The Art of Love

by Gayla Twist

  I find it funny that even though Kiki and I are enemies, neither of us tattled on the other for acts of sabotage. I guess that would involve mutually ensured destruction. If she told about the table clothes, I would have told about the knives, and we would have both looked like middle grade girls pulling each other’s hair. Still, I think Kiki’s trick was much dirtier than mine. People got hurt.

  ***Kiki***

  I wanted to narc on Sue. I’m sure she’s somehow behind the tablecloths getting screwed up, but here again, I lack proof. At least the busboys have magically stopped spilling on my staff. That’s a good thing. And the laundry was able to bleach the linen back to white. I’m sure it would take a giant gouge out of the Bouche budget to have to buy all new ones. I guess Sue wasn’t thinking of that when she screwed with the laundry. I know it was her. She may act all meek and accommodating, but I guess she can really bust out the claws when she wants to. I would have never expected it from her. It makes me a little sad in a way. I’ve never liked Sue, but I always thought she was at least a nice person. I guess this just goes to prove there are no genuinely nice people anymore.

  ******

  As we’re leaving Trent’s office, Linda looks up from where she is typing away at her computer. “Everything okay in there?” she asks. “I heard some Winchelling.”

  “None of your business,” Kiki snaps without missing a beat.

  “Everything's fine,” I tell her, trying to be extra nice to counteract Kiki’s flash of bitchiness. “Trent's just having a bad day.”

  We head for the door, but I do hear Linda saying to herself, “Try a bad streak of luck.” I do wonder what she means, but I also need to get to work and don’t really have time to chat.

  As we’re waiting for the elevator, Kiki gives me the disdainful once-over. “Face it, Sue. A new haircut and slightly less repulsive clothes aren't enough. You don't stand a chance with Trent beyond being employee of the month.” Thirty seconds ago we were on the same team. It’s amazing how quickly the woman can change gears.

  “First of all, rude,” I tell her. “And secondly, I have no idea what you're talking about.”

  “Don't even think for one moment...” Kiki begins, but then the elevator doors open.

  We’re so busy shooting daggers at each other with our eyes that we don’t even notice Antoine in the elevator, and both of us almost bump into him. We do that awkward shuffle where he tries to exit while we try to enter. I finally get inside, and Kiki is about to climb aboard but then changes her mind and hangs back. I’ve got my finger on the “door open” button, but I really don’t want to stand there forever, especially waiting for her. “Well? Are you coming?” I ask.

  “Um… No...,” Kiki says, shifting her eyes down the hall and acting evasive. “I... Uh... Forgot something. You go ahead.”

  It’s pretty obvious that Kiki wants to speak to Antoine without me hanging around. That’s plenty suspicious, but there’s nothing I can do about it, so I just punch the button for the first floor and leave them alone together.

  Back in the kitchen, June comes over to me. “Carlos is out sick again,” she tells me.

  “Consumption?” I ask.

  “I think it’s more like the new girlfriend flu.”

  “Great.” I’m already tired and stressed, and Carlos has barely been in to work since I took over as chef de cuisine. I don’t need this extra challenge. “We need to whip up some desserts or we're going to be in a jam.”

  “Did you have anything in mind?” June asks, obviously not willing to come up with something on her own.

  I nod. “Ice cream sandwiches.” This is our go-to dessert any time Bouche is in a crisis. They're easy to make and always bizarrely popular. I think about my recent encounter and add, “And maybe something a little special. Inspired by Kiki.”

  “What?” June cocks her head so she can look at me from the corner of her eye.

  I smirk. “Blueberry tarts.”

  Pulling a face, June asks, “Tarts? Aren’t you supposed to spice up the menu? Make it special?”

  “Oh, please.” I lay a reassuring hand on her arm. “If we make them, they will be special. Besides, I have a secret family recipe.”

  June scrunches her nose. “Is that from the Chinese side of your family or the Irish? Because they're both known for their desserts.”

