by Gayla Twist
“The mice have made the little pieces of cardboard on the floor overnight,” he informs me.
His words don’t actually make any sense, seeing that I’m pretty sure we don’t have mice, but when I look down, I see some very thin strips of cardboard littering the floor. We do a pretty thorough cleanup each night before we shut down, so I have no idea how the heck they got there. “Okay, well thanks for cleaning that up,” I say, giving him an appreciative pat on the shoulder. Paolo was always a reasonably good worker even when Escoffier was in charge, but since I gave my rallying speech about work harder or we’ll all be fired, he’s been almost ideal.
“You see the card from Escoffier?” he asks.
“Card?”
“Yes, with the picture,” Paolo nods. “Antoine, he show it to me.” The Italian thrusts his chin toward the staff bulletin board where I can see a new postcard has been tacked.
I pull down the card and flip it over to read the back.
“My Staff,
The weather is fine in the Alps, and my foot feels much better. I see from the Yelp that we are now serving salmon. How is this on the menu? Suzanne is feeling the oats, but do not make the many changes.
Antoine – French, French, something French, Frenchy French, French, French.
You think I am not there, but I am still watching.
Escoffier”
The fact that Escoffier has written a message to Antoine in a language I can only read if it has to do with food leaves me uncomfortable. I pin the card back on the board and then turn to Paolo to ask, “Can you speak French?”
“No.” He scowls at me. “I am Italian.”
“Yes, I know that. I was just wondering if you speak French,” I explain.
He continues to look offended, so I drop it.
Behind me, someone enters the kitchen from the restaurant’s swinging doors, and I shiver a little, hoping it’s not Kiki. I’m a little shy on sleep and just not in the mood for her level of snark. But there’s no telltale rattle of the snake’s tail when it’s about to strike, aka, the click-clack of Kiki’s heels on the ancient linoleum. Instead, there is the warm, crisp voice of the sex god himself.
“Good morning, Sue,” he says, sounding generally pleased with the world. “Here bright and early, as usual.”
“Hi,” I kind of squeak. Forcing my voice an octave lower to something closer to my usual tone, “Trent,” I add.
Trent hits me with his blue high beams while leaning against one of the prep tables. His crisp, light-blue button-down shirt only adds to the intense color of his eyes. A pair of gray slacks hangs casually low on his waste but not hipster low. A dark belt ensures that the pants will never reach that status.
He gives me a lazy smile. “Do you have any brunch plans for tomorrow?” he asks. “I know you start working during actual lunch, so that’s why I thought brunch might be good.”
“Sure,” I say, almost too eagerly. “Just as long as we don’t eat at Bocca.”
“Of course not.” He gives a small chuckle. “I would never take you out to eat where you work. I have to imagine you’d rather dine anywhere than here.”
I think I’m in love.
“The weather’s been so nice lately,” he goes on, “I was thinking maybe we could do a picnic.”
This statement isn’t exactly a bucket of cold water over my head, but it is someone flicking ice water in my face. When a guy suggests a picnic, he usually means, “Go ahead and makes some sandwiches, some salads, and maybe something for dessert. And find a tablecloth for us to sit on. And bring the basket, plates, and utensils and everything. But I’ll drive and maybe buy a bottle of white wine that I’ll forget to chill because I’ve left it in the trunk of my car all night. Still, I’ll make a big deal about it like I’m giving you a treat.”
Yes, Trent is hot and sexy and he’s being really nice, but I do not have the physical or mental energy to whip up a wonderful meal that we’ll eat on the hard ground while flies dive bomb us and ants crawl up my leg. But it’s a date! With Trent! I have to say yes and make it seem like I’m totally thrilled. I’m about to pry my jaw open to say, “It sounds wonderful,” when he adds, “I’ve heard Junipers puts together a very good picnic. Basket, champagne, the whole works. Does that sound like something you’d like?”
I have been dying to go to Junipers, which is this French fusion restaurant that I hear is incredible, but I can’t justify the expense on my salary, and besides, I have no one to go there with. “Junipers sounds great,” I manage to get out before I look too much like a lunatic with how excited I am. A hot date and a great place making the food. If we end up in some remote little glade and make love on the picnic blanket, it would be one of my fantasies come true.
