is ridiculous.” She took a deep breath, put both palms on the table and pushed herself to her feet. “Steve’s right,” she said.
“Hah!” Steve shot a triumphant, if immature, look at Sir Nigel.
“But Sir Nigel’s point is well taken.” She sent Steve a quelling glance. “The bottom line is, we had a bad night. We were due for one, actually. We’d been lucky up to now. The fact that it was when the reviewer was here is unfortunate, but there’s nothing we can do about that now.” She looked at each of
them. “You all did an outstanding job tonight, and I want you to know how lucky I feel to have each of you on the staff. Thank you. And George and Manuel, too. George called me from the hospital a little while ago. Manuel just needed a few stitches. He’ll be back to work in a few days.”
“I’ve never had stitches,” Ralph said. “I’ve never even broken a bone.”
“I’ve got George’s tip money,” Rita said, reaching into her apron pocket.
Roxanne shook her head. “You keep it, Rita. You worked nearly the entire room this evening and kept up better than anybody could ever have expected you to. I’ll compensate George.”
Rita started to beam, then realized the mood was still somber and simply said, “Thanks.”
“Now I think we should all go to bed,” she finished with a sigh. “I know I’m exhausted. You all must be, too. And once again, this was nobody’s fault but mine. I’m very sorry all your hard work had to be compromised by this.”
“It was not your fault, mon ange,” M. Girmond said.
Murmurs of agreement rose from the rest of the group as they got up to leave.
Girmond stood and took her shoulders in his hands. “It was a terrible evening, but we will live to fight another day, eh, ma biche?”
He kissed her on the forehead, then turned to join the rest of the crew in heading for the exits. All of them moved slowly as if weighted down by the events of the evening. All except Sir Nigel, that was, who appeared to feel his stature grow in the presence of a disaster that was entirely blamable on persons other than himself.
“See you all tomorrow,” Roxanne called as they filed out of the dining room. “Thank you!”
Responses in kind drifted back.
Roxanne turned to Steve and their eyes met. She looked so sad and tired he wanted to gather her up in his arms and hold her. But there was something in her posture, a defensiveness, that stopped him.
“Shall I come up?” he asked quietly, with a quick glance at the departing employees.
She looked down at the floor and he had his answer. She wanted no comfort from him. He was more of a plaything, he surmised. Not someone who could offer her any kind of real solace.