  She gets a small laugh out of me with that one. But still, I’ve seen quite a bit of blueberry compote in the storage room, ready-made crust, food coloring, not to mention blueberry jam. Plus, I have a plan. “Trust me,” I tell her. “They're incredible.”

  We get to work right away. Actually, we don’t have any choice if we want to be ready for the dinner rush. As we’re pulling out ingredients and I’m slipping a few things up my sleeve when June isn’t looking, I say all casual yet enthusiastic, “People have been working so hard lately. Let's make enough so the whole Bouche staff can have a taste.”

  Chapter 14

  Even with all our regular prep work and all the other nonsense of running a kitchen, the tarts and ice cream sandwiches turn out perfectly, if I do say so myself. And desserts aren’t really my specialty, so I’m extra pleased. Every day, before we open the doors for the evening, I call a general staff meeting at the Bouche bar with servers, bartenders, busboys, dishwashers, prep cooks, and even Aziz in attendance.

  “Is everyone here?” I ask. No one says anything, so I start. “Okay, great.” I smile at the crowd. “Tonight's specials are Halibut with spring vegetables and slow-roasted spare ribs with traditional baked beans.” I cock an eye in the direction of our sommelier, who is looking GQ handsome, as usual. “Aziz, you have a list of wine pairings ready to go?”

  “Of course.” He smiles at me, and I feel ridiculous for absolutely no reason. There should be a law against men that attractive being allowed to freely roam the streets. “Go ahead,” I tell the servers, gesturing toward the tray with some small samples of the specials so they can speak with authority when recommending them. The flock of females sample with reserve, knowing that the girth of their hips is under constant scrutiny.

  Once it’s clear that the ladies have all had a nibble, I nod so that the staff in general can clear away the leftovers. They fall upon the ribs and fish like starving refugees swarming a Red Cross truck. It’s a little alarming but also gratifying to hear their exclamations of enjoyment.

  “These are pretty good,” one guy says as he sucks the meat off a spare rib.

  His friend shrugs. “Needs mustard.”

  “Hey, pig.” June targets a greedy busboy. “This isn’t all for your dinner. You've got to share with the rest of us.”

  Once the mini–feeding frenzy is over, I indicate the dessert plate. We’ve served ice cream sandwiches many times before, so those are no longer put out to sample, but the tarts are something new. June and I cut a large pile of them into bite-sized pieces, and the filling glistens under the ambiance-enhancing lighting of Bouche. “Carlos is sick. Again. So for the dessert specials, we're having ice cream sandwiches and these blueberry tarts,” I tell them. “You’ve all been working really hard lately, so to show our appreciation, we’ve made extra tarts so everyone can get a really good taste.”

  The words are barely out of my mouth before the staff falls on the tarts like piranhas stripping a cow of its flesh as it tries to cross the Amazon River. “Oh, my, God!” a female voice exclaims. “These are incredible.”

  “I don't normally eat dessert,” Gwenn says, her hand hesitating over the quickly disappearing pile of tarts.”

  “Oh, shut up and have one,” Donna tells her. She’s obviously working under the theory that even supermodels can’t starve themselves all the time.

  I even risk life and limb by sticking my hand into the feeding pack of ravenous wolves and retrieve a tart. I’m surprised to see that, once I’m in the clear, my hand is unscathed. After the dessert platter is scraped bare and everyone is licking their chops, I ask, “Any questions? Anyone?” There is no reply, so eve
r mindful of the time, I say, “Okay, let's do dinner.”

  The crowd starts to disperse, staff chatting happily amongst themselves. “That tart was pretty good. Maybe we should get rid of Carlos and just let Sue do all the desserts,” a bartender suggests.

  His buddy gives a little chuckle. “Sounds like he's getting rid of himself.” The guy is right. Carlos is definitely on the list to get the ax—if he ever shows up so I can fire him.

  I spy our mighty saucier in the crowd and call out to him, “Antoine!”

  He waits for me. “Suzanne?” he says, pleasantly enough once I’ve caught up to him.

  “How did you like the tart?” I ask.