“Fantastic.” Trent reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’ll give them a call and have them send over a basket. Is it okay if we meet here, or should I pick you up?”
“Here’s fine,” I assure him before he heads back out the swinging doors.
I have a date with Trent!
I’m so glad I don’t have to suck it up and prepare the picnic. Doing that on top of work on top of all the grooming I’ll have to do to be presentable for snacking while I crouch on the ground would mean I’d have to invent a time machine.
The staff in general starts showing up for work a few minutes later, and I am beyond pleased that I don’t have to dog anyone’s heels. I think Escoffier wouldn’t believe that people can actually be motivated without the incentive of his screaming every seven minutes. Still, they are being motivated by fear rather than love of their jobs, but maybe as things improve for Bouche, I can improve things for everyone. If I’m around long enough. Escoffier’s postcard is a pretty good reminder that I won’t be chef de cuisine forever, so I’d better make the most of it.
We’re rolling up on the first seating for dinner and everyone is busy working when there is a loud “Aieeeh!” from the vicinity of the butcher’s block where Paolo started cutting meat after his clean-up. I turn to see him clutching his hand as drops of blood sprinkle the floor. Aspic is instantly at his side, saying nothing but looking very concerned. Paolo turns his back to the big man, trying to shield him from the sight of his bloody hand. “Aspic, no. Don't look,” he says with some urgency.
But Aspic has to look; there’s nothing that can stop him from looking. And once he’s looked, he can’t turn his eyes away. I can tell by the way he begins to sway a little back and forth that the room is getting swimmy. “Aspic, you sit down,” his friend commands, but the big man isn’t listening. He’s too busy falling over in a slow-motion swoon. The kitchen floor is hard, and falling over like a felled redwood will do Aspic a lot of harm, so Paolo tries to catch him or at least slow his descent. The Italian is fit, but he’s no match for Aspic’s bulk, and the fact that he’s trying to catch his friend with bloody hands probably isn’t helping the situation. “Look out!” Paolo cries and then releases another, “Aieeeh!” as he is crushed under Aspic’s bulk.
Pedro and a few other people rush forward to help, but it is too late. Paolo is pinned under an unconscious Aspic. “What happened?” Pedro asks as they try to roll the mountain of a man off of the grimacing Paolo.
“The knives, they are very dull,” is the reply. “I cut my hand. Aspic, he no like blood.” It’s kind of strange that Aspic handles raw meat all day yet faints at the sight of blood, but who am I to explain people’s foibles.
“Very dull?” I find myself wondering after his words sink in. That doesn’t make any sense. Yes, a dull knife is a lot more dangerous than a sharp knife because with a dull knife you struggle and are more likely to lose control of the blade, but we have the Bouche knives sharpened by a professional service once a week. Usually on the last day before delivery, the knives can get a little dull, but that shouldn’t be for three or four days from now.
I stride over to the knife rack and examine the knives. Every edge is so dull it’s practically blunt. I see a few flecks of cardboard clinging to
the blades. Running a knife through cardboard, even if it’s just to open a single box, is an excellent way to ruin its edge. That’s why we keep a utility knife separate from the kitchen knives, in case someone needs to open a box. The only conclusion I can draw is the knives have been purposely sabotaged. I have a sneaking suspicion I know who is responsible. And she is going to pay. Tattling on me to Trent and then me arranging to have a few clothes stained is one thing, but there’s a good chance Paolo will need stitches and maybe his ribs wrapped from being pinned under Aspic. That’s just dangerous. What if Paolo hadn’t sacrificed his body for his friend and Aspic had cracked open his skull? Just thinking about what could have happened makes me furious. I barge out of the swinging doors that separate the kitchen from the dining room and scan the area for Kiki. She is going to pay for injuring my staff.
I catch sight of her scowling at a table setting with the least attractive of the attractive waitresses, Donna, standing by her side. In my rage I have forgotten about my little trick with the blue jeans, but it’s nothing compared to hers. I fade back to the corner to see what happens next.