  Antoine lifts one shoulder and let’s it fall, the corners of his mouth pulling down in a small frown. I’ve never been to France, but I’ve seen both Escoffier and Antoine make this gesture with regularity, so I’ve come to think of it as very French. “Eh... It was good,” he tells me. “Maybe it could use a little sauce crème.”

  I bust out my most ingratiating smile. “It'd be nice if you made some.” The tarts really do need some sort of topping.

  I am treated to another small shrug with the bonus of a pouty little sneer. “If I have zee time.” We really don’t serve that many sauces at Bouche, so I’ve frequently been left to wonder what exactly Antoine does with all of his time. If I ever ask him to help with anything else, he acts as if I’ve just requested he donate a kidney.

  I have to pull this next move off with finesse if I want any real information. “Did Kiki talk to you?” I ask shyly.

  “Keekee?” Antoine raises his eyebrows. “Do I know her?”

  “Come on.” I give him a look to convey that his innocent act is pretty darn transparent. “You know her. Bitchy blonde, kind of pretty, manages the wait staff.”

  “Ah, yes. Mademoiselle Keekee,” he says. “Oui. She spoke to me.” He thinks about it before he continues. “We made zee small encounter when I went to speak to Monsieur Trent.”

  “What happened? What did she say to you?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager.

  “Well...” I can practically see the gears spinning in Antoine’s head. “As you know, Miss Keekee, she is very… How you say,” he pantomimes the shape of an hourglass in the air, and I wonder again if June is right about the foundation garments. “And I am French, after all.” He waggles his eyebrows at me. “And she comes to me, moving like zee snake, and she says, ‘Antoine, I've been looking for you.’ And I say, ‘Oui, Mademoiselle Keekee?’ And then she is leaning toward me, and she is touching zee chest of Antoine, and she says, ‘Sue is just horrible as zee chef de cuisine. She is totally ruining zee Bouche. Don't you sink?’ She says zhis to me. But I say, ‘Mais no!’ to zhis.” He pulls himself up to his full height. “I say, ‘I am loyal to Escoffier. If he choose Mademoiselle Suzanne, then I must follow her.’ Zhat is what I say.” Antoine flashes me a bright, trustworthy smile.

  “Well, I appreciate that,” I assure him.

  “But of course,” he replies. “We are, how you say, on zee same team.”

  “Thanks, Antoine.” I extend the plate with the remaining tart toward him. “Are you sure you don't want to share this with me?”

  “No, no.” He shakes his head. “I had zhis before. It was quite good.”

  I know Antoine is probably lying about everything, but I can’t see the benefit of confronting him about it. Not now, at least. I make a small shrug of my own and take a large bite of the tart, feeling the blueberry juices reacting with my saliva causing a slight twinge in my jaw.

  I have the information I need. “Well, okay. I guess we'd better get ready for the dinner rush,” I tell him. I love when everything goes as planned.

  Antoine gallantly waves me toward the kitchen with a debonair little bow. “Lead on, Mademoiselle.”

  I’m barely back at my station prepping vegetables before Pedro is at my side whispering in my ear. “Kiki’s doing that inspection thing of hers again. Thought you’d want to know.” He’s right, I do want to know. Pedro really should be a professional spy. I’m not sure how you go about becoming something like that, but he should at least try googling it.

  I slip out the swinging double doors and lurk in my corner to observe Kiki in action. She has her servers and bartenders lined up like troops. They all look gorgeous and ready for the workday to begin, but no one is smiling. No one is happy to be there.

  Kiki slinks down the row of workers, stopping in front of Donna, looking her over from head to toe. She obviously isn’t pleased by what she sees. “If I didn't know you since the fourth grade, you would be out of here.”

  I guess Donna is fed up with Kiki’s snarky remarks because she immediately fires back with, “If I didn't know you since fourth grade, I'd snatch you bald headed right now.” And I can tell by her coiled stance that she means it.

  This appeals to the crowd because several of the servers have to suppress laughter and there’s a “You said it, sister,” from a bartender at the far end of the line.

  Kiki throws a sharp look in the guy’s direction but then pulls up short. “What the hell?” She marches over to the bartender and literally pries open his mouth with her fingers.

  The guy is so surprised that “Hmwhph?” is all he manages to say in protest.

  Racing over to the nearest table, Kiki snatches a spoon from the place setting. Baring her teeth, she uses the underside of the spoon’s bowl as a mirror. “Shit!” She slams down the spoon and growls, “I’m going to kill her!” This is my cue to scoot out of there as fast as I can.

  “Where is she?” Kiki barges into the kitchen, both guns blazing. “Where is that bitch?”

  The entire Bouche kitchen staff stop what they’re doing and look up at her. “Who?” June asks from her position at the stove stirring the big pot of beans we’ll be serving with the spare ribs.

  Kiki targets me over by the dishwasher and charges across the kitchen. For a moment, I flash onto the idea that she might actually tackle me, and I have an overwhelming impulse to run. Instead, I force my feet to be planted in the ground, and I brandish the spatula I’m holding almost like a greaser wielding a knife at the beginning of a rumble.

  Kiki doesn’t physically knock me to the ground, but she does get right in my face and yells, “You have crossed the line!”

  I give her a bewildered look. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don't play dumb with me,” she growls.

  Everyone is staring at us. I force myself to lower the spatula and act as natural as possible. “Seriously, Kiki, calm down. Why are you acting so nuts?”

  Pulling back her lips in a snarl, she says, “Look!

  I peer into her mouth and see that all of her pearly white teeth are now stained a kind of bluish purple. “What’s wrong with your teeth?” I ask. “Did you eat something?”

  “Did I eat something?” For a moment, she is incredulous. “It's you and your stupid blueberry tart.” She takes a swat in my direction to chase me out of her air space. “You stained the teeth of every one of my servers.”

  I drop my spatula. “Holy crap.” Stooping to snatch it off the floor, I bare my own teeth and try to catch my reflection in the metal. My teeth are also a weird purple hue. “Everyone looks like this?”

  Kiki has her hands on her hips. “Oh, don't try to play innocent.”

  “Seriously, Kiki.” I lower the spatula. “This is all my fault.”

  “Of course, it’s your fault.” She practically spits at me.

  The kitchen staff has gathered to watch us like we’re live theater. Several of the servers join in the fun like middle graders meeting behind the school to watch a fight.

  “Carlos is out sick,” I try to explain. “I'm the one that made the tarts. I'm the one that did this.”

  “This is your fault!” Kiki yells.

  “I know,” I tell her. “I just said that.”

  “You did this on purpose.”

  I give her an incredulous look. “Why would I do something
like this on purpose?” I ask.

  “Because you're trying to make me look bad,” she insists.

  “Kiki,” I say with concern. “Everyone in the kitchen ate the tarts, too.” In fact, several of the staff members are using random shiny metal surfaces around the kitchen to check out their teeth. “We all look bad. We all look ridiculous. Why would I do this on purpose?”

  “She’s got a point,” Pedro says, lowering a ladle after checking out his own smile.

  His buddy nudges him. “You do look pretty stupid.”

  Pedro gives him a little shove in return. “Speak for yourself.”

  “Why would it matter if your bunch of circus freaks looks bad?” Kiki demands. She’s practically gnashing her teeth she’s so upset.

  “Hey.” I hold both of my hands up in the air in the I-surrender gesture. “I already accepted full responsibility for what happened here. Now instead of insulting all of us, why don't we try to figure something out?”

  I’m right, and Kiki knows I’m right. The blue-hairs are about to start showing up for the early seating. Purple teeth or not, everyone has to man their stations. “I have an idea, if you need me to help you out,” I tell her.

  Kiki glares at me. She desperately wants to tell me to go to hell, but she also needs some type of cover story for how ridiculous the entire staff looks. “Okay, fine,” she says begrudgingly. “What’ve you got?”

  ***Kiki***