“What the hell is this?” Kiki demands, pointing at the tablecloth. Instead of its traditional crisp white covering, the table sports a blotchy blue and white hue like a poorly done tie-dye T-shirt.
“They came from the laundry that way,” Donna explains, although I don’t know how Kiki possibly thinks it’s the server’s fault.
“We can't have this.” Kiki takes a swipe at the linen. “It looks awful. Dinner starts in like ten minutes.”
Donna shrugs. Here again, it’s not her fault and really not her problem, but she does suggest, “I guess we could put down white paper instead. I know they’ve got some in the stock room.”
Kiki rolls her eyes. “Talk about tacky.” She curls her upper lip, showing her distaste. “How does white paper instead of linen table clothes say fine dining?”
“I don’t know,” Donna admits. “It was just a suggestion.”
“It’s a really stupid suggestion is what it is,” Kiki tells her. “I guess it's obvious you thought of it.”
Donna pinches her lips together, her face registering extreme anger, but she says nothing. Given free reign, Kiki’s proving to be as big of a tyrant as Escoffier.
A loud crash from the kitchen calls me back to the crisis at hand. Nailing Kiki to the wall will have to wait. I need to make sure that my staff is safe and that food is actually ready to go out after orders are put in. It’s not going to be easy with Kiki’s little knife stunt guaranteeing that we are short handed.
I have to send Pedro with Paolo and Aspic to the emergency room. Paolo is in too much pain to drive, and Aspic is too woozy. The fact that Aspic is in the same car with Paolo’s bloody hand isn’t ideal, but I can’t spare any extra staff member for a second car. We are already desperately in the weeds before the first patrons are even shown to their seats.
I want to strangle Kiki, but I’m also surprised by her ingenuity. I would think it actually takes someone who has worked in a kitchen to come up with her little ploy. Most people don’t realize how important sharp knives are to a restaurant. I equate trying to prepare a meal with a dull knife to trying to build a house with a tack hammer. You can eventually get the job done, but it’s going to be a lot more work. Kiki is cleverer than I anticipated. That’s something I definitely have to keep in mind.
There’s a fine line for how long people are willing to wait for food. In fast food, they want it almost immediately—order, pay, stuff it in their faces with little time passing in between. In a medium-priced restaurant, people expect to wait no longer than ten minutes between courses. Any longer and they complain or stiff the server. In fine dining, customers are willing to wait a little longer. After all, they’re there for the dining experience, and if you bring the food too quickly, it devalues it to some degree. But there’s only so long a person is willing to wait without becoming annoyed.
The secret to winning forgiveness for bad service at all levels in the restaurant industry is free food. A furious customer can frequently be placated with something as simple as a complimentary dessert. That’s why, with all courses being delayed beyond reasonable expectations even by fine dining standards, I had to start slinging out the free appetizers and pasting a look of contrition on my face as I personally went to the different tables to do a little groveling.
The table I’m closing in on now has a middle-aged couple seated across from each other without much to say. The excitement of dining at a restaurant they’ve heard about for decades has worn off a long time ago and they are getting quite impatient. The man has a sizeable belly, and his wife has corralled him into a dated sports jacket. The woman has overly processed hair and a plunging neckline. In general, I bet they’re reasonably pleasant, but so far their trip to Bouche hasn’t quite been what they were expecting. I catch a bit of their conversation as I head in their direction.
The woman fingers the white sheet of paper that has been put on the table in lieu of the usual linen table clothes. “I thought you said you were taking me to a nice place.”
“This is a nice place,” he tells her. “Aren’t you the one that always wanted to come here?”
“I thought it was supposed to be nice. But paper tablecloths? What's next, paper napkins? Lobster bibs?”
The man shifts in his seat and takes a large belt of brown liquid from a highball glass. “The food's supposed to be good.”
The woman sighs. “If we ever get to eat any.”
“I know.” The man casts an impatient glare around the room. “Where the hell are the appetizers?”
That’s my cue to come sailing in with two brimming plates. “Hello, I’m Chef Sue,” I tell them in case my jacket and hat don’t give it away that I work there. “I'm so sorry there was a delay in you getting your food.” I set the plates on the table with a flourish. “Here are the short ribs that you ordered, and I've also brought a complimentary assortment of pâté as an apology for the delay.”
The woman’s eyes light up. “Pâté...” she almost whispers. I could tell from looking at her that this would be a good choice. She would want something she considers elegant. I’m just lucky we happened to have some pâté prepped.
“Complimentary...” The man is pleased. He wants to show his wife a nice evening out on the town, but he doesn’t want to have to pay that much for it.
The next morning I get a call from Trent’s assistant. “Hi, it’s Linda,” she tells me.
“Oh… hi?” I am in the middle of trying on the thirtieth outfit combination of the day, searching for a look that’s casual and picnic friendly, yet still sexy and late morning flirty.
“Trent asked me to call and tell you that he’s sorry, but he has to reschedule that meeting the two of you had planned.” She says it in such a way that I can hear the air quotes hanging around the word “meeting.”
“Okay…” I’m disappointed and fighting not to sound like I’m disappointed.
“But he does want to see you in his office as soon as you get here.”
So Trent had to cancel our picnic. That stinks, but at least he still wants to see me. Maybe his dad has shown up or something, but he already has the basket from Junipers. It could be that we end up having a quick picnic in his office instead of a leisurely one in the park.
As I’m stepping out of the service elevator, I see Kiki is in the hallway, slinking her way toward Trent’s office. This isn’t very promising, and I steel myself for something besides champagne and strawberries as Linda buzzes Trent to let him know we’re both here.
Trent is sitting behind his desk, hands folded, looking handsome as ever but also quite angry. Even Kiki isn’t so confident and cocky as she normally would be sashaying into his office. I guess my fantasy about a carpet picnic is just that, a fantasy.
“What the hell is going on at Bouche?” Trent demands after the door is closed but before either one of us has a chance to take a seat.
“Uh..
.” is all I manage to get out.
“What do you mean?” Kiki asks, an edge to her voice that I could never muster. She’s immediately on the defensive.
Trent is on his feet, waving his arms around in the air. “I hear the dining room was a complete mess last night! The whole place looked like crap. What the hell happened?”
“There was a little problem with the laundry,” Kiki explains, “but we handled it.”
He wheels around to buttonhole me. “And what's with all the comped appetizers? I hear it was taking forever for people to get their food.”
I don’t like being yelled at. Especially when I’ve been working my butt off to make everything right. Plus, I’m hurt. This really isn’t the romantic morning I’ve been daydreaming about. “There was kind of a crisis, okay?” I tell him. “Paolo and Aspic had to go to the emergency room and Pedro had to drive them. We were short handed, so some people had to wait.”
I guess this excuse isn’t good enough because Trent practically shouts, “We're in this business to make money! Not give food away!”
I’m surprised by this borderline tantrum, and I can tell by Kiki’s raised eyebrows that she’s feeling the same. “Calm down,” she tells him. “It was just one night.”
“It's the restaurant business,” I add. “Sometimes things don't go smoothly, but weekday reservations are way up.”
“I don't want to hear excuses!” Trent has really lost it, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to placate him. He points at me. “It's up to you to figure out how to use cheaper ingredients to make expensive dishes! And make them quickly so we can move people out and refill the seats.” He swings his accusing finger at Kiki. “And it's up to you to make the staff and the restaurant as attractive as possible. If one of our waitresses can’t double as a model then she's not good-looking enough to work here!”
Kiki and I both stare at Trent, slightly flabbergasted. He really doesn’t have any right to yell at us. We’ve both actually been doing an excellent job and working extra long hours for no additional pay. Trent must also realize he’s gone too far because suddenly his expression softens, and he lets his head hang for a moment. After a deep sigh, he says, “I'm sorry, ladies. That was uncalled for. I'm just under a lot of pressure from my father. Go and keep doing what you're doing. I just... had a moment. Everything's fine.” He reseats himself and says, “You’re both doing a good job. I mean a great job.” He sighs and it’s one of those deep, soul-penetrating sighs. “I get it. Sometimes there’s just going to be an off night